The Incredible Honeymoon. Nesbit Edith

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. 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.

      VI

      CROW'S NEST

      HE