WHEN you have made an aeroplane, the next thing is to make it fly. And however agreeable an admiring audience may be while one is fiddling¹ with definite and concrete objects of wood, canvas, and metal, one is apt, for the flight itself—the great flight, the flight by which the aeroplane shall stand or fall—to desire solitude². That was why Edward drew the yellow blind up and the dimity curtain aside and turned his bed round, so that the sun at its first rising should strike through his dreams and awaken³ him. The sun did exactly what it was expected to do, and Edward awoke saying "Bother" before he remembered that "Bother" was not at all what he meant. Then he got up and splashed gently, so as not to break the audible sleep of the people in the next room, stole down the creaking, twisted stairs in his tennis-shoes, soft-footed as a cat, drew the bolts of the back door, and slipped out, closing the door noiselessly behind him. He was careful to draw the bolt into its place again by means of a bit of fishing-line. You can do this quite easily with an old door that does not fit very closely—if you are careful to mark with chalk on the outside of the door, as Edward did, the exact place where the bolt is. Having thus secured the door against passing tramps or burglars, he went out across the highroad, soft with thick, white dust, where the dew lay on hedge and grassy⁴ border, and the sun made diamonds of the dew. Charles, choking himself in the stable, grew faint with distance.
 
Beyond the village was a meadow suited to his needs. It was bordered on one side by a high red-brick wall, above whose moss⁵-grown coping the rounded shapes of trees leaned. A wood edged it on two other sides, and in the front was a road.
 
Here he made his preparations, wound up his machine, and, after one or two false starts, 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 twine⁶ 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 poised⁷ a second, at the level of the tree-tops, and then, caught by the wind, sailed straight toward the red wall, burrowed⁸ into the trees, and stopped. He ran toward the wall, winding⁹ 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 mortar¹⁰ 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 flaunted¹¹ its pure sulphur-colored plumes¹² from the ledge¹³ below the coping. An architect would have said that the wall wanted pointing; a builder would have pointed¹⁴ 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 truant¹⁵ 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 trespass¹⁶ of his had happened so early. He would get down the aeroplane and quietly go out by the lodge¹⁷ 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 foliage¹⁸. 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 hem¹⁹ 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, trespassing²⁰.
 
"I should think you did," said the vision, crossly. "What on earth do you mean by it? How did you get in?"
 
Edward, standing²¹ a little awkwardly with the aeroplane in his hands, looked toward the wall.
 
[27]
 
"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 plantations²²."
 
"It was very intrepid²³ 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 bully²⁴ 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 shuddered²⁵ a little. "But I liked it awfully²⁶, 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, humbly²⁷. "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, obstinately²⁸, 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 spoke²⁹ 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 life?"
 
"You needn't rub it in," she said.
 
"Do you know why that is? It's because you are going to know me all your life. I'm perfectly³⁰ certain of it. Somehow or other, it's true. We're going to be friends. I sha'n't need to say again how jolly it is of you to talk to me. We shall take all that as a matter of course. People aren't pitchforked into meetings like this for nothing. I'm glad I said that. I'm glad you were angry with me for saying it. If you hadn't I might just have gone away and not known till I got outside—and then it would have been a deuce and all of a business to get hold of you again. But now I know. And you know, too. When shall I see you again? Never mind about forgiving me. Just tell me when I shall see you again. And then I'll go."
 
"You must be mad," was all she could find to say. She had furled her sunshade and was smoothing its bamboo ribs³¹ with pink fingers.
 
"You'll be able to find out whether I'm mad, you know, when you see me again. As a matter of fact—which seems maddest, when you meet some one you want to talk to, to go away without talking or to insist on talk and more talk? And you can't say you didn't want to talk to me, because you know you did. Look here, meet me to-morrow morning again—will you?"
 
"Certainly not."
 
"You'll be sorry if you don't. We're like two travelers who have collected all sorts of wonderful things in foreign countries. We long to show each other our collections—all the things we've thought and dreamed. If we'd been what you call introduced, perhaps we shouldn't have found this out. But as it is, we know it."
 
"Speak for yourself," she said.
 
"Thank you," he said, seriously. "I will. Will you sit down for ten minutes? This tree-root was made for you to sit down on for ten minutes, and I will speak for myself."
 
"I can't," she said, and her voice—there was hurry in it, and indecision, but the ice had gone. "You must come at once for that ladder. It's getting more dangerous every moment. If any one saw you here there'd be an awful row."
 
"For you?"
 
"Yes, for me. Come on."
 
He followed her along the wall under the chestnuts³². There was no more spoken words till they came to the ladder.
 
Then, "Right," he said. "Thank you. Good-by." And set the ladder against the wall.
 
"Good-by," said she. "I'll hand the aeroplane up to you?"
 
"Stand clear," he said, half-way up the ladder. "I'll give it a sideways tip from the top—it'll fall into its place. It's too heavy for you to lift. Good-by."
 
He had reached the top of the wall. She stood below, looking up at him.
 
"There won't be any row now?"
 
"No. It's quite safe."
 
"Then have you nothing to say?"
 
"Nothing. Yes, I have. I will come to-morrow. You'll misunderstand everything if I don't."
 
"Thank you," he said.
 
 
She came up the ladder, two steps, then handed him his toy. Then the ladder fell with a soft thud among the moss and earth and dead leaves; his head showed a moment above the wall, then vanished.
 
He went thoughtfully through the dewy grass, along the road, and back to his inn.
 
Tommy met him by the horse-trough. "You been flying it?" he asked, breathlessly.
 
"Yes. She went like a bird."
 
"How far did she go?" Tommy asked.
 
"I don't quite know," said Edward, quite truly, "how far she went. I shall know better to-morrow."