The Incredible Honeymoon

by E. Nesbit

  XVIII

  LONDON

  IT was very late when they parted on the door-step of the house in HydePark Square.

  "I don't know how to let you go," he said, and took both her hands,regardless of the cabman's stony attention. "I shall just go back to myrooms in Montague Street--Thirty-seven; I've written it down for you.And, look here, I won't come and see you and I won't bother you, but ifyou want me I'll be there. You must just do what you want to do."

  What she wanted to do was to jump into the waiting taxicab and go backwith him into that world of fine and delicate adventure where were blueskies, gold sun, green leaves, the mystery of mountains, the sparkle ofwater, and the velvet of old lawns; and, for each in the soul of theother, a whole world of unexplored wonder and delight.

  What she said was: "Thank you. I will write and tell you what happens.Good-by--oh, good-by. I feel as though I ought to ask you to forgiveme."

  "For what?"

  "Oh, I don't know," she said, "but--no--I don't know; but you dounderstand that I couldn't stay away when she asked for me. She's theonly person in the world, except you, that I--that ever-- Good-by!"

  There was a moment of hesitation which, later, in the recollection ofit, thrilled them both. Then the cabman had the satisfaction, such as itwas, of seeing one of his fares raise to his lips the fingers of theother. Then the knocker sounded softly, the heavy door opened andreceived her into a warmly lamp-lit hall, closed again, and left himalone.

  When he reached Montague Street rain was falling and a chill wind blew.He had not been expected and his rooms were dusty and disheveled.Intensely quiet, too; through the roar of London far below one couldalmost hear the silence of these deserted rooms where, day by day, whilehe had been out in the beautiful bright world, the dim dust had slowlysettled down.

  It was characteristic of him that he lit a big fire and carried hisbedding out and spread it in the growing glow and warmth. "I'm not goingto risk a cold in the head at this crisis of my affairs," he toldhimself, "even if she doesn't care--and Heaven knows how she can! Ineedn't make myself a ridiculous and disgusting object in her eyes."

  To the same end he set the kettle on the fire and made hot coffee forhimself. When, at last, he turned into well-aired sheets he found thathe could not sleep.

  "Confound the coffee!" he said, and tried to attribute to that brownexotic elixir the desperate sense of futility and emptiness whichpossessed him. His mind assured him that there was nothing the matterwith him but coffee; but his heart said: "You won't see her in themorning. You won't spend the day with her to-morrow, nor the next day,nor the next." And his heart cursed the mock marriage and all thereservations and abstentions that it demanded. "If she had been reallymy wife--" If she had been really his wife he would have called threetimes a day to know how things were with her. He would have seen her,held her hands, felt again the confiding droop of her head on hisshoulder. But as it was-- She had consented to the mock marriage, heknew, because she did not desire to give him any rights, not even theright to ring at her aunt's front door and ask for Mrs. Basingstoke.

  He fell asleep at last, and dreamed that they had taken an unfurnishedflat in a neolithic cave and that he had killed a bear and was draggingit home to show her. The bear seemed to be not quite dead, for it wasgrowling, and its weight on his back awoke him, to find that Charles hadthought his master's shoulders a convenient site for slumber. Hesleepily had it out with Charles, and when he slept again he dreamedthat he and she had decided to live in a captive balloon. She wasalready installed, but he could find no ladder long enough to reach her.She was laughing down at him and showering pink rose-leaves on hisup-turned face when he woke to find Charles conscientiously licking hisears. This time he found energy to get up and put a closed door betweenhimself and Charles, and then he dreamed that he had arranged to meether under the clock at Charing Cross Station, and that the Governmenthad just decided to establish uniformity in railway stations, and hadcalled every station Charing Cross, and had, moreover, furnished eachstation with six hundred and sixty-six clocks, which all ticked louderthan Big Ben. He awoke, and it was morning, and there were no clocksticking, but from beyond the door came the measured thump-thump-thump ofCharles's tail on the floor of the sitting-room. So all night he haddreamed of her, yet never once seen her.

  "If I believed in omens--" he said, and rang, to make known his returnto the people of the house.

  While his sitting-room was being put in order he went down to CoventGarden and came back with his arms full of roses and white lilies, whichhe set up in mugs and pots of Gres de Flandre and old brass and greenBruges ware.

  "I wish you'd only 'a' told me, sir," said his landlady, kindly butaggrieved. "I wouldn't have had you come home and find the place all ofa mess like this, not for a pound, I wouldn't. But you never wrote nornothing, and the dust it do incriminate so. But if you're going out forthe day I'll make it all as clean as a whistle by this evening. It's atwelve-hour job, so it is. If I'd only known you was to be expected."

  "But you didn't know," said Edward, "and it's not going to be atwelve-hour job, but a two-hour job. I'll go out for two hours, and whenI come back I sha'n't know the place, shall I? You'll work like a goodfairy. I know you."

  "Go on with you, sir," she advised. "You will have your joke."

  "I was never more serious. You see, a lady might call." He voiced inwords what he had not dared to voice in his heart.

  "Oh, if it's a lady," said the landlady--and through the tired, ridged,gray, London face something pretty and immortally young stirred andsparkled--"_the_ young lady, sir, if I might make so bold?"

  "You've hit it, Mrs. Jilks," he said--"_the_ lady. If she comes before Icome back--but I don't think she will--beg her to wait and say I'll beback by noon. Come on, Charles."

  He went and sat in Regents Park and tried to fancy himself once more inthe deep peace of the Welsh Hills till Charles had a difference ofopinion with a Cocker spaniel and dreams were set to flight.

  He went back, hoping against hope that he might find her there. She wasnot there, nor did she come. Why should she? In the middle of theafternoon came a letter; it had no beginning. It said:

  I had a stiff and stifling interview with my aunt--the one Charles came to life under the knees of in the cart. She was as horrid as any one could possibly be. She reproached me for marrying a pauper, and said I'd better have stuck to the piano-tuner unless you were he in disguise! I was as dumb as a mule--indeed, I almost felt my ears beginning to lie back, as mules' ears do when they've decided they aren't going to, whatever it is. Presently I got it out of her that Aunt Alice's attack is very serious. If she gets over it she's to go to Switzerland; there's an old school friend out there that she loves, and who wants frightfully to have her there. So then I shall be able to come back, and we'll go out together again and see the world. You won't worry about me, will you? Because this house is quite the lap of. And you know that I wouldn't have broken off our mock-wedding tour for anything in the world except for her--because . . . but you know all that. Give my love to Charles.

  "Yours sincerely" was crossed out, and a postscript added:

  I don't know how to end this letter. I won't end it. I'll just put something at the end to show that this isn't the end--of our times together, I mean.

  (To be continued.)

  He thought it the prettiest, wittiest ending in the world.

  His room was neat as a new pin, as Mrs. Jilks had promised. The rosesand the lilies made it what Mrs. Jilks called a perfect bower. "Any onecould tell," she assured him, "that it was _the_ young lady you wasexpecting. Why, it's like a wedding already! She's sure to come soon,sir, and I'll have the kettle on the boil and make her a nice cup of teathe minute she comes."

  But she did not come, and he had the nice cup of tea alone, unless youcount Charles, who ate seven large doughnuts--seven for sixpence--in
seven great gulps--with no resultant modification of his natural highspirits. Another day went by, and another, and she did not come. Edwardrealized that she would not come, and that he had been a fool ever tohalf hope that she would.

  He drugged the empty hours with shopping. He wandered about Londonbuying things--the oddest things. He bought a pair of cut-crystallusters and the skin of a leopard, a _papier-mache_ fire-screen and astring of amber beads six feet long. He sent the amber to her in asandalwood box cunningly carved and inlaid with ivory and ebony andsilver. That was on the first day. Her second letter thanked him for it:

  How did you know that yellow was my fortunate color? I was born under the sign of the lion, so a fortune-teller told me, so all yellow stones are lucky for me. I am so sorry that you have to be in London in the summer. Wouldn't you like to go into the country? Auntie is a little better.

  So then he went out and bought the topaz brooch that he had thought ofbuying when he first saw it in that jolly little shop in Vigo Street.And he sent her that with the topaz necklace he had bought in Warwick.

  They are beautiful [she wrote] and I love them, but you are not to be extravagant. I should like to write you a long letter, but auntie gets restless if I'm not sitting beside her. She's really getting better, but I'm afraid it will be several weeks . . . and she keeps asking me not to leave her. I wish I could ask you to come here, to see me. There are lots of odd minutes, when she's asleep. But my other aunt would certainly be hateful to you--and I couldn't stand that.

  Again and again he asked himself why he had promised, voluntarilypromised, not to call at the house. What had he been thinking of? He hadbeen thinking of her, of course; he had wanted to make things easy forher. He had at least made them very hard for himself. He missed herevery hour of the day; he would not have believed that he could havemissed anything so much.

  The time crawled by; the hours were long and the days interminable. Evenbuying things--a luxury in which he allowed himself considerablelatitude--could not possess the empty spaces in a life that had beenfilled with her presence.

  And to her, moving gently in the curtained stillness of the sick-room,among the medicine-bottles and the apparatus of sickness as the richknow it, holding the thin hand that came out of a scented, soft bed tocling to hers, it seemed that either this ordered quietude was a dream,or else that nothing in the last few weeks was true, had been true,could ever be true again. The escape, the flight, the Medway days, thereckless mock marriage, the life of fine and delicate adventure, theblue sky, the green leaves, the mystery of mountains, the sparkle ofwater, and the velvet of old lawns, the constant and deepeningcomradeship of a man of whose existence a month ago she had not so muchas dreamed--could these be real--all these which she had renounced tocome to the sick woman who longed for her--had these really beenhers--could they ever be hers again?

  Suffering had broken down the consistent unselfishness of a lifetime,and the aunt clung to her as children cling, frightened in the dark."You won't leave me," she said, over and over again. "Your husband won'tmind. It won't be for long."

  "Of course I'll not leave you," she said, and wondered at the thrill heraunt's words gave her and the pang she felt as she uttered her own.

  Every day while the aunt slept she crept away and went out into theair--the first day into bright sunshine which was unbearable; after thatinto the quiet, lamp-lit dusk of the square at night. The London nightwas so unlike night on the Welsh Hills that it seemed a medium thatcould not torment her with memories. Whereas the sunshine was the samesunshine which had lain like a benediction in that far country ofdelight. The lilacs and snowberries in the square inclosure, which weredried and dusty by day, borrowed from the kindly twilight the air offresh groves, and among their somber shadows she walked as in somegarden of dusky enchantments, where, alone with her dreams and hermemories, she could weave, out of the past and the future, a web ofglory to clothe the cold walls of the empty room which, she began toperceive, life without Edward was, and must be.

  It was on the third evening, as she stood, fumbling with the key of thegarden, she knew that some one stood on the pavement just behind her,and, turning sharply, was face to face with Mr. Schultz.

  He raised his hat and smiled at her; held out a hand, even. She waschild enough to put her two hands behind her, and woman enough to hopethat he hated to see her do it. She was surprised to find herself alertand alive to the interest of the encounter; not afraid at all, onlyinterested. Gone was the panic terror which had overwhelmed her in theKenilworth dungeon. Anger and resentment remained, but stronger thaneither was curiosity, so she stood with her hands behind her, looking athim.

  "Oh, very well," he said; "just as you like. I want a few words withyou."

  "I don't want to talk to you," she said, and locked the square gateagain.

  "Couldn't we walk around the garden once or twice?" he asked. "I knowyou don't want to talk to me, but I want to talk to you. I'm sorry if Iupset you that day in the ruins, but it's nothing to the way your dogupset me. I had to have it cauterized, besides doing completely for theonly decent suit I had with me. Besides, you hit me, you know, with yourparasol. Come, don't bare malice. I don't. Call it quits and open thesquare door."

  Now you may think it was quite easy for her to turn her back on Mr.Schultz and go back to her aunt's house, leaving him planted there, butit was not really easy, because she wanted something of the man, and ifshe turned her back with sufficient firmness it might be that she wouldnever see him again. What she wanted was the remission of the promiseshe had made him, unasked and of her own initiative--the promise thatshe would not tell Edward of that day in the dungeon.

  "I can't open the square gate for you," she said. "If you've reallyanything to say, you can say it here. I can spare you three minutes,"she added, conclusively.

  "Then let's walk around outside the railings. It's better than standinghere; it won't look so odd if any one comes along who knows you," hesaid, and it seemed strange to her that he should have so muchconsideration for her. She was pleased. Her soul was of the order thatdelights to find others better than her mind had led her to expect.There are people, as you know, to whom it is always somewhat of adisappointment to find that any one is not so black as their fancypainted him. She turned and they walked slowly along the pavement thatencircles the railings of the square garden.

  "Well?" she said, "you said you had something to say to me."

  "Yes, lots," he told her. "I was just trying to think which to sayfirst. You know you've upset me a good deal. Oh, I forgive you, but itought to be mutual. Yes, I'll put that first--I want us to forgive eachother--forgive and forget and not bear grudge."

  "Very well," she said, coldly. "I forgive you, but--"

  He interrupted her before she could make the request that was on herlips. "That'll do," he said. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to tellyou how it was that I acted like a fool. I admit I acted like a fool,"he added, handsomely. "I don't suppose I shall ever see you again and Idon't want you to go on thinking me a perfect beast. I'd rather youdidn't, though I know I was one that day, and I don't know why, but Iwould, even if I'm never to set eyes on you again. Well, you see, it'slike this: I dare say it'll sound silly to you, but even when I was atschool I always wanted to do something noble--romantic, youknow--rescuing ladies in distress, like Scott's novels, and things likethat. I know it's too rotten for words, nowadays, what with machineryand telegraphs and radium and things, but that's what I used to think.And when I came up with you on the Seaford Road with no hat on and yourpoor little satin shoes all dusty and splitting, I thought, by Jove! myboy, here's your chance! And I did behave all right that day, didn't I?"

  His voice was wistful, and she said, eagerly: "You were very, very kind.No one could have been nicer and more--more--"

  "Respectful, eh? Well, I meant to be. I felt respectful; I do still. Andyou won't mind me saying I felt like a knight and you were the lady.
Idon't mean that you aren't a lady now, but you see what I mean, and youcan't blame me if I thought it would all end in me and youbeing--well--you and me living happy ever after, the same as they do inbooks."

  Enchanted by the revelation, she said, "Indeed, I don't blame you," moreearnestly than she meant to do.

  "Don't be too kind to me," he said, grimly. "I know it doesn't meananything, but it puts a man out. Well, then _he_ came along, and yousaid he was your brother, and anybody could see with half an eye that hewasn't your brother; and I felt I'd been made a fool of, a complete,particular, first-class fool, and that put my back up. And I saw thatthings don't happen like they do in books. And I hadn't, somehow,thought you'd say anything that wasn't true."

  She felt her face burn, and realized for the first time that in theirbrief and stormy acquaintance he had not been the only one to blame, andthat, anyhow, it was she who had taken the first false step.

  "I oughtn't to have told you a lie," she said, and added ingenuously,"especially after you'd been so kind; but I didn't know what to do--itseemed so difficult to explain." She could not tell him how difficult,nor why.

  "Oh, that's all right," he said. "I should have said the same myself. Itwasn't exactly a lie. It's a thing most people wouldn't make any bonesabout, only I thought you were different, that's all. And that was oneof the things that made me feel it was fair to hunt you down, if Icould--tit for tat, so to speak--and, besides, it was fun trying to seewhat I _could_ find out. Then there's another thing I must tell you, Iused to think it would be fun to be other things out ofbooks--highwaymen and detectives and things--and I got a lead when I sawyou at Cookham. After that I tracked you down like any old SherlockHolmes, and I'm afraid at Kenilworth I behaved more like a highwaymanthan a respectable solicitor--for that's what I am."

  "That's forgiven and forgotten," she told him.

  "Well, I tracked you to Warwick, and when I saw your name in thevisitors' book--Mr. and Mrs. Basingstoke--"

  "But it wasn't--"

  "It was, I assure you. Well, when I saw that I didn't know what tothink, but I saw, however it was, it was all up with me; but I didn'twant to see it, so I followed you to Kenilworth, and got a chance Ididn't expect to behave like a cad and an ass, and behaved like them.But I don't think you know how pretty you are--and I didn't believe youwere married, and all the things I'd thought while I was driving you toTunbridge came up into my head and turned themselves inside out,somehow, and I felt what a fool I'd been, and I lost my head. And thenyou told me you wouldn't tell him, for fear he should hurt me; andthat's really what I came here to say. That's what I can't stick. I cantake care of myself. I want you to tell him anything you like--see?Here's my card--and he can write to me, and I'll meet him anywhere helikes and let's see who's the best man. To set out to be a knight andall that, and end up with hiding behind a woman--and you to be thewoman--no, I really can't stick it. So will you tell him?"

  "I'll tell him everything," she said, "and he won't want to see who'sthe best man, and I don't want him to want it. And I don't want you to,either. You were a very kind knight-errant--but you weren't such a verygood detective, or you'd have found out--"

  "What?"

  "I'll tell you, if you'll promise to give up wanting to find out who'sthe best man. Will you?"

  "I'll do anything you like as long as you don't think I'm afraid of him,and don't let him think it, either. I don't think much of him, and Idon't know whether you'll believe it, but it was that as much asanything set me to the detective business. I wanted to--to--I thoughtyou wanted looking after. And then I acted like a brute--but I won't goon about that. Now tell me what it was I didn't find out?"

  She pulled a little pale-silk bag from her pocket and took out a stifffolded paper and gave it to him. By the light of the next gas-lamp heunfolded it; it was a long slip, partly printed, partly written. Itwas, in fact, the "marriage certificate" which had been obtained inorder to quiet her family and to make possible the romance and adventureof the incredible honeymoon.

  He glanced at it, folded it, and gave it back. "Thank you," he said. "Idon't want to try who's the best man. He is. He's got you."

  She could find nothing to say that should be at once true and kind.

  "So that's all over," he said, straightening his shoulders. "There'sonly one thing more. You remember I went out to see about the car atTunbridge, and I was rather a long time gone? Well, I rushed into a shopand bought this. I meant to throw it over Westminster Bridge as soon asI left you--but now, will you take it for a wedding-present? I'd likeyou to."

  He fumbled at a spring, opened a case, and showed a half-hoop ofsapphires.

  "But I can't! It's too--"

  "I'm _awfully_ rich," he said, bitterly. "I've come into my father'sbusiness at Canterbury. I don't know what to do with my money, and thething didn't cost much, really, but it was the best I could get. Youbelieve that, don't you? And I thought it might be the beginning ofliving happy ever after, and I should like you to have it, just to showyou really have forgiven me. You will, won't you?"

  "I can't take the ring," she said, "but I wish I could, and I thank youvery much for wishing me to have it--and for all your kindness and yourkind thoughts of me."

  "But you won't take the ring. He said you wouldn't."

  "Who did?"

  "My confessor. You see, I'm a Catholic, and I had to tell him aboutKenilworth, and so I told him the whole thing. If it hadn't been for himI shouldn't have tried to tell you about it all and get you to forgiveme. I'm glad I did, though."

  Then she understood, and ceased to wonder how this man had got his poor,complicated, involved little history straightened out to such aconvincing simplicity.

  "I wish you'd have had the ring," he said again, discontentedly. "Inever know what to do with my money."

  "If I had a lot of money I'd go about the world trying to be a realknight-errant--just looking out for people who want things and don't askfor them--poor, proud, self-respecting people, poor schoolmasters andyoung men in shops who don't have good times. There was a man in a bookwho thought he was ill, and his doctor told him to help one person aday with his money. He got cured in no time; and you're not ill."

  "I shouldn't know how to begin," he said. "You could have shown me, butyou won't. Look here, don't go yet; stay a little and tell me how tobegin."

  Walking around and around the railings of the garden, she developed herthesis. They had been walking together for an hour and a half beforethey parted on her door-step, and at parting she did give him her hand.

  In the hall she stood a minute or two, thinking. Then she slippedquietly out again and took an omnibus to Museum Street, and from therewalked to Montague Street. She felt that the only important thing was tosee Edward, to clear away the one cloud of concealment that lay betweenthem--no, not the only one. The other was a very little thing; he, atleast, had never known that it was there.

  But when she reached number 37 it showed no light at any of its windows;only the basement window and the fanlight above the door gave out adusky radiance. It seemed impossible to ring the bell and be faced withthe assurance that he was not at home. So she walked slowly away.

  And behind drawn curtains in the flower-scented, flower-bright roomCharles stirred restlessly, and Edward, also restless, was saying, "Icould almost believe that she would come to-night, now. All the rest ofthe time I have known in my heart that she would not come, but now, forthe first time, it seems possible."

  But the hours wore on and still he and the flowers and Charles werealone together.