The Brother of Daphne Part 48

"Thank goodness! And now, who are you? I believe one is supposed to get to know one's husband on the honeymoon."

I took one of the letters the footman had given me out of my pocket.

"I am," said I, "Sir Peter Tagel. That's why you're 'my lady'.

"Is it really? And now, your alias?"

"I'll tell you when we separate. Meanwhile, I do hope I shall make you happy. When the time comes I shall win you bread. To do this I shall, of course, have to leave your side. But that's for after. Till then--but I fear my thoughtless reference to our parting has unnerved you. You are overwrought. Lean upon me. That's what I'm for. I am your man--your husband. Where's that come from?"

"Surrey, I should think."

I frowned at my cigarette. "I don't think you're honouring me enough,"

I said. "Of course, it's early days yet, but--good heavens! What about the ring?"

"What about it?"

"Well, they'll see you haven't--"

I stopped, for a smile was playing about her lips as she lay back, looking into the elm-tops. Then I caught her cool, left hand. From the third finger a plain gold ring winked at me. I stared at it. Till we arrived at the house, her hands had been gloved. I balanced her hand in my palm, and looked at her.

"There is," I said, "a question."

"Yes?"

"Yes. Are you married?"

"You've been telling me I am for the last half--hour."

"Yes, but are you really?"

"Peter, dear!" This in a tone of gentle rebuke.

I ground my teeth.

"And you're going to win me bread, you know--nice brown bread."

I rose, and stood in front of her. Still the faint smile on the red mouth.

"Look at me," I commanded.

"It wasn't an 'obey' marriage, was it?" This dreamily.

"Was that ring on that finger when we were in the train?"

Slowly she got up and faced me, her eyes six inches from mine, but still looking away over my head, up at the high elms. Then she put her hands on my shoulders.

"Oh, Saint Anthony," I whispered.

The smile deepened. Then:

"I'll tell you when we separate," she said.

For one dear, short half-hour we had wandered in the park. The sunshot glades hung out an invitation it would have been churlish to refuse.

And so in and out of the tall bracken, under the spreading oaks, close to the gentle-eyed deer, we had roamed for a while at will, carelessly, letting the world slip. Sir Peter and his lady taking the air.

And now we were back in the gentle garden, facing the old grey house, watching the smoke rise from a tall chimney, a slight, straight wisp against the background of blue. And--the sun was low.

I sighed. Somehow it seemed such a pity. I glanced at my companion.

She looked rather wistful.

"Why is everything all wrong?" I said suddenly.

She smiled a little.

"Is it?"

"Of course it is. Haven't we got to slink away and leave all this? My dear, it's all utterly wrong. The time is out of joint--dislocated."

"It isn't really, Peter."

I looked at her quickly. Her eyes were wide open now, and very bright.

"You're right, la.s.s," said I. "If one goes up a backwater, I suppose one's got to come down again. Only--

"Only it's been a rather short backwater, hasn't it?"

"It has been very sunny, Peter."

A pause, then:

"It was sweet of you to say that," I said. "Thank you." But, as I spoke, I did not look at her. I dared not.

A clock chimed the three-quarters. A quarter to seven. Thank you. A moment later we were arranging our escape.

When retrieved, our impedimenta would consist of her parasol and dressing-bag, and my dressing-case. My stick and gloves were in the hall, and I decided to let them go. Her bag was in a fair bedroom--a little bra.s.s knocker upon the door--hard by the top of the staircase.

She had heard them put my case in the room adjoining. Very well. She was to sit--loll, if she liked--in the arbour, where tea had been served, while I ventured indoors and secured the luggage. Once across the lawn, I was to drop it over the sunk fence close to the drive.

Together we could then stroll towards the lodge gates. I should leave her half--way, come by the wood to the fence, take up our chattels, and join her again somewhere on the verge of the grounds close to the lodge gates. Then we could scramble over the oak palisade into the road.

As I strolled towards the dining-room, wheels crunched on the gravel-drive. I turned to see a wagonette swinging down the avenue.

There was a writing-table in the bedroom window, and before I crept out of the room I sat down and wrote a few lines:

"To THE HOUSEKEEPER--Lady Pan and I regret the unfortunate confusion for which a certain similarity of name and t.i.tle has been responsible.

"(SIR PETER PAN.)