by E. Nesbit
IV
THE SOUTH DOWNS
THE day was long. Though the aeroplane flew to admiration, though Tommyadored him and all his works, though the skylarks sang, and the downswere drenched in sunshine, Edward Basingstoke admitted to himself,before half its length was known to him, that the day was long.
He climbed the cliff above Cuckmere and sat in the sunshine there, wherethe gulls flashed white wings and screamed like babies; he watched thetide, milk-white with the fallen chalk of England's edge, come sousingin over the brown, seaweed-covered rocks; he felt the crisp warmth ofthe dry turf under his hand, and smelt the sweet smell of the thyme andthe furze and the sea, and it was all good. But it was long. And, forthe first time in his life, being alone was lonely.
And for the second time since the day when Charles, bounding at him fromamong the clean straw of an Oxford stable, had bounded into hisaffections, he had left that strenuous dog behind.
He got out his road map and spread it in the sun--with stones at thecorners to cheat the wind that, on those Downs, never sleeps--and triedto believe that he was planning his itinerary, and even to pretend tohimself that he should start to-morrow and walk to Lewes. But insteadhis eyes followed the map's indication of the road to that meadow wherethe red wall was, and presently he found that he was no longer lookingat the map, but at the book of memory, and most at the pictures paintedthere only that morning. Already it seemed a very long time ago.
"I am afraid," said Mr. Basingstoke, alone at the cliff's edge, "thatthis time it really is _it_. It's different from what I thought. It'sconfoundedly unsettling."
Like all healthy young men, he had always desired and intended to fallin love; he had even courted the experience, and honestly tried to losehis heart, but with a singular lack of success. In the girls he had methe had found gaiety, good looks, and a certain vague and generalattractiveness--the common attribute of youth and girlhood--but nothingthat even began to transfigure the world as his poets taught him thatlove should transfigure it. The little, trivial emotions which he hadfound in pressing hands and gazing into eyes had never lured him furtherthan the gaze and the hand-clasp. Yet he had thought himself to be inlove more than once.
"Or perhaps this isn't the real thing, either," he tried to reassurehimself. "How could it be?"
Then he explained to himself, as he had often explained to Vernon, thatlove at first sight was impossible. Love, he had held and proclaimed,was not the result of the mere attraction exercised by beauty--it wasthe response of mind to mind, the admiration of character andqualities--the satisfaction of one's nature by the mental and moralattributes of the beloved. That was not exactly how he had put it, butthat was what he had meant. And now--he had seen a girl once, for tenminutes, and already he could think of nothing else. Even if he thoughtof something else he could perceive the thought of her behind thoseother thoughts, waiting, alluring, and sure of itself, to fill his mindthe moment he let it in.
"Idiot," he said at last, got up from the turf, and pocketed the map,"to-morrow she'll be quite ordinary and just like any other girl. You gofor a long walk, young-fellow-my-lad, and think out a water-mill forTommy."
This had, indeed, been more than half promised. Mr. Basingstoke was oneof those persons whom their friends call thorough; their enemies saythat they carry everything too far. If he did a thing at all, he likedto do it thoroughly. If he wrote a duty-letter to an aunt, he wrote along one, and made it amusing. As often as not he would illustrate itwith little pictures. If he gave a shilling to a beggar he wouldimmediately add tobacco and agreeable conversation. One of his firstacts, on coming into his inheritance, had been to pension his old nurse,who was poor and a widow with far too many children--too many, becauseshe was a widow and poor and had to go out to work instead of lookingafter her family, as she wanted to do. Any one else would have writtenand told her she was to have two pounds a week as long as she lived.Edward sent her a large box of hot-house flowers--her birthday happeningto occur at about that date--the most expensive and beautiful flowers hecould find, anonymously. Then he sent her a fat hamper bursting withexcellent things to eat and drink--and a box of toys and clothes for thechildren. The lady who "served" him with the clothes was amused at hischoice--but approved it. And in the end he told his solicitors--smilingto himself at the novel possession--to write and tell the woman that anold employer had secured her an annuity. Later he went down to see her,to find her incredibly happy and prosperous, and to hear the wonderfuland mysterious tale. So now, in the case of Tommy, most people wouldhave thought an aeroplane and a motor-ride as much as any little boycould expect. But Mr. Basingstoke liked to give people much more thanthey could expect. It was not enough to give them enough. He liked togive a feast.
That evening after tea, Tommy breathing hard on the back of his neck, hesketched the water-wheel with the highest degree of precision and asuperfluous wealth of detail. But the thought was with him through itall.
Next morning he went to the trysting-place, through the fresh, sweetmorning. He climbed the wall, sat down on the log, and waited. He waitedan hour, and she did not come. It says a good deal for his tenacity ofpurpose that when he went home he began at once on the water-wheel.
In the afternoon he took Charles out for a walk. Charles chased andkilled a hen, and was butted by a goat, before they reached the end ofthe street; knocked a leg of mutton off the block at the butcher's inthe next village; bit the rural police to the very undershirt, and alsoto the tune of ten compensating shillings; and was run over by abicycle, which twisted its pedal in the consequent fall, and grazed itsrider's hands and trousers knees. After each adventure Charles wasfirmly punished, but, though chastised, he was not chastened, and whenthey met a dog-cart coming slowly down a hill he was quite ready to runin front of it, barking and leaping at the horse's nose. The horse,which appeared to Charles's master to be a thoroughbred, shied. Therewas a whirl of dust and hoofs and brown flank, a cry from thedriver--another cry, a fierce bark from Charles, ending in a howl ofagony--the next instant the horse had bolted and Edward was left in thedusty road, Charles writhing in the dust, and the dog-cart almost out ofsight.
"Charles, old man--Charles, lie still, can't you? Let me see if you'rehurt."
He stooped, and as he stooped Charles did lie still.
His master lifted the heavy, muscular body that had been so full of lifeand energy. It lay limp and lifeless, head and hind-quarters droopingover his arm like a wet shawl.
Basingstoke sat down on the roadside with the dog across his knees. Forhim the light of life was out. Men do not cry, of course, as women dowhen their dogs die, but he could not see very clearly. Presently hefound himself face to face with that question, always so disconcerting,even to criminals--what to do with the body. He was miles from his inn,and Charles was no light weight. He could not leave the dog in the road.His friend must have decent burial. There was nothing for it but towait till some cart should come by and then to ask for a lift.
So he sat there, thinking such thoughts as men do think in adversity.After a calamity, when the first excitement of horror dies down, onealways says, "How different everything was yesterday!" and Mr.Basingstoke said what we all say. Yesterday Charles was alive and well,and his master had not taken him out because he wanted to be at leisureto think--he realized that now--about the girl whom he was to have metto-day. And he had not met the girl. And Charles was dead.
"I wish I hadn't left you at home yesterday, old boy," said Mr.Basingstoke.
And then came the sound of hoofs, and he prepared to stop the vehicle,whatever it was, and beg for a lift for himself and what he carried. Butwhen the wheels came near and he saw that it was the very cart that hadrun over Charles he sat down again and kept his eyes on the ground. Itwasn't their fault, of course, but still. . . .
The cart stopped and some one was saying: "I hope the dog isn't muchhurt." A hard, cold voice it was.
Edward got out his hand from under Charles to take his hat off, andsaid: "My dog is dead."
"I am extremely sorry, but it was the dog's fault," said the voice,aggressively.
"Yes," said Edward.
"There's nothing to be done," said the voice. "It was nearly a nastyaccident for us."
"I apologize for my dog's conduct," said Edward, formally.
And then came another voice, "But, Aunt Loo, can't we _do_ anything?"
Of course you will have known all along whose voice that would be.Edward was less discerning. He had been far too much occupied withCharles and the horse to do more than realize that the two people in thecart were women--and now when he heard again the voice that had talkedto him yesterday in the freshness of the morning, the shock sent hisblood surging. He looked up--face, neck, ears were burning. Men do notblush, but if they did you would have said that Mr. Basingstoke blushedin that hour.
He looked up. Holding the reins was a hard, angular woman of fifty, thesort that plays golf and billiards and is perfectly competent withhorses. Beside her sat the girl, and under her white hat the crimson ofher face matched his own. The distress he felt at this unpropitiouscoincidence deepened his color. Hers deepened, too.
"You can't do anything, thank you," he said, just a moment too late. Forhis pause had given the aunt time to look from one to the other.
"Oh!" she said, shortly.
The girl spoke, also just too late.
"At least, let us take the poor, dear dog home for you," she said.
"By all means," said the aunt, with an air of finality. "Where shall weleave it?"
"I am at the Five Bells, in Jevington," said Edward, and was thankful tofeel his ears a shade less fiery.
"I see," said the aunt, with hideous significance. "Put it in at theback, will you?"
She spoke as though Charles were a purchase she had just made and Mr.Basingstoke the shopman.
He would have liked to refuse, but how dear of her to suggest it. "Thankyou," he said, and came through the dust to the back of the cart.
Almost before he had replaced the second pin the cart moved, and he wasleft alone in the white road.
The way home was long and dismal--its only incident the finding of alittle white handkerchief in the dust about a mile from the scene of thetragedy. It was softly scented. Of course it might be Aunt Loo'shandkerchief, but he preferred to think that it was Hers. He shook thedust from it and put it in his pocket. As he came down the villagestreet he remembered how, only yesterday, he had heard, just here by thesaddler's, that strangled, choking bark which betokened Charles'srecognition of his master's approach. Well, there would be no suchbarking welcome for him now.
Some other dog was choking and barking, though, and in that very stablewhere Charles had choked and barked. And Charles's body would have beenput in the stable, no doubt. He would go round and see. He went round,opened the stable door, and next moment was struck full in the chest bywhat seemed to be a heavy missive hurled with tremendous force. It wasCharles, who had leaped from the end of his chain to greet hismaster--Charles, alive and almost idiotic in his transports of uncouthaffection. Edward felt the dog all over--to see if any bones werebroken. Charles never winced. There was not a cut or a bruise on him!The two sat on the straw embracing for quite a long time.
"Yes, sir, seems quite himself, don't he?" said Robert. "Miss Davenantshe brought him. Told me to tell you the dog come to himself quitesudden on the cart. Must have fainted, young miss said, and when he cometo it was all she could do to hold him down. He seems to have come toquite sudden and all wild-like among their legs in the bottom of thecart till miss dragged him out--nearly upset the old lady right out ofthe cart, coming up sudden under her knees. Awful nasty she was aboutit. Said the dog must have been shamming. Thank you, sir. I'll drinkyour health and the dog's."
"Shamming, indeed!" said Edward to himself, and resented the cruel andsilly aspersion. Yet, stay, was it really quite impossible that Charles,fearing that the same punishment might visit this last exploit as hadfollowed his earlier outrages, had really shammed, to disarm a dotingmaster? Edward put away the thought. It was impossible.
The main thing was that Charles was alive. But, after all, _was_ thatthe main thing? Now that the dog was alive it suddenly ceased to be. Themain thing was that he had not seen her that morning and that he must,somehow, see her again.
Somehow. But how? This gave him food for thought.
He went into his parlor and sat down--to think. But, try as he could,there seemed no way. Of course he could go next morning--of course hewould go next morning--and every morning for a week. But if she hadn'tcome to-day, why should she come to-morrow or the next day, or the dayafter that?
Or the handkerchief. Wouldn't it be natural that he should call toreturn it and to thank them for taking care of the lifeless Charles, andapologize for that thoughtless animal's inconvenient and sudden changeof attitude? Yes, that would have been natural if the girl had notblushed and if he had not turned scarlet.
He took out the handkerchief and spread it on the table--what sillylittle things girls' handkerchiefs were! Then he looked at it moreclosely. Then he took it to the window, stretched it tightly, and lookedmore closely than ever. Yes, there was something on it, somethingintended--not just the marks of the road. There were letters--pencilletters an inch or more long, very rough and straggling, but quiteunmistakable--_Ce soir 12 heures._ At least, it might be 13, but, then,she wasn't an Italian.
The light of life blazed up, and the world suddenly became beautifulagain. She had not forgotten--she had wished to come to meethim--something had prevented her coming in the morning. But to-night shewould come. Twelve o'clock! A strange hour to choose. Bah! who was he tocavil at the hour she chose to set? How sweet and soft the handkerchiefwas!
