FullReads

She was listening to him in wide-eyed amazement.

“So soon?” she said.

“I thought it would save any further trouble,” he answered. “But it is for you to decide.”

“And–and what should we do afterwards?” she asked, stooping to pick up her straw that had fallen to the ground.

“That, again, would be for you to decide,” he answered. “I would take you straight back to your mother if you wished.”

She gave a muffled laugh.

“Of course I shouldn’t want you to do that.”

“Or,” proceeded Rivington, “I would hire an animal to draw the caravan, and we would go for a holiday in the forest. Would it bore you?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, without looking at him. “I–I could sketch, you know, and you could paint.”

“To be sure,” he said. “Shall we do that, then?”

She began to split the straw with minute care.

“You think there is no danger of–Dinghra?” she said, after a moment.

Rivington smiled grimly, and got to his feet. “Not the smallest,” he said.

“He might come back,” she persisted. “What if–what if he tried to murder you?”

Rivington was coaxing his pipe back to life. He accomplished his object before he replied. Then:

“You need not have the faintest fear of that,” he said. “Dinghra has had the advantage of a public-school education. He has doubtless been thrashed before.”

“He is vindictive,” she objected.

“He may be, but he is shrewd enough to know when the game is up. Frankly, Chirpy, I don’t think the prospect of pestering you, or even of punishing me, will induce him to take the field again after we are married. No”–he smiled down at her–“I think I have cooled his ardour too effectually for that.”

She shuddered.

“I shall never forget it.”

He patted her shoulder reassuringly.

“I think you will, Chirpy. Or at least you will place it in the same category as the bull incident. You will forget the fright, and remember only with kindness the Knight Errant who had the good fortune to pull you through.”

She reached up and squeezed his hand, still without looking at him.

“I shall always do that,” she said softly.

“Then that’s settled,” said Rivington in a tone of quiet satisfaction.

XIII

THE KNIGHT ERRANT VICTORIOUS

“On the 21st of June, quite privately, at the Parish Church, Rington, Hampshire, by the Vicar of the Parish, Cecil Mordaunt Rivington to Ernestine, fourth daughter of Lady Florence Cardwell.”

Cecil Mordaunt Rivington, with his pipe occupying one corner of his mouth, and the other cocked at a distinctly humorous angle, sat on the step of the caravan on the evening of the day succeeding that of his marriage, and read the announcement thereof in the paper which he had just fetched from the post-office.

There was considerable complacence in his attitude. A cheerful fire of sticks burned near, over which a tripod supported a black pot.

The sunset light filtered golden through the forest. It was growing late.

Suddenly he turned and called over his shoulder. “I say, Chirpy!”

Ernestine’s voice answered from the further end of the caravan that was shut off from the rest by curtains.

“I’m just coming. What is it? Is the pot all right?”

“Splendid. Be quick! I’ve something to show you.”

The curtains parted, and Ernestine came daintily forth.

Rivington barely glanced at her. He was too intent upon the paper in his hand. She stopped behind him, and bent to read the paragraph he pointed out.

After a pause, he turned to view its effect, and on the instant his eyebrows went up in amazement.

“Hullo!” he said.

She was dressed like a gipsy in every detail, even to the scarlet kerchief on her head. She drew back a little, colouring under his scrutiny.

“I hope you approve,” she said.

“By Jove, you look ripping!” said Rivington. “How in the world did you do it?”

“I made Mrs. Perkiss help me. We managed it between us. It was just a fancy of mine to fill the idle hours. I didn’t think I should ever have the courage to wear it.”