The Incredible Honeymoon. Nesbit Edith

got it going. He meant to fly it like a kite, and to this end he had tied one end of a ball of fine twine to the middle of its body. Now he raised it above his head and launched it. The little creature rose like a bird; the ball of string leaped and jumped between his feet, as he paid out the line; the whirring wings hung poised a second, at the level of the tree-tops, and then, caught by the wind, sailed straight toward the red wall, burrowed into the trees, and stopped. He ran toward the wall, winding up the string, and stood below, looking up. He could not see the winged loose thing. He tweaked the string and his tweak was met with uncompromising resistance. The aeroplane had stuck in a chestnut-tree, and hung there, buzzing.

      Edward measured the wall with his eye. It was an old wall, of soft red brick, from which the mortar had fallen away. In its crannies moss grew, and ragged-robin and ground-ivy hung their delicate veil in the angles of its buttresses – little ferns and wall-flowers run to seed marked its courses, the yellow snapdragon which English children call toad-flax flaunted its pure sulphur-colored plumes from the ledge below the coping. An architect would have said that the wall wanted pointing; a builder would have pointed it – an artist would have painted it. To an engineer in grief for a lost toy the wall presented itself as an obstacle to be climbed. He climbed it.

      He thrust the string into his jacket pocket, and presently set hand and foot to the hold that the worn wall afforded. In half a minute he was astride the coping; next moment he had swung by his hands and let himself go on the wall's other side. It was a longer drop than he expected; it jarred him a little, and his hat tumbled off. As he picked this up he noticed that the wall on the inside had been newly pointed. The trees were a good thirty feet from the wall. There would be no getting back by the way he had come. He must find a gate. Meantime the little aeroplane's buzzing had grown faint and ceased. But the twine led him to the tree, as the silken clue led Queen Eleanor to the tower of Fair Rosamond. The next thing was to climb the tree and bring down the truant toy.

      The park spread smooth and green before him – the green smoothness that comes only to English grass growing where grass has been these many years. Quiet trees dotted the smooth greenness – thickening about the house, whose many chimneys, red and twisted, rose smokeless above the clustered green. Nothing moved in all the park, where the sun drank the dew; birds stirred and twittered in the branches – that was all. The little aeroplane had stopped its buzzing. Edward was moved to thank Fate that he had not brought Charles. Also he was glad that this trespass of his had happened so early. He would get down the aeroplane and quietly go out by the lodge gate. Even if locked, it would be climbable.

      The chestnut-tree, however, had to be climbed first. It was easy enough, though the leaves baffled him a little, so that it was some time before he saw the desired gleam of metal and canvas among the dappled foliage. Also, it was not quite easy to get the thing down without injuring it, and one had to go slowly.

      He lowered it, at last, by its string to the ground from the lowest branch, then moved along a little, hung by his hands, and dropped.

      He picked up the toy and turned to go. "Oh!" he said, without meaning to. And, "I beg your pardon," without quite knowing what for.

      Because, as he turned he came face to face with a vision, the last one would have expected to see in an English park at early day. A girl in a Burmese coat, red as poppies, with gold-embroidered hem a foot deep. Her dress was white. Her eyes were dark, her face palely bright, and behind her dark head a golden-green Japanese umbrella made a great ridged halo.

      "I beg your pardon," said Edward again, and understood that it was because he was, after all, trespassing.

      "I should think you did," said the vision, crossly. "What on earth do you mean by it? How did you get in?"

      Edward, standing a little awkwardly with the aeroplane in his hands, looked toward the wall.

      "I came over after this," he said. "I'm very sorry. I was flying the thing and it stuck in the tree. If you'll tell me the way to the lodge, I'll – I hope I didn't scare you."

      "I couldn't think what it was," she answered, a little less crossly. "I saw the tree tossing about as if – as if it had gone mad."

      "And you thought of dryads and hastened to the spot. And it was only an idiot and his aeroplane. I say – I am sorry – "

      "You can't help not being a dryad," she said, and now she smiled, and her smile transformed her face as sunlight does a landscape. "What I really thought you were was a tramp. Only tramps never climb trees. I couldn't think how you got in here, though. Tramps never climb walls. They get in sometimes through the oak fence beyond the plantations."

      "It was very intrepid of you to face a tramp," he said.

      "Oh, I love tramps," she said; "they're always quite nice to you if you don't bully them or patronize them. There were two jolly ones last week, and I talked to them, and they made tea out in the road, you know, and gave me a cup over the fence. It was nasty." She shuddered a little. "But I liked it awfully, all the same," she added. "I wish I were a tramp."

      "It's not a bad life," said he.

      "It's the life," she said, enthusiastically. "No ties, no responsibilities – no nasty furniture and hateful ornaments – you just go where you like and do what you like; and when you don't like where you are, you go somewhere else; and when you don't like what you're doing, you needn't go on doing it."

      "Those are very irresponsible sentiments – for a lady."

      "I know. That's why I think it's so dull being a woman. Men can do whatever they want to."

      "Only if they haven't their living to earn," said Edward, not quite so much to himself as he would have liked.

      There was a little pause, and then, still less himself, he blundered into, "I say, it is jolly of you to talk to me like this."

      She froze at once. "I forgot," she said, "that we had not been introduced. Thank you for reminding me."

      Edward's better self was now wholly lost, and what was left of him could find nothing better to answer than, "Oh, I say!"

      "What I ought to have said," she went on, her face a mask of cold politeness, "is that you can't possibly get out by the lodge. There are fierce dogs. And the lodge-keepers are worse than the dogs. If you will follow me – at a distance, for fear I should begin to talk to you again – I'll show you where the gardener's ladder is, and you can put it up against the wall and get out that way."

      "Couldn't I get out where the tramps get in?" he asked, humbly. "I don't like to trouble you."

      "Not from here. We should have to pass close by the house."

      The "we" gave him courage. "I say – do forgive me," he said.

      "There's nothing to forgive," said she.

      "Oh, but do," he said, "if you'd only see it! It was just because it was so wonderful and splendid to have met you like this.. and to have you talk to me as you do to the other tramps."

      "You're not a tramp," she said, "and I ought not to have forgotten it."

      "But I am," said he, "it's just what I really and truly am."

      "Come and get the ladder," said she, and moved toward the wall.

      "Not unless you forgive me. I won't," he added, plucking up a little spirit, "be indebted for ladders to people who won't forgive a man because he speaks the truth clumsily."

      "Come," she said, looking back over her shoulder.

      "No," he said, obstinately, not moving. "Not unless you forgive me."

      "It can't possibly matter to you whether I forgive you or not," she turned to say it. And as she spoke there came to Edward quite suddenly and quite unmistakably the knowledge that it did matter. Sometimes glimpses do thus suddenly and strangely come to us – and that by some magic inner light that is not reason we know things that by the light of reason we could never know.

      "Look here," he said. "I'll go after that ladder in a minute. But first I've got something to say to you. Don't be angry, because I've got to say it. Do you know that just now – just before I said that stupid thing that offended you – you were talking to me as though you'd known me all your