THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 JOSEPH P. LOEB
 
 THE CARAVAN MAN
 
 " I SAY, AREN T YOU REALLY GOING TO SPEAK 
 TO ME ANY MORE?" fiagt 138
 
 THE 
 CARAVAN MAN 
 
 BY 
 
 ERNEST GOODWIN 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BT 
 MORGAN DENNIS, U.S.M.C. 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 Caitier.sibe pre0s 
 1918
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY AINSLEK MAGAZINE CO. 
 COPYRIGHT, 19:8, BY ERNEST GOODWIN 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 Published September H)i8
 
 PS 
 35/3 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 " I SAY, ARE N T YOU REALLY GOING TO SPEAK TO 
 
 ME ANY MORE?" Frontispiece 
 
 " ARE YOU A SAMPLE OF THE TELEGRAPH-BOYS 
 
 ABOUT HERE ? " l"JO 
 
 " IT S AWFULLY KIND OF YOU " 266 
 
 f\ "I I LIKED YOU WHEN YOU WERE MR. JoNES " . 328 
 
 X 
 
 682945
 
 THE CARAVAN MAN
 
 THE CARAVAN MAN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 SUDDENLY she stopped, stooped, attempted 
 to pick something off the pavement, failed, 
 and began hastily taking off her glove. With the 
 alacrity that most clearly distinguishes a man 
 offering service to a pretty woman, Bamfield 
 stepped forward, picked up the coin, and handed 
 it to her. She had said, "No, no!" as he leant down. 
 Now as she took the coin she looked blank. "Oh, 
 dear," she said, "you ve spoilt my luck." 
 
 " I m so sorry," said Bamfield. " I never thought 
 for a moment What have I done?" 
 
 "I d just seen it," she answered. "Look! a 
 lucky sixpence, a sixpence with a hole in it. Any 
 body might have picked it up; in fact, it can t 
 have been here, on the pavement in Oxford Street, 
 for more than a second or two. Perhaps the owner" 
 she looked round, but no one seemed to be ap 
 proaching in search of a dropped sixpence. "I sup 
 pose it is really mine or yours " 
 
 "Ours, perhaps," said Bamfield. 
 
 " But it does n t mean luck for me now." 
 
 "Why not?" asked Bamfield. "You ve got it, 
 and the hole s still in it."
 
 4 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Ah, but I ought to have picked it up. Thanks, 
 of course, but I wish you had noticed that I was 
 trying to keep my toe on it, and getting my glove 
 off." 
 
 "Sorry," said Bamfield. "You see, your toe 
 was n t on it, or I could n t have seen it, and I 
 saw you were unable to pick it up, so, naturally " 
 
 "Well," she said with a pretty touch of despair 
 in her voice, "it s done now. But it s no good to 
 me since you gave it to me. One must pick a lucky 
 sixpence up one s self if one wants any good out 
 of it." 
 
 "Then perhaps I m to have the luck," said Bam 
 field. "I picked it up, I held it in my hand, and 
 the fact that I gave it you means nothing. Yes," 
 he continued decidedly, "it s my luck. All the 
 luck s mine just now. Sorry I robbed you, of 
 course, but by Jove," he broke off, " it s true, 
 the luck s mine your hand " He looked at 
 her ungloved right hand. 
 
 She looked at it too. "What s wrong with my 
 hand?" she demanded. 
 
 "Wrong?" said Bamfield. "Wrong! you 
 know as well as I do there s nothing wrong. It s 
 Oh, by the way, I forgot. I m a complete 
 stranger to you, and here I am detaining you, and 
 we re both stopping dead in Oxford Street at 
 half-past one in the afternoon, taking up half the 
 pavement "
 
 The Caravan Man 5 
 
 "Well," she said, looking at him quizzically, 
 "we ll part, and let the traffic get along. But can t 
 you tell me, in three words, what you want to say 
 about my hand?" 
 
 She had wonderful eyes, violet; her lips, parted 
 smilingly, gave a hint of flashing teeth. You might 
 walk a long way even among the crowds of shop 
 ping women in Oxford Street and not meet cheeks 
 so daintily flushed. Bamfield looked at her, hesi 
 tated, tried to sum her up, saw only the eyes again. 
 "I say," he ventured, "will you, won t you ?" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Come and have some breakfast?" 
 
 She laughed. "Breakfast, my dear man! It s 
 one o clock, or two o clock. Whatever hours do 
 you keep?" 
 
 "I know what you mean," replied Bamfield, 
 "but you re wrong. It s industry, not dissipation. 
 Honest," he continued as her eyebrows went up, 
 " I was at work at six o clock this morning. I Ve 
 worked right up to half an hour ago. I never 
 stopped a minute for bite or sup, and only think of 
 it I Ve achieved nothing but ruination. Have 
 you ever had a tract given you?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "and I read it and it did 
 me a world of good. Are you going to give me 
 one?" 
 
 "No," said Bamfield; "but I thought that if there 
 happened to be a Society for the Prevention of
 
 6 The Caravan Man 
 
 Christian Knowledge Do you happen to know 
 of one?" 
 
 "Of course," she answered. They were nearing 
 westward. 
 
 "What society?" 
 
 "Why Society!" 
 
 "Oh that s swift. I only meant that if there 
 were one, properly organized, with a secretary, and 
 funds, and a balance-sheet on the wrong side, like 
 all really praiseworthy societies, and it wanted 
 tracts to spread its insidious message, I could write 
 one for it, a really sinful one, about the thoughtless 
 young man who gave himself into the clutches of 
 the demon of industry, in spite of the warnings of 
 his friends, and at last, when it was too late, he 
 found that for all his work he had done no good, 
 and in fact he d only spoilt the really important 
 bit of work he had accomplished before he took to 
 sinful labour." 
 
 "You re vague, you know, and rather demoraliz 
 ing, I shouldn t wonder. What s all this about? 
 Are you the industrious young man? The Parable 
 of the Industrious Young Man it sounds good. 
 And is your piteous tale remotely connected with 
 my hands?" 
 
 "Closely linked. My story is a sad one, but I 
 see you have a kind face Here s Pimani s. 
 Shall we?" She nodded, and they went in and up 
 to the balcony, and he found a table sufficiently
 
 The Caravan Man 7 
 
 secluded. "Choose something, will you?" He 
 handed her the bill of fare. "Give me," to the 
 waiter, "a steak, well done, a potato, baked in its 
 jacket, and a pint of beer." 
 
 "Dainty, ethereal things you must paint," she 
 said. 
 
 "However did you guess?" said Bamfield, aston 
 ished. 
 
 She chose a soup and the man went away. 
 
 " I m clever at guessing. I was right, was n t I ? " 
 
 She rested her elbows on the table. Bamfield s 
 eyes were now getting intimate with her. Her hair 
 was strong and fresh-looking, springing vigorously 
 from her temples. Her eyes had beautiful lashes, 
 but he saw now that their chief quality was a won 
 derful kindness. She was the sort of woman to put 
 herself to trouble to do you a service. If she liked 
 you, at any rate; if she did n t But who can 
 prophesy what a woman will do if she does n t like 
 you? 
 
 "Well, now, you re an artist," she said, "and I 
 gather that you ve been making rather a mess of 
 things." 
 
 "I have, rather. Decidedly. Horribly. Irre 
 trievably no, not as bad as that, but just now 
 I ve the feeling of hopeless and unmeasured ruin 
 
 on me." 
 
 Your affairs, or just a picture?" 
 
 "A picture. My affairs are quite the other way
 
 8 The Caravan Man 
 
 about. I d like to tell you. But about the pic 
 ture, and your hands. I d really finished the thing, 
 and then I started messing it about. Every man 
 who paints knows the fascination and the folly of 
 touching a thing when once you ve honestly and 
 fairly finished it. There s something inside you 
 that tells you when to let it alone " 
 
 " And then something else inside you makes you 
 go at it again?" 
 
 "Exactly. It was quite all right, and yet not 
 quite all right. The hands, you know. I had a 
 look at the thing last night just before I went to 
 bed, and kept dreaming about it, and this morning 
 when I woke, somewhere round about six o clock, 
 I made up my mind to get up and put them right. 
 A touch or so would do it, and I hopped out of bed, 
 put on my slippers, slipped into my studio, knocked 
 up some paint, and put the touch." He drank some 
 beer mournfully. 
 
 "Goon. What happened?" 
 
 "Either I put the right touch in the wrong place 
 or vice versa. I saw the danger, made a desperate 
 effort to recover myself, slipped, and went over a 
 precipice a thousand feet deep, with sharp needle 
 points of rock sticking up at the bottom." 
 
 "You re inclined to the florid in diction You 
 mean you spoilt the hands?" 
 
 "Spoilt! You should see em now, or rather 
 before I just sludged em across in despair and
 
 The Caravan Man 9 
 
 chucked it lumps of pudding. Hands ! They 
 were n t even decent feet." 
 
 "Is that considered a drawback in hands?" 
 
 "Oh, but I mean, simply awful. Every bit of 
 drawing lost. Not but what, after all, perhaps it s 
 a good job, for between you and me they were n t 
 up to the mark in the first place. The girl that sits 
 for me has n t got the loveliest hands in the world. 
 I d decided that they would do if I just well 
 put myself into them, as it were." 
 
 "Risky, is n t it, putting yourself into a girl s 
 hands?" 
 
 Bamfield chuckled. 
 
 "You re a treat. Dear little sixpence, how soon 
 it s got busy. Well, after all, as I say, the hands 
 were n t up to the rest." 
 
 "Much rest ?" she asked. 
 
 Bamfield dipped his nose into his tankard. "A 
 good bit." 
 
 "H m! so that s the sort of man you are. You 
 squander your youth " 
 
 "Oh, come, don t, please, talk like that, I m 
 rather cracked on this, you know, and you never 
 know when I might turn serious and come out with 
 a tremendous defence of the nude." 
 
 "Don t," she said. " It might mislead the waiter. 
 I m sure he s interested already, and he ll get cer 
 tain definite and mistaken ideas about me and you 
 if he hears. I don t mind about you you re only
 
 i o The Caravan Man 
 
 an artist and you don t matter but I am a re 
 spectable mar " She stopped. 
 
 " I know," said Bamfield. 
 
 "How did you?" 
 
 "You re not the only clever one at guessing, 
 young madam. For all you re so delightfully slen 
 der and girlish, you re married, and no one would 
 take you for more than three-and-twenty, but you re 
 nearly thirty. Annoyed with me?" he broke off. 
 
 "No, I don t think so. And you re horribly 
 right." 
 
 "Don t you mind me. You see, I m an artist, 
 and I know such a lot of what women are from 
 what they look like. In a way it s my bread-and- 
 butter, is n t it? so you can t blame me. I know 
 lots more about you ; I can t tell you, of course, but 
 I know." 
 
 "How do you know, and what do you know?" 
 
 "Well, your hands they re quite exception 
 ally good. I m not paying you a blackguardly 
 compliment, but they are. That s what made me 
 jump so, after the failure I made this morning. I d 
 spoilt my picture, and I lost all confidence in my 
 drawing, and I felt I must find a super-excellent 
 pair of hands to work from; and then came the six 
 pence, and there were you with your glove off and 
 your hand showing." 
 
 "What else?" 
 
 "You re No, I daren t. Not yet, anyhow.
 
 The Caravan Man 1 1 
 
 Wait till I ve finished my beer and all discretion 
 vanishes, and then I ll risk a snub. :> 
 
 "Oh, it s something I d snub you for?" 
 
 "I shouldn t wonder," said Bamfield. "I sup 
 pose you re like all other women, unreason itself. 
 The lovelier a woman is, the more she tries to im 
 prove herself, to make a man conscious of it. And 
 then, as soon as he realizes, and in his simple, inno 
 cent fashion begins to respond to the fascination, 
 she snubs him." 
 
 "H m. You ve done a little innocent responding 
 in your time, have n t you?" 
 
 "How can I help it? I paint the nude. I well, 
 I love it. Do you like beautiful things?" 
 
 "I love them." 
 
 "Well, so do I." He leant his elbows on the 
 table and looked at her meditatively. "Have you 
 ever thought of what life means?" 
 
 She was frankly puzzled. "Do you know, I half 
 believe you re John the Baptist. Are you going to 
 convert me? Really you needn t. I m quite all 
 right." 
 
 He persisted in being serious. "What I mean is, 
 what is it that matters? You ve got your own 
 ideas, no doubt, but life s a puzzle, is n t it! Well, 
 do you give it up?" 
 
 "I can t say. I suppose I do. I find it tremen 
 dously interesting, all the same." 
 
 "Well, I think if it s got any meaning, any
 
 1 2 The Caravan Man 
 
 purpose at all, beauty s got something to do 
 with it." 
 
 "I dare say." 
 
 "No, you don t ; you mean I m boring you. What 
 are you going to have after that soup?" 
 
 "Would they let me have a steak and a pint 
 of beer?" 
 
 He stared aghast. She laughed delightedly. 
 "Oh, John the Baptist! But I must have some 
 thing. You can order me some cold chicken, and 
 after that we ll have some coffee and a cigarette." 
 
 "We shall have to go somewhere else for the 
 smoke, I think; they won t let you smoke in here." 
 
 "Does n t matter. You can smoke. I don t 
 really care about it ... Now, go on; talk." 
 
 "What shall we talk about?" 
 
 "Oh, stick to your subject. Tell me of life s 
 great purpose. Go on. There you are in the desert, 
 in a goatskin and water-bottle, and I m sitting at 
 your feet like the Woman of Samaria, with my 
 hair down " 
 
 "That was the Magdalene, was n t it?" 
 
 "Was it? I m not a Magdalene. Anyhow, I m 
 sitting in the dust, awestruck, drinking in your 
 burning words. The mystery that lies behind life, 
 could we but penetrate the veil of the flesh and 
 reach to the unknowable Something that hides be 
 hind Go on, John." 
 
 He laughed vexedly. " I was an ass, I know
 
 The Caravan Man 1 3 
 
 but somehow, when any one challenges me and 
 my work, I become just that sort of serious and 
 gloomy person." 
 
 "Serious and gloomy! Not a bit; you re amus 
 ing." 
 
 He wished he knew her well enough to display 
 his irritation. He had to be apologetic instead. " I 
 know I m stodgy, but I suppose I m still dismal 
 over this morning s mess. Even meeting you 
 has n t put me right." 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me you worry like that 
 over a hand badly painted?" 
 
 "Yes." He spoke seriously. "I don t suppose 
 you I don t suppose any woman at any time 
 takes a painter very seriously, especially if he 
 works in my line." 
 
 "Works?" 
 
 "I thought so. That s your idea. Work, for 
 a man, to a woman means something physically 
 strenuous, chopping up logs, or carrying hundred 
 weights of coal about. Blacksmith, ploughman, 
 chasing cattle on a half-broken horse You ought 
 to go and live in film-land." 
 
 "Well, dinkying about with a paint-brush and 
 bits of colour " 
 
 "Oh, finish your chicken and let s have cof 
 fee." 
 
 "Your damned chicken." 
 
 "I beg your pardon?"
 
 1 4 The Caravan Man 
 
 "I only said it for you your damned chicken 
 
 that s what you wanted to say, was n t it?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 She lifted her eyebrows, leaning back, undisguis- 
 edly laughing. "Temper!" she said. 
 
 He had to laugh. "You are " 
 
 "I know I am. Dear man, I m a fool. 1 dare 
 say painting is work, only somehow well, the 
 nude, you said?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Ladies?" 
 
 "Principally." 
 
 "Well, then, I admit one gets the idea it s more 
 
 more fun than work." 
 
 "Just the indulgence of a depraved taste, culti 
 vated into a habit, and unfortunately with a 
 market for the pernicious product?" 
 
 "Be fair to me. I don t really know anything 
 at all about it. I ve never thought at all. Go on; 
 I ll listen. And, of course, in a way it s a compli 
 ment to my sex, is n t it?" 
 
 "It is. And at the back of it is something deeper 
 and wider and bigger than just a compliment to 
 your sex there s just the beginning of the unrid 
 dling Oh, I must n t bore you like this." 
 
 "No, go on, don t stop. I believe I know what 
 you mean. The unriddling of the problem of life. 
 
 I say, what fun! Do you hear what they re 
 playing?"
 
 The Caravan Man 1 5 
 
 He listened to the band. "No." 
 
 "I don t, either, but it s revue music; just the 
 embodiment of all that s frivolous and banal, and 
 here we sit talking about life, and wonder of 
 wonders! I m deeply interested. I m being 
 improved. I feel it. Honestly now, you are John 
 the Baptist, are n t you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Does anybody else know but me?" 
 
 "None, so far. I have chosen you as my disciple." 
 
 She mused. "Staff, water-bottle, and goatskin. 
 I hardly think a goatskin would make up into any 
 thing chic I must talk to my dressmaker. In the 
 meantime, give me the passwords We re going 
 to have a sect, or a cult, are n t we?" 
 
 ,"Yes, please" (to the waiter s suggestion of 
 sugar with his coffee). He lit a cigarette. "I m 
 going on. You ve started me, and you ve got to 
 put up with it. Beauty s the one solid bit of 
 ground beneath my feet. The people who have a 
 purpose in life don t matter. There are hardly any 
 of them, and they re all wrong, most likely. Any 
 how, all their purposes are different." 
 
 "Cancel each other?" 
 
 "That s it. But you and I, and practically 
 every other man and woman in the world, we just 
 follow our inclinations." 
 
 "Do we?" Her eyes laughed at him and he felt 
 a stirring within him.
 
 1 6 The Caravan Man 
 
 "We do, even when our inclination is not to fol 
 low our inclination. That s perfectly clear, if you 
 stop to think, but you don t." 
 
 "Don t what?" 
 
 "Don t stop to think." 
 
 "Not very often, but I m making up for it now. 
 My poor brain!" 
 
 "I mean to give it you. Well, a man s inclina 
 tions come to him from outside. Something at 
 tracts him, and he follows." 
 
 "I know he does. He ought to know better." 
 
 "Now, what attracts him most?" 
 
 "You say it." 
 
 "Beauty. When" 
 
 "Right! John knows." 
 
 " When man was a primitive savage, just 
 sufficiently above his material necessities to have a 
 thought to spare for something beyond grub and 
 a hole to sleep in, he picked his cave, other things 
 being equal, where he got a good view. Long 
 before that he took for his wife the girl he thought 
 prettiest." 
 
 "Or deftest at skinning skinning ichthyosauri 
 for lunch. They gave me some nice chicken here." 
 
 "I said, apart from the material." He ran his 
 fingers through his hair. 
 
 She laughed. "Go on," she said. "Never mind 
 me. I have to joke, but I do like listening to 
 you."
 
 The Caravan Man 1 7 
 
 "Well, you ve got a fact there s no getting away 
 from. Beauty is the mainspring of life. Well, 
 what s the most beautiful thing in the world?" 
 
 "I m passee now," she said dreamily, "but you 
 should have seen me before I was married." 
 
 "The most beautiful thing in all life is the 
 beauty of woman, and if you like to think it out, 
 it s as if the eternal riddle that s at the back of 
 everything our senses make us aware of culminates 
 in that one master-riddle, the beauty of woman. 
 And, by Jove, the answer s there, too." 
 
 "And what s the answer?" 
 
 " I don t know. But it s there and nowhere else." 
 
 "That s very nice of you. Well, I must go. In 
 the name of my sex I thank you. I ought to have 
 sympathized more with you over those hands. I 
 am really very sorry. You mean, don t you, that 
 you work seriously? I believe you, and those hands 
 are a blow. I know. I wish you luck. You ll get 
 them right. I wish I could help you." 
 
 "Thanks. You have." 
 
 "Havel? How?" 
 
 "I ve been noting the drawing of your hand as it 
 lay on the table. I ve got it. It s lovely; so s your 
 wrist. But there, you re altogether Anyhow, 
 I ve made good use of my time. You must go?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "All right. Thanks for coming. It s been jolly 
 or hasn t it?"
 
 1 8 The Caravan Man 
 
 "I ve enjoyed it ever so much." They both 
 looked at one another. 
 
 Then, "No, I won t," said Bamfield. 
 
 "You re a dear man, and the discreetest I ever 
 met . . . Look here, would you like me to?" 
 
 "You know very well," he began. 
 
 "I can t to-day. But where is it?" 
 
 He wrote on a card. 
 
 "How does one Oh, well, a taxi will do it. 
 And that s your name?" 
 
 "Yes. When will you?" 
 
 "It s going to be either to-day or to-morrow 
 or never. You see, I don t live in London. I m 
 just up for a week or so, and I m staying with my 
 sister at Chelsea. I m buying her a hat. She s not 
 very well off, and she s an invalid, never able to 
 go out of her room; so whenever I come to town I 
 buy her a hat, and she likes to look at it. Is n t 
 that silly?" 
 
 There was a suspicion of a tear in her eye. " I m 
 glad I met you," said Bamfield. 
 
 "Now, I may go back to-night, in which case, 
 good-bye; but I may stay over till to-morrow night. 
 Even then I m very busy, but if you re going 
 to be in to-morrow afternoon " 
 
 "I 11 be in." 
 
 "Then, it s just possible. And you can show me 
 what you ve managed to do with those disastrous 
 hands."
 
 The Caravan Man 1 9 
 
 "Be good-natured. When you come do come 
 sit for just ten minutes while I draw in from 
 your hands. Will you?" 
 
 "Oh, I never promised to turn model; but we ll 
 
 see." 
 
 He paid the waiter; she adjusted her veil at one 
 of the long wall mirrors ; they went downstairs, and 
 she said good-bye. He raised his hat. She nodded, 
 and he wondered what drew him most, the beauty, 
 or the kindliness of her face. "It s been jolly," 
 she said, and turned westwards on foot.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 BAMFIELD S studio stood secluded among 
 the ample gardens of the large houses in 
 Engadine Road, Primrose Hill. You approached 
 it down a narrow lane, discreetly gated ; at the end 
 of this lane the studio stood in a patch of garden, 
 which could afford pleasure only to the lover of 
 docks; these grew thickly on every available inch 
 of soil not used for pathway. 
 
 In the main the studio was a room thirty feet or 
 so square, twenty high, with a great north light on 
 the sloping roof and a window running from this 
 almost down to the floor from the very eaves. On 
 the left as you entered the door was a small kitchen. 
 In the studio itself a flight of stairs at one end ran 
 up to a gallery, eight or ten feet wide, and eight 
 feet above the level of the studio floor. Here were 
 Bamfield s sleeping arrangements. 
 
 The studio was bare, free for the most part from 
 the assembly of properties with which the average 
 artist loves to surround himself. It was in fact a 
 workshop, the action ground of a man who painted 
 in the spirit of sheer fighting. It was a battle 
 ground where Bamfield, never satisfied, always 
 smarting under the sense of defeat, rose as it were 
 a beaten but unconquered man from the termina-
 
 The Caravan Man 2 1 
 
 tion of each attempt to make a painting which he 
 himself could accept, and flung himself into a fresh 
 struggle with another, striving with all his energies 
 for the victory he never allowed himself to despair 
 of ultimately winning. 
 
 At work he was a deadly serious man, driven by 
 an ambition almost immeasurable. He confessed 
 to no one, but at times he felt possessed of a very 
 demon of jealousy of all the great painters who had 
 preceded him. He had at times immense belief in 
 himself; at others he blushed for his hopes, and 
 poured contempt on his own aspirations. Yet from 
 his blackest despair he would start up, the sense of 
 power irresistible flooding through him, as if a 
 giant mastery dwelt within him, a divinity that, 
 born within him as in a prison, sought to tear an 
 exit through his living self into space, air, light, 
 freedom 
 
 He wrestled then as with angels. In this state 
 he worked at a frightful and exhausting pace, his 
 brain aglow, a frenzy of enthusiasm not far from 
 madness possessing him, and chasing him hither 
 and thither. Something cried to him from within 
 his brain to give it shape, expression, and obedient 
 to the call he strove till physical strength failed 
 him, and he sat once more among the failures of 
 his efforts and his hopes. 
 
 For this inspiration never materialized in one 
 single piece of finished work on which he could look
 
 2 2 The Caravan Man 
 
 with satisfaction. Under its influence he flew to 
 heights he could not sustain. Packed away in cor 
 ners, despised, mere matter for exasperated reminis 
 cence when he chanced upon them, were canvases 
 he had started in such moods, all unfinished, some 
 mere beginnings, glowing promises of achievement 
 unfulfilled, or fine accomplishment, never more 
 than partial, and only ruined where evident painful 
 effort had been made to struggle through to the 
 desired end. 
 
 The whole of the studio wall-space was white 
 washed. A rug or two of taking design or colour 
 was hung here and there. But the most noticeable 
 thing was a painting in oils on the bare wall, a 
 thing of no more than an hour or so in execution, 
 deft in handling, free, powerful, convincing. 
 
 It showed the head of a girl, a child not more 
 than twelve, or at the most fourteen, with a face 
 infinitely tender, yet so brave, and with a look of 
 such loyalty in the eyes that it instantly won you. 
 These eyes smiled, trustingly and freely, through 
 long brown trails of tumbled hair, that came veil 
 ing down over peach-like cheeks. Some happy 
 accident in the handling of that swift sketch had 
 lent to the child s face just that wondrous texture 
 that belongs to childhood alone, though by rare 
 chance a trace of it may linger to make some 
 woman proud in the first few years of her maturity. 
 
 In the shadow of a fold of a hanging rug the
 
 The Caravan Man 2 3 
 
 effect was strangely real. Not merely at the first 
 glance there appeared a living face, living eyes, a 
 living presence half hidden there, even when the 
 room grew familiar there seemed to emanate from 
 the sketch on the wall a sense of friendly and 
 captivating youth, unobtrusive yet dominating, 
 informing the bleakness of the studio with the 
 spirit of comradeship and loyalty. 
 
 Round the fireplace under the sleeping gallery 
 things domestic had inevitably grouped them 
 selves. There were two easy-chairs besides several 
 smaller, a couch, a heap of cushions, a bookcase, a 
 table littered with an untidy pile of charcoal 
 studies of female figures, one now and then draped, 
 but mostly nude. Here were "details" legs, 
 arms, hands, ears, breasts, sometimes a mere happy 
 line or so, caught flying, sometimes a monumental 
 piece of study, followed into every detail of shape 
 and tone. A thick rug lay on the floor before the 
 massive steel fender. An old cello stood in a cor 
 ner, with the bridge down. Some prints, a special 
 study or two, an unframed canvas with a finely 
 slashed-in head of a woman, were fastened to the 
 wall. In one corner was a wardrobe with the door 
 open. This was crammed with female dresses of all 
 kinds, shabby enough most of them, but all lovely 
 in colour, some of them brilliant, and their designs 
 fantastic and bizarre. 
 
 A small fire burnt in the large grate. Aside from
 
 24 The Caravan Man 
 
 the fire stood a table on which a large napkin was 
 spread as tablecloth. This was set for afternoon 
 tea, with pretty if cheap-looking china, and a few 
 flowers. Looking from the daintiness, cleanliness, 
 and airy freshness of this table you noted more 
 clearly the general aspect of neglect and disorder 
 in the rest of the room. It spoke, not perhaps of 
 actual poverty, but of a disregard of anything 
 above the merest practical level of method and 
 arrangement. The tea-table was plainly an effort 
 on the part of a man who in his everyday life would 
 have laughed at the notion of doing such a thing 
 for his own edification. As such she noted it when 
 she came. 
 
 Bamfield had been pacing his studio, smoking, 
 pausing at times to stare at the canvas on his easel, 
 where a life-sized nude figure of a girl stood out 
 brilliantly under the strong side-light from the tall 
 north window. Once or twice he picked up palette 
 and brush and approached the canvas with the 
 evident intention of working at the hands. Over 
 both these there was a daub of green paint, stabbed 
 onto them in a fit of rage and despair the morning 
 before, when disgust had overwhelmed him. But 
 he did not touch them even now. He hovered over 
 them, brush in hand, undecided. 
 
 On the outer door came a rat-tat. It was she, 
 violet eyes agleam, face smiling, teeth flashing. 
 Dressed in a coat and skirt of light brown, with a
 
 The Caravan Man 2 5 
 
 white blouse cut well open at the neck, she brought 
 in all the blitheness of the brave February day. 
 She held out her hand. "Well," she cried gaily, 
 "you never expected me?" 
 
 "I intended shooting myself at four o clock 
 sharp, if you had n t come," he answered, and 
 drew her in. 
 
 "Oh, what a room! How large!" she exclaimed, 
 standing in the middle of the studio, and looking 
 about with frank interest. "So this is the place 
 where you play, and try to persuade me it s work 
 ing." 
 
 "Take off your hat, won t you?" 
 
 "Oh, but wait a bit, John; wait a bit. I don t 
 know. I feel so tremendously in John s power, and 
 somehow I feel that my hat on makes me braver. 
 No, I won t take it off just yet. Anyhow, you 
 know, I only just came for one little cup of tea. 
 Well" she looked critically at the fireplace, 
 the tea-table, the gallery "it s all right, I sup 
 pose. Why don t you get it cleaned ? " 
 
 "Cleaned!" said Bamfield, aghast. "Why, you 
 don t mean to say it s dirty?" 
 
 "Dirty!" she laughed. "There s work here for 
 two women for a week. How do you manage ? " 
 
 "A woman comes in on Saturdays and does the 
 place out, and generally she s here for an hour or 
 two some of the other days." 
 
 She laughed again, with that evident pleasure
 
 2 6 The Caravan Man 
 
 even the most good-natured of women feels in the 
 revelation of a man s blindness in the matter of 
 domestic management. "She s a gem, whoever 
 she is." 
 
 "Have n t you ever been in a studio before?" 
 
 "Never. I imagined something quite different." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "I don t know. It comes rather as a shock. It s 
 so very large, and the walls why should they be 
 whitewashed? Oh!" she broke off, "who s this?" 
 She had seen the painting on the wall, and went 
 close up to look at it. "What a pretty girl? Some 
 lady-love of yours?" 
 
 " She s my sweetheart, if that s what you mean." 
 
 "Is n t she rather young? Why, she can t be 
 more than twelve or so." 
 
 "I would n t have her for my sweetheart if she 
 was any older. I don t know who she is. I found 
 her painted on the wall when I came here; some 
 previous tenant. She s a sort of presiding divinity, 
 you know." 
 
 She was quite interested. "How pretty. I mean, 
 the whole idea. Why do you call her your sweet 
 heart?" 
 
 "Oh, I liked her. It s a charming face. A good 
 bit of work, too, not quite sound in the drawing, 
 but clever." 
 
 "And how long have you been here?" 
 
 "Nearly six years."
 
 The Caravan Man 27 
 
 "Let s see then she d be something between 
 eighteen and twenty. Why don t you find out who 
 she is, and where she is?" 
 
 "For one thing, she might be forty, or sixty, for 
 all we know. I don t know how long the thing had 
 been painted before I came. But what am I to 
 find her for?" 
 
 "If she s still young and beautiful and I m 
 sure she is would n t it be romantic?" 
 
 " I dare say. It did n t occur to me to try and 
 find her. She s a very nice little sweetheart as she 
 is, much nicer, I expect, than she d be in the flesh. 
 I feel a kind of ownership sometimes, cousinship, 
 at any rate." 
 
 "Well, all right. Now, where are the hands?" 
 She went across to the picture on the easel. "Oh, 
 this is this it? Why" she stooped to examine 
 the work "have you been working at all? You 
 have n t." 
 
 "No," he said. "I meant to, but I remembered 
 your hands, and your promise." 
 
 "I did n t." 
 
 "But you will, won t you?" 
 
 "I don t know ... I like this studio. I should 
 think you could make things very jolly here. Do 
 you sleep here?" 
 
 "Up there in the gallery." 
 
 "May I see?" 
 
 He laughed and nodded. She went up the stairs
 
 2 8 The Caravan Man 
 
 with eager, unabashed curiosity, and looked at his 
 simple couch and his battered bath and the untidy 
 pile of books there. She made a face. 
 
 "Well, of course, it is n t a lady s bedroom," 
 said Bamfield apologetically. 
 
 "I should hope not," she answered, and went 
 down. 
 
 She went over to the tea-table. "A fire but 
 that s nice, too." 
 
 "I wondered if you d find it too hot; but even 
 on a hot day, I like to keep a fire going, just for 
 company." 
 
 "You poor thing," she said suddenly. "Why- 
 ever don t you get married?" 
 
 "Puh!" said Bamfield. "What an idea!" 
 
 "Why don t you?" 
 
 "I m an artist; that s why." 
 
 "I see. Devoted to Art, eh?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "No room for a smaller passion?" 
 
 "Precisely." 
 
 "We ll see about you, before I ve done with 
 you," she said, pitying and scorning. 
 
 "Bite granite, viper," said Bamfield. 
 
 She sat down in one of the easy-chairs. "There s 
 one thing about a man s room I like," she said; "he 
 generally gets nice comfortable chairs. Now this 
 is luxurious. And new too. Have you only just 
 bought them?"
 
 The Caravan Man 2 9 
 
 "This week." 
 
 "Not not for my visit?" 
 
 "No," he answered. "But I told you, I believe 
 or did n t I ? that I d had luck lately. I d 
 long wanted a decent chair, but could never afford 
 it, and the first thing I did was to buy these, only 
 last week. Glad you like them." 
 
 He put the kettle on the fire. "You ll take your 
 hat off now ? " 
 
 She unpinned it and tossed it on the couch, then 
 slipped off her gloves, glanced at her hands and at 
 him. 
 
 "Yes," he said; "let me look." He took them 
 in his, scrutinizing them closely, turning them 
 over to look at the palms. "Good, perfect. Nails, 
 fingers and what a lovely droop at the wrist. 
 Firm-fleshed, too, not pappy." 
 
 "You ought to be a Circassian brigand, selling 
 girl-captives in some Turkish slave-market." 
 
 " I wish I had the selling of you. What a cata 
 logue I d draw up ! " 
 
 "For instance ?" 
 
 "Dare n t tell you." 
 
 "What should I fetch?" 
 
 "Anything up to a hundred thousand pias 
 tres." 
 
 "That s an awful lot, is n t it?" 
 
 "I don t really know. It sounds a lot, that s 
 why I said it. But I should n t sell you at all. I
 
 3<D The Caravan Man 
 
 should arrange with a friendly dealer to buy you 
 in, for myself." 
 
 She laughed. "What fun! Could you afford me? 
 Did n t you say you were poor?" 
 
 He burst out laughing. "No, I m not. Not now. 
 Do I disappoint you?" 
 
 "No, but I don t seem to realize you. Somehow 
 in spite of your luxurious chairs, I thought you 
 must be very poor. You seem to be the sort of 
 man that would go well with poverty." 
 
 "You re very complimentary. But when I say 
 I m not poor, I only mean that I don t have to sit 
 up sewing holes in my socks by the light of a tallow 
 candle, and things like that." 
 
 The kettle boiled. He made the tea. She rose 
 from her chair. "I m to pour out?" she asked. 
 
 "Well, it would make it delightful if you would." 
 
 "Don t you think it would be delightful for me 
 to be waited on?" 
 
 "Well, let me. Yes" to her shake of the head. 
 "Sit down again." 
 
 She slipped off her jacket and threw it on the 
 couch with her hat. "I was only joking." 
 
 But he insisted, and she allowed him to persuade 
 her into the capacious chair again. He pulled the 
 table near her, brought his own chair up to it, and 
 poured out tea. She caught his eye, and laughed. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked. 
 
 "I don t know it s such fun; and the idea of
 
 The Caravan Man 3 1 
 
 your making tea and waiting on me like this it s 
 such a joke." 
 
 " I suppose you think all one s life in a studio is 
 a bit of a joke, don t you ? " 
 
 "Well, frankly, is n t it? Don t you feel yourself 
 that it s a bit of it s I don t know quite what 
 to call it." 
 
 "You mean, a bit of a pose, something not quite 
 serious: this queer room, and the little makeshift 
 bedroom, and doing one s own cooking, and paint 
 ing in fits and starts " 
 
 "And entertaining people like me." 
 
 "Well, it is n t a pose. Remember our talk of 
 yesterday. It s serious." 
 
 "Ah, now he s commencing! This is the prophet 
 of the desert I have learnt to know and lo I 
 mean, reverence." 
 
 "Oh, I won t be sermony again. If it will please 
 you, I 11 admit this life is fun. You see, it s free . . . 
 Do you like this cake?" 
 
 "Yes. I tell you what. I should like a piece of 
 toast." 
 
 "All right." He jumped up. "I ve got some 
 bread in the place, or, if you like, here s a roll or 
 two. Shall we split them?" 
 
 "Have you a toasting-fork?" 
 
 He dived into the kitchen, came back with a 
 long fork, cut some slices, and prepared to toast. 
 
 "Let me!" she cried.
 
 3 2 The Caravan Man 
 
 "No; you ll spoil your skin." 
 
 "Pooh! I m not so fragile as all that. Give me 
 the fork." 
 
 She knelt at the fire, shielding her face a little 
 with her free hand. Bamfield knelt on the fender 
 near her, and watched the marvel of the play of the 
 contending lights on her, the daylight from the 
 roof-light streaming down her shoulders and back, 
 and the warm red from the fire playing over her 
 face, taking the rose out of it, but giving it a ten 
 derness and richness of colour that made her more 
 fascinating than ever. 
 
 The toast made, she ate it with great enjoy 
 ment. 
 
 "May I make some notes?" Bamfield asked 
 her. She nodded, and he got some paper and char 
 coal and, arranging her hands as in the pose of his 
 picture, he occupied some ten minutes in work. 
 " I m just getting the drawing," he told her. 
 
 She wanted to see what he had done, and was 
 quite pleased to see her own hands reproduced on 
 the paper. " I think you re clever," she said. 
 
 " I am," he told her. 
 
 "Conceit!" 
 
 "Any amount I could n t go on fighting if I 
 had n t swelled head." 
 
 After that talk died down. She sat quite con 
 tentedly looking at the fire. Bamfield watched her. 
 
 Now, what was in the man s mind? A moody,
 
 The Caravan Man 3 3 
 
 almost a disappointed man, carried along in life 
 not so much now by the buoyancy of eager youth 
 as the grim, dour determination of an obstinate 
 and combative man, passing long periods in brood 
 ing and depression, he was now at the very summit 
 of a compensating expansion of spirit. He had 
 been doing what was a rare and hitherto dangerous 
 thing for him to venture on, spending money and 
 holiday-making. At a loose end, idle, and inclined 
 to further idleness for the time, he had met this 
 woman. She was beautiful in face, figure, speech, 
 manner, dress. She had accepted his acquaintance, 
 and fallen into talk which bordered on the intimate 
 in the most natural way in the world. Five minutes 
 after he had spoken to her, a complete stranger, 
 in the public street, she had sat at a meal with 
 him. Twenty-four hours later she was sitting alone 
 with him in his studio, hat, coat, gloves laid aside; 
 friendly, receptive of his advances, so far. What 
 wonder if, harking back along the line of reminis 
 cence and running over it again, from their first 
 chance encounter to their present situation, his 
 thoughts travelled onwards along an easy and 
 alluring road ? At precisely that moment she looked 
 up at him. For a second they looked into each 
 other s eyes. He had the sensation of being read. 
 Count it for grace in him that he blenched. 
 
 "Let s talk," she said. 
 
 "What about?"
 
 34 The Caravan Man 
 
 "There s lots of things I want to talk to you 
 about. But, in the first place, no love-making." 
 She said it as simply, as unaffectedly, as if she had 
 said, "No milk in my tea, please." 
 
 Bamfield was rather taken aback by her direct 
 ness, and possibly not quite sure of her genuine 
 ness. Still, the immense candour of her gaze seemed 
 convincing. 
 
 "Don t say that, lady," he answered, in mock 
 dismay. 
 
 "I do say it. I mean it. You won t think I m 
 so silly and common, as to challenge the very 
 thing I m warning you from, but I want you to 
 understand that. No kissing. I don t want to. 
 I have to come to this sort of understanding with 
 such a lot of men, often men I like, and it saves 
 trouble and disappointment if we get that point 
 clear at the earliest opportunity." 
 
 "Too late, in my case," said Bamfield. "Why 
 were n t you more explicit in the first place ? I m a 
 wallowing sea of disappointment." 
 
 "That s right. I like you to be disappointed." 
 
 "Do you?" She was a bewildering person. 
 
 "Of course. What should I think of you if you d 
 said, It does n t matter, or, Nothing was further 
 from my intention, I assure you?" 
 
 Bamfield came up to the proper level of serious 
 levity at once. "Then let me say that this is the 
 bitterest moment of my life."
 
 The Caravan Man 3 5 
 
 "Good," she said complacently. "Well, now 
 we can talk quite openly. I know I puzzle you, but 
 really I m not difficult. I like men, always have, 
 and they like me; but I did n t want to get married. 
 I quite understood, and it did n t appeal to me. 
 Then I met the man I did marry. He s sixty-two." 
 
 "Good Lord!" said Bamfield. "And to think" 
 
 "You all say the same. To think of so much 
 beauty wasting its sweetness, et cetera. Be sensi 
 ble. I wanted the freedom of a married woman, 
 and I did not want marriage. Well, I was n t so 
 much married as collected. My husband is one of 
 the greatest collectors of the day." 
 
 "Does he collect pictures?" asked Bamfield. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Modern?" 
 
 "Always." 
 
 "God bless and keep him," said Bamfield fer 
 vently. 
 
 "And modern furniture, and modern china, and 
 modern jewel-work, and craft-work of every kind. 
 He has the most wonderful taste and knowledge. 
 And he saw me, a picture, a jewel, he called me 
 and perfectly modern " 
 
 "Absolutely that" agreed Bamfield. 
 
 " And he collected me. And we are perfectly 
 happy. Understand?" 
 
 "I believe I do. It s annoying in a way, and 
 yet let me congratulate you."
 
 3 6 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Thank you. Now, first I want you to tell me, 
 why are n t you married ? Wait a bit. How old 
 are you?" 
 
 "I m thirty-three." 
 
 "Then, why have n t you got married? Who do 
 you think you are, to stick here all alone when 
 there are lots of nice girls entitled to a husband " 
 
 ** A nice girl would be entitled to a nice husband." 
 
 "Well, you would n t be half bad." 
 
 "I should," said Bamfield. "I should be the 
 very worst sort of husband that ever was." 
 
 "My dear man, as you are, no doubt you would 
 be a poor specimen I don t mean you d beat 
 her or come home drunk, but a man who s lived 
 this frightful, unnatural life for How long did 
 you say you have been here?" 
 
 "Six years." 
 
 "All alone?" 
 
 "Practically." 
 
 "Practically h m!" She considered him. "I 
 don t know whether I like you so much, after all." 
 
 "How much did you think you liked me?" 
 
 "That much." She held her hands a little way 
 apart. 
 
 "That s not much." 
 
 " It s a lot with me. Oh, well, perhaps after all 
 Anyhow, never mind; you can t be helped. And, 
 besides, I was going to say, a nice, sensible girl 
 would soon pull you into shape."
 
 The Caravan Man 3 7 
 
 Bamfield shuddered. "That s partly it," he 
 said. "One sees these nice girls, and perhaps one 
 knows their husbands, and one can t help witness 
 ing the spectacle of pulling into shape. It frightens 
 
 a man." 
 
 She laughed. It was a proper woman s laugh at 
 a man s acknowledgment of her sex s powers. 
 
 "Now, about money You don t claim to be 
 rich, but you are n t quite poor. What are you 
 just precisely?" 
 
 Bamfield stretched himself luxuriously in the 
 chair. "You ll set me going on a subject I can 
 spout about for hours my luck, and the way 
 it s turned lately." 
 
 "Well, spout away. I like to hear of luck." 
 
 "You believe in it?" 
 
 "I believe in luck, and affinities, and table- 
 turning, and horoscopes, and destiny, and every 
 thing of that sort." 
 
 "Well, I 11 tell you. I ve had shocking luck ever 
 since I set out to get my living and make what 
 name I could, by painting. I ve been poor, hor 
 ribly poor, and I have n t made the least little bit 
 of a name till lately. You know, I Ve been selling 
 all my pictures through one man, a dealer named 
 Iffelstein, a Dutchman." 
 
 "That s bad business, is n t it?" 
 
 " I dare say, but I m not businesslike, and, be 
 sides, we arrived at an understanding four years
 
 38 The Caravan Man 
 
 ago. I could n t sell a thing I m not a good sales 
 man; I don t understand, or at any rate, I don t 
 want to trouble with the money side." 
 
 "But you should." 
 
 "I can t. I just want the money, and I can t 
 bear, I loathe, having to haggle with any one. 
 Well, when I was desperate, Iffelstein looked me 
 up and bought my stuff. It was a poor price, but 
 you don t know what a godsend it was. And from 
 that time it s been understood that I let him have 
 all I paint. It suits me in a way, because he pays 
 on the nail, but " 
 
 "He screws you down, I believe." 
 
 " Well, he does n t pay much. In fact, I get wild 
 sometimes to think how little I get, but anyhow 
 I ve lived, and I ve gone on painting, which was 
 what I meant to do." 
 
 "Do you exhibit?" 
 
 " I used to, but they won t have me now." 
 
 "Why not? Not good enough?" 
 
 "Too good." She laughed. "I mean it. They re 
 afraid of me and my work. They can t understand 
 it. I ve my own theories about colour and light, 
 and what form implies, and just how far one may 
 imitate, and what s unpaintable." 
 
 "Well; goon." 
 
 "Well, you understand that I got restless about 
 my earnings, and then the brother of a friend of 
 mine who was over from America offered to take a
 
 The Caravan Man 3 9 
 
 picture of mine out to the States and see if he could 
 sell it for me there. So I let him have one, and I 
 heard nothing of it for three months, and then a 
 little while ago I got a letter from some New York 
 dealers, telling me he had placed the picture with 
 them, and they had an offer of a hundred pounds 
 for it, and would I tell them if I wished them to 
 accept. And if I considered the price suitable, they 
 could undertake to dispose of more at the same 
 price." 
 
 "And is that a good price a hundred pounds ? " 
 
 "Good! I should think it was. Five or six 
 times what I get from Iffelstein. I ve only twice 
 had as much as twenty pounds for a picture from 
 him." 
 
 "I did n t know. Did you write?" 
 
 "I cabled! And I got a wire back, to say the 
 sale was concluded and cheque in the post." 
 
 "Have you got it?" 
 
 "No; that was only a week or so ago, but it will 
 be here. There now! that s my luck." 
 
 "I think I should want to see the money before 
 I was quite sure." 
 
 " I m sure. I knew it would come, some day." 
 
 "Well, all right. I congratulate you. Now you d 
 better get married." 
 
 Bamfield laughed. "On the strength of selling 
 a picture? You re keen on seeing me tied up." 
 
 "lam. I do really like you. You re quite a nice
 
 40 The Caravan Man 
 
 boy, but you need marrying badly. Who is there 
 you know that would do?" 
 
 "Stop this," said Bamfield sternly. "You re 
 dangerous. So long as you were joking " 
 
 "But I m not." 
 
 "But you were." 
 
 "No, I was n t. I meant it. You ve got to get 
 married. I get all my men-friends married. They 
 make love to me, and I tell them it s impossible, 
 but I know some one much nicer than I am " 
 
 "You don t." 
 
 "Of course I don t. But I tell them so, and I 
 introduce them to some one nice enough, and 
 there you are." 
 
 "Well, you let me alone. I won t have it. Be 
 sides, if you start introducing nice girls to me I 
 might be dangerous." 
 
 She considered him. "I think you re all right." 
 
 "I m all right if I can get on with my work. I 
 don t want to marry I don t really want to have 
 anything to do with any of you " 
 
 "That s why you took me to breakfast five 
 minutes after you had met me casually, and asked 
 me here?" 
 
 "You re different." 
 
 She laughed. "Oh, yes, I know. We all are." 
 
 "But you are. Since you told me No love- 
 making, I have n t wanted to make love to you in 
 the least."
 
 The Caravan Man 4 1 
 
 "Have n t you? Shall I make you?" 
 
 "If you want to but you ll spoil it." 
 
 She clapped her hands, flushing with pleasure. 
 "Splendid. That s just what I wanted you to 
 understand. You mean that you just want to be 
 friends?" 
 
 "I mean," said Bamfield, "that you are the 
 most delightful woman I ve ever met, that I m 
 more in love with you than I ve ever been with 
 anybody in my life, and that I m quite prepared 
 to tell you so in front of your husband." 
 
 "That s right. Oh, how quick you have been. 
 Shall I tell you that s what they all do. And 
 he laughs, and I like it." She jumped up suddenly. 
 "It s half-past five, and I must go." 
 
 "Sure?" 
 
 "Sure." 
 
 "You ll come again?" 
 
 "Yes, I will, I promise." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "I don t know. When next I m in town, perhaps 
 that might be a month or two yet." 
 
 He helped her on with her light coat, and looked 
 about for his own hat. 
 
 She stopped him. "I don t want you to come. I 
 told the taxi-man to come back at half-past five. 
 Just to the road with me, if you like." 
 
 As she went to the door, she stopped at the 
 picture on the wall. The two beautiful faces,
 
 42 The Caravan Man 
 
 both alive, seemed to peer closely into each other s 
 eyes. She turned to Bamfield. 
 
 "She d do." 
 
 Bamfield looked enquiry. " She do ? " 
 
 "She d be the girl for you. Why don t you 
 marry her?" 
 
 "Good Heavens!" He burst out laughing. "You 
 don t waste time." 
 
 "There s no time to waste. Thirty-three! 
 My goodness! . . . Well?" 
 
 "In the first place, I m not going to get mar 
 ried." 
 
 "Quite final?" 
 
 "Quite." 
 
 "Married to Art, eh?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Rubbish!" 
 
 His face darkened. He turned stiffly away. 
 "Pray don t let us discuss it further." 
 
 She openly jeered. "Don t show me your high- 
 and-mighty airs. I believe the long and short of it 
 is you re a coward or mean or you re married 
 already, and your poor darling of a wife has been 
 driven away from you by your persistent ill-usage, 
 or" 
 
 "Oh, stop it!" He had to laugh. "Please re 
 member I don t know who she is." 
 
 "Then find out." 
 
 "And I don t know how old she d be."
 
 The Caravan Man 43 
 
 "The right age." 
 
 "And I don t know if she d have me." 
 
 "I dare say she wouldn t, at first, but you d 
 persuade her poor little girl!" 
 
 "And I dare say she s lost her looks. You don t 
 think I could marry a plain girl?" 
 
 "No," after considering him. "But, lost her 
 looks! Look at those eyes, dense; they won t 
 change." 
 
 He looked closely at the eyes of the picture. The 
 face still smiled at him, frankly, friendly, childish. 
 " She has lovely eyes," he murmured. 
 
 "And she s lovely in herself. Yes, that s a true 
 portrait, one can tell ; and a girl with eyes like that 
 has a heart that s that s just the right sort of 
 heart for a man like you." 
 
 "And what sort of a man am I?" 
 
 She wrinkled her nose at him. "I shan t think 
 you any sort of a man unless you marry her." 
 
 "But, be reasonable." He felt nervous. This 
 extraordinary woman seemed to be compelling him 
 in a most outrageous fashion. If he did n t look 
 out He made halting excuses. "I don t know 
 where she is." 
 
 "Go and look for her. I told you I believe in 
 destiny, and you believe in luck; so there you are." 
 
 "But suppose, when I find her, she s already 
 married?" 
 
 "Then run away with her. But she is n t."
 
 44 The Caravan Man 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "Because I do. Be quick and find her. She s 
 waiting for you." 
 
 It was impossible to argue with such a creature. 
 He laughed; so did she. He held the door open; 
 she passed out and up the lane, Bamfield, hatless, 
 accompanying. A taxi on the other side of the 
 street immediately drew over, and he opened the 
 door. She stepped in. 
 
 He leant in. "Where to?" 
 
 "Tell him, King s Road, Chelsea." 
 
 "And are n t you going to tell me your name?" 
 
 She pondered. "Next time, perhaps. It depends 
 on whether you do what I want." 
 
 "I shan t," he said. 
 
 "You will," she returned emphatically. "They 
 always do." 
 
 He shut the door with something like a little 
 chill of apprehension running down his spine.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 WELL, now, there had been quite an agreeable 
 two hours or so, and the pleasure just ter 
 minated still left its traces on Bamfield s face as, 
 hands in pockets, he strolled back down the lane 
 to his studio. Halfway down he met the postman 
 returning. He had delivered a letter while Bam- 
 field was taking leave of his visitor. Bamfield 
 strolled on, opened his door and picked the letter 
 up from the mat. Aha! from New York. He 
 opened it ... 
 
 Twenty seconds later he was flying in a frantic 
 hurry about his studio, looking for the previous 
 letter. He hunted through pockets, on shelves, 
 inside book-covers, behind canvases, every second 
 more exasperated, more anxious, and, as he moved, 
 spreading confusion where confusion already was. 
 "Dollars!" he muttered, incredulous, indignant, 
 apprehensive. "Dollars! But it said I m 
 sure I remember distinctly " Ha, here it was. 
 He snatched it up, drew the letter from its envel 
 ope, stared . . . 
 
 "So it is dollars!" 
 
 He sat down in the armchair she had just left, 
 holding the two letters, and a faint sense of sick 
 ness came over him.
 
 46 The Caravan Man 
 
 Reader, has pity still a lodging in your bosom? 
 Let me evoke it on behalf of our young friend 
 Bamfield. 
 
 He had not sold a picture in New York for one 
 hundred pounds; the correct price was one hundred 
 dollars. One hundred dollars it said so, plainly, 
 in the second letter, but no more plainly than in 
 the first. It was a clear case of a mental obsession. 
 He had always thought in pounds, often dreamed 
 of the day when such success would be his that his 
 pictures would sell for three figures, and reading 
 the first letter, his delight and impatience had so 
 bemused him that he had allowed a mental image 
 to supersede completely the actual vision of his 
 eyes. Twice he had read the letter over again 
 before mislaying it, and from that moment one 
 hundred pounds had been the centre of the radiant 
 vision that danced before him waking, and hovered 
 affectionately round him in his dreams. 
 
 And here was his cheque, the cheque for which 
 he had been waiting. On the strength of it she had 
 just decided that he was to get married. On the 
 strength of the promise of further sales like this he 
 had allowed himself the luxury of what had seemed 
 legitimate elation. Here it was, fairly written, 
 accompanied by a perfectly straightforward and 
 honest letter, with a neat account, showing one 
 hundred dollars received, and deductions for cart 
 age, customs, insurance, cable, and, finally, selling
 
 The Caravan Man 47 
 
 commission, leaving him, in English money they 
 had obligingly drawn him his cheque on an English 
 bank in London, so that with no preliminary arith 
 metical calculation to delay the blow he got it 
 flush in the brainpan at the first glance fourteen 
 pounds seventeen and tenpence. 
 
 And he had expected a hundred pounds. 
 
 He had always called it a hundred, refusing to 
 lessen the relish of the round sum on his tongue by 
 permitting even so much as a halfpenny commis 
 sion to be deducted. The full hundred sounded so 
 affluent. 
 
 But that was not all. He had stopped work 
 immediately. He had had a holiday, not a very 
 enjoyable one, but a period of doing nothing and 
 just drifting about for close on a month. (It had 
 done him good; the man was jaded from overwork 
 and the long struggle against defeat.) He had 
 bought clothes. He needed them, but he had done 
 himself very well. He had bought those two chairs. 
 He had settled his bill for canvases and paints, 
 long owing. He had lent a bit to a man in the next 
 group of studios. He had lent a bit he recog 
 nized that he had run across quite a lot of friends 
 and acquaintances, all good fellows, to whom lend 
 ing a bit seemed the natural thing, he being now 
 one of those happy men who sold their stuff for 
 a cool hundred apiece. A hundred pounds, that is 
 to say
 
 48 The Caravan Man 
 
 He was not an extravagant man. Not what you 
 might call a careful man, either. He was genuinely 
 a man of simple tastes. He wanted to paint, and 
 life apart from his work claimed little of him. For 
 the last year or two he had made rather more 
 money than he spent, and there had been a modest 
 balance at the bank; something near seventy 
 pounds. He had drawn it practically all, and it 
 was nearly gone. Unbusinesslike? This man was 
 an artist. 
 
 He dropped a line to Iffelstein, the man who 
 bought his pictures. Iffelstein was a business man. 
 He came, saw Bamfield, saw his way, too, to an 
 excellent stroke of business. Bamfield was hard up 
 
 clearly here was a chance of doing what every 
 business man in this world longs to do, dreams of 
 doing a chance to buy something good at the 
 price of muck. 
 
 Bamfield had three pictures near completion. 
 Iffelstein bought them, cheap for cash, Bamfield 
 undertaking to finish them. But rent-day was past, 
 Bamfield for the first time for some years wanted 
 an advance. Only twenty pounds or so. He got it 
 
 undertaking to paint three more pictures . . . 
 Bamfield finished the three pictures already in 
 
 hand; he painted the three others; he painted three 
 more on top of that. He worked like fury. The 
 man s soul was ablaze. This sudden plunge into 
 pennilessness, debt, evoked in him a rage almost
 
 The Caravan Man 49 
 
 murderous. He felt himself at enmity with the 
 world. 
 
 He was ill, sick in body and mind. His hand 
 trembled as he painted. He worked early and late. 
 With renewed bitterness he saw that, strangely 
 enough, under this new influence his work was 
 better than ever. When IfFelstein s cart called and 
 took the nine canvases away, Bamfield knew that 
 he had parted with the finest work he had ever 
 achieved. 
 
 In a sudden passion he swore that he would never 
 again submit to the humiliation of selling his work 
 under such conditions. What was he to do? He 
 must paint he could not live without painting. 
 But this infamous sweating, this yoking of what 
 he knew beyond all doubt was a real genius within 
 him to the sordid business of mere living never 
 again, by God ! 
 
 In some such rebellious mood an idea occurred 
 to him.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE caravan man never hurried, apparently, 
 or worried Oh, yes, he did he worried 
 one member of the Ouseton community, the sta 
 tion-master, ticket-collector, porter, goods super 
 visor at Ouseton Station. 
 
 "It s a cock-eyed arrangement," he protested, 
 lounging over the sill of the parcels office. 
 
 "It ain t my fault," said the station-master. 
 
 "They ought to rename this place." 
 
 "Or the other three," suggested the station- 
 master. 
 
 "I don t care which they do," said the caravan 
 man. " Four Ousetons in England and I suppose 
 my canvases will go the round of the other three 
 before they send them on here?" 
 
 The station-master admitted that this was 
 possible. 
 
 "Oh well " said the caravan man irritably, 
 and went off. 
 
 His caravan had been on the common for a 
 week, and every morning before breakfast he went 
 down to Ouseton and worried the station-master 
 about his canvases. At least, he thought he worried 
 the station-master. He concluded that he worried 
 him. He worried himself at times at the thought
 
 The Caravan Man 5 1 
 
 of how much he must be worrying the station- 
 master. But he need not have worried over the 
 station-master s worries. The station-master was 
 used to the four-Ouseton complications in the 
 British goods-traffic world, and had long ceased 
 worrying over them. Consignees, like the caravan 
 man, might do the worrying. 
 
 The caravan man was nearer thirty-five than 
 thirty, nearer five feet ten than six feet, nearer 
 slender than stout, clean-shaven, rough-haired, 
 obstinate, moody, changeable also, likeable. He 
 wore flannel trousers, a white sweater, an old tweed 
 jacket with large pockets and slightly frayed cuffs, 
 and a shapeless, greenish-brown hat. 
 
 His caravan was quite an ordinary-looking gipsy 
 affair, with red wheels. Its motive power had been 
 a phlegmatic mare. She, however, had been sent 
 for overhauling to Vining the Vet s immediately 
 after the caravan s arrival on Ouseton Common. 
 
 Ouseton is only a little place, compact and neat. 
 From the main road crossing the common an old 
 pack-horse track leads to the village. One day, 
 near where this track and the main road parted 
 company, the caravan had appeared, planted in 
 among the group of beech trees there. Besides the 
 trees there are some tall gorse bushes and a most 
 delightful pond. A spring rises clear and cold close 
 by, and tumbling over a boulder or two it tinkles 
 into this pool, immaculately pellucid unless you
 
 5 2 The Caravan Man 
 
 rake the bottom with a stick shallow, glittering, 
 reed-banked. 
 
 Here, if anywhere, the genius of the common 
 had its haunt, yet, strange to say, though now and 
 then people passed it going to or from the Priory, 
 none made a habit of lingering there, save Rose 
 Nieugente. It was her haunt, too. Here she would 
 come on summer days, to sit and dream under the 
 shade of the biggest of the beech trees, a queer, 
 misshapen old monster whose great roots, spread 
 ing from its distorted trunk, clutched at the 
 ground like twisted, rheumaticky fingers. 
 
 Since the Priory, Rose s home, was quite close 
 by, it was only natural that Rose should have been 
 one of the first to note the caravan man s arrival. 
 The Priory stood right on the edge of the common, 
 and within a minute s walk of the pond. Looking 
 from her bedroom window one night before she 
 got into bed, she was aware of a movement near 
 the pond. A light gleamed there, something heavy 
 and bulky was being manoeuvred into position, 
 the sound of a man s voice addressing a horse 
 reached her occasionally. 
 
 Life at the Priory was most uneventful. Rose 
 felt that instant uprising of interest within her 
 which only those who dwell in out-of-the-way vil 
 lages for long years can appreciate. Something 
 happening, and quite near the Priory a delicious 
 thought to go to sleep on.
 
 The Caravan Man 5 3 
 
 Next morning she got a little information and a 
 good deal of speculation from Mary the parlour 
 maid. Aunt Anne and Granny discussed the new 
 fact at breakfast. A caravan on the common ; not 
 a gipsy caravan, that is to say, not strictly under 
 that head. Not, apparently, what might be called 
 a family caravan. There was just one man in it. 
 Not a gipsy, Mary was sure. He had said "Good- 
 morning" to her. Of course gipsies say it too, but 
 only evilly intending. Mary did not think the man 
 was evilly intending. Mary was sure Mary was 
 pulled up abruptly. Apparently Mary had been 
 early afoot and scouting diligently. Aunt Anne 
 condescended to receive facts from her, but not 
 conclusions. Aunt Anne would draw her own con 
 clusions. 
 
 Well, here was a caravan, and a caravan man. 
 Aunt Anne and Granny looked at Rose, who went 
 on with her egg as unconcernedly in appearance as 
 she could contrive. From long experience she 
 guessed what was in their minds, but by good for 
 tune it failed to crystallize into words. She re 
 ceived no interdict against going near the pond 
 till further instructions were issued. 
 
 She was thus able quite honestly later in the day 
 to visit the caravan. 
 
 All that transpired on that subject was an 
 instruction by Aunt Anne when after lunch Rose 
 was starting for Ouseton on some trifling house-
 
 54 The Caravan Man 
 
 hold errand. It was always a matter of choice with 
 her whether she walked across the common or went 
 by the road. The road was shorter, the common 
 was pleasanter. "Go by the road, Rose," said 
 Aunt Anne as she despatched her. Rose went by 
 the road without comment. 
 
 At one point you got quite a good view of the 
 pond. Rose had a look as she walked. There it 
 was, a large, roomy caravan with red wheels. A 
 wisp of smoke curled about it, evidently from a 
 fire of sticks under the trees. Something on two 
 legs moved about. Very interesting. Gipsies never 
 ventured so near the Priory. Gipsies in their own 
 uncanny way knew all about Aunt Anne, and kept 
 to the Cuckleford end. Rose felt that she would 
 like to know something about the caravan. 
 
 But of course caution was called for. Most dis 
 tinctly more must be known about this caravan 
 before she would be allowed to venture near. Aunt 
 Anne had twice walked past during the morning, 
 and spoke with some definiteness at lunch. The 
 caravan, it appeared, was occupied by a single ten 
 ant, a man, young, or youngish, whose appearance 
 apparently had impressed Aunt Anne unfavourably. 
 This last fact did not weigh so much as perhaps it 
 ought to have done with Rose. More than once, 
 she had been compelled to admit, her tastes in 
 several directions had proved to be somewhat at 
 variance with Aunt Anne s. The caravan man was
 
 The Caravan Man 5 5 
 
 not a gipsy, but the tone of disapproval in which 
 Aunt Anne reported him to be an untidy person 
 suggested gipsyish ways. 
 
 From her bedroom window after tea Rose took 
 a look at the caravan. You could not see it plainly, 
 nearly hidden as it was by the trees near the pond, 
 but it did not look a gipsy caravan. Something 
 about the paint made it look different. And while 
 she looked, the caravan man himself passed the 
 holly hedge that bounded the Priory grounds on 
 the common side, and walked towards the caravan. 
 Rose stepped back from the window, but looked 
 at him. Yes, an untidy person. He had no hat on. 
 The coat-collar of his coat, evidently an old one, 
 was rolled up at the back. His hands were deep 
 in the pockets of his grey flannel trousers, and he 
 smoked a large pipe. His walk was ruminating. 
 Rose failed to gather any impression of him as un 
 favourable as Aunt Anne s. 
 
 It was a mere coincidence that just as he disap 
 peared from view Rose remembered her book. 
 Yesterday afternoon and evening she had been 
 reading by the pond in her favourite spot a book 
 she had got from the circulating library in the 
 village. She had not been able to put her hand on 
 it that morning, and only now she felt certain that 
 she must have left it behind her at the time. 
 
 Obviously she ought to go and get it. No, obvi 
 ously she had better not. Perhaps it would be well
 
 5 6 The Caravan Man 
 
 to send Mary, the parlourmaid, across; perhaps, 
 after all, she ought to mention the matter to Aunt 
 Anne. Yes, that was the right thing to do. 
 
 The wise in these matters may perhaps explain 
 why she did not do it. 
 
 At 5.30 that evening Aunt Anne went out. 
 Granny had been driven in the pony-chaise after 
 lunch to visit an acquaintance and take tea over at 
 Cuckleford. Aunt Anne would walk there and 
 drive back with Granny in time for dinner at 7.30. 
 
 About six o clock Rose went over to the caravan. 
 She approached the spot with a fine correctness of 
 demeanour, head high, but not too high, an air 
 of hauteur touched with condescension, but still 
 human. She wore a coat over her blouse. Inter 
 viewing a stranger, she put her defences in good 
 order. 
 
 The caravan man was not visible, but Rose 
 heard him moving about inside. She halted close 
 to the door, opening onto the high platform just 
 above the level of the back wheels, and waited. 
 She liked the look of the caravan. It was painted 
 a sort of saffron yellow, picked out with green. It 
 had a green door and red wheels. The shafts, in 
 gipsy fashion, were removed, and stood against 
 one side, and the steps had been erected leading 
 up to the door by the driver s seat. On the plat 
 form, at one side of the doorway, wired in to pre 
 vent them falling out, were three earthen flower-
 
 The Caravan Man 5 7 
 
 pots, brick-red, standing in saucers of the same 
 ware. One had dog-daisies, the second geraniums, 
 the third nasturtiums, all flourishing finely. No 
 gipsy this. 
 
 Against one wheel rested a fishing-rod, with a 
 line and float. Evidently the caravan man had dis 
 covered or been told that among the water-lilies 
 that spread out halfway across the pond from the 
 bank just by were quite a number of fine carp. 
 Very, very rarely one was caught. One, however, a 
 monster of the greatest antiquity in appearance, 
 might be seen on one or two occasions each year 
 sunning himself; but he was hopeless. He knew 
 far more about fishing than any man, it was said. 
 People spoke of him with affection. Ouseton as 
 sumed a sort of reputation for sagacity on the 
 strength of Mouldy Methusaleh. That was what 
 they called the old carp. Perhaps the caravan man 
 was, or had been, trying to catch him. Huh ! 
 
 The movement in the caravan continued for 
 some minutes or so, then the caravan man ap 
 peared at the door. He came down the steps. Rose 
 noted that he came down backwards. He saw 
 Rose, and halted, looking at her enquiringly. Rose 
 moved a little towards him. "Good-evening," she 
 said. She had not meant to say good-evening. It 
 had not occurred to her consciously that the man 
 in the caravan would be the sort of man one said 
 good-evening to. At the most, in addressing people
 
 5 8 The Caravan Man 
 
 of that kind, one began with, "Oh " Aunt Anne 
 did n t even do that. Rose, however, said, "Good- 
 evening." 
 
 "Good-evening," responded the caravan man. 
 
 "I wanted to know," said Rose, "if you happen 
 to have found a book." 
 
 "A book?" said the caravan man, enquiringly. 
 
 "A book," replied Rose. 
 
 Rose liked the air of polite solicitude with which 
 he took the matter up. 
 
 "You have lost a book?" 
 
 " I think I m sure, that I left one here, yes 
 terday afternoon." 
 
 "You were reading here?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Where, exactly, if I may ask?" 
 
 "Just about where your caravan is, under the 
 tree just by the edge of the pond." 
 
 She moved a little towards the place. So did he. 
 This brought them nearer. He looked about the 
 spot she had indicated. He looked with great 
 energy, stooping, turning his head this way and 
 that, peering, in fact, more lik a Red Indian 
 tracker following a faint trail than an ordinary 
 white man looking for a book. 
 
 There was n t any book there. Yet Rose could 
 now recall exactly where she had left it. She had 
 laid it down beside her half read it had not been 
 very interesting and was sitting dreaming,
 
 The Caravan Man 59 
 
 when she had heard the Ouseton church clock 
 strike seven. They dined early at the Priory, and 
 she had jumped up at once, and gone home, leaving 
 the book behind. Here was the place, just behind 
 this patch of reeds in the pond. She had remem 
 bered the book again only when she was in bed, 
 but it did not matter. It would take little harm, 
 and no one would see it, or appropriate it even if 
 they noticed it. Ouseton people knew this was 
 Miss Nieugente s place to sit and read. 
 
 The caravan man continued to look about him 
 with an interest so tense that at last it began almost 
 to embarrass Rose. 
 
 " It really does n t matter," she said, and began 
 to move away. 
 
 "Oh, but it does. A book can t be lost, you know. 
 Was it a book bound in light-blue, with gilt edges 
 and red corners?" 
 
 "No," she said; then in some surprise, "Have 
 you found a book like that?" 
 
 "No," he said simply. 
 
 Rose was puzzled, but checked her obvious 
 question. 
 
 "Mine was a reddy-brown cover, with a black 
 back, with the title on it in gold letters." 
 
 "What was the title?" he asked earnestly, so 
 earnestly that Rose did not like to point out that 
 in looking for a book lost on an open common a 
 knowledge of the title would be little help.
 
 60 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Hearts " she began, and stopped. Really 
 this man did not matter in the least, but somehow 
 Rose did not like to confess that she had been 
 reading a book entitled as stupidly as the one she 
 had mislaid. So she wound up, "Really, I don t 
 think the title matters." 
 
 "No," he assented heartily. "That s true. It s 
 the stuff in the book, not its name, that counts. 
 Lots of books, really first-rate reading, have un 
 fortunate titles." He seemed inclined to involve 
 her in a disquisition on books. This she could not 
 permit. 
 
 "Well, if you come across it " she began, 
 moving away. 
 
 "Oh, I shall find it." Somehow he managed to 
 instil into his voice a detaining quality, so that even 
 as she walked away she felt compelled to stop and 
 turn towards him. "You don t think," he hazarded, 
 "that it might have rolled into the pond?" 
 
 "I don t see how it could," she answered; yet 
 she felt she had to wait while he went down the 
 bank and stared into the water, among the tall 
 reeds. "Or into a rabbit-hole?" There were rabbit- 
 holes about among the beech roots. He began to 
 look into these. Rose felt rather inclined to laugh. 
 Was it a book he was looking for, or an escaped 
 Lilliputian prisoner? "It really doesn t matter," 
 she assured him. 
 
 "Well, I ll have a good look for it, and I m sure
 
 The Caravan Man 6 1 
 
 to come across it. If I find it, where shall I bring it ? " 
 
 "Oh, don t trouble. I shall be passing." She 
 said that, and instantly flushed as she saw she had 
 said the wrong thing. She had only meant to dis 
 countenance at once any suggestion of this man s 
 calling at the Priory. She saw that in doing so she 
 had quite definitely indicated her intention of 
 passing, visiting, the caravan again. 
 
 "Well, any time you re passing, if I m about," 
 he responded cheerfully. 
 
 She nodded stiffly and went away. She had gone 
 not a dozen paces when his voice detained her 
 again. "Did you say a blue back?" 
 
 "Black," she answered. 
 
 "Oh, pardon yes, black. With gilt letters, I 
 think?" 
 
 "Gilt letters." 
 
 "Thanks. I ll remember. Not a big book, I 
 suppose?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "About so big?" 
 
 He held his hands to indicate a size. Absurd! 
 Did the man think she was enquiring for a family 
 Bible? 
 
 "Rather less," she told him. 
 
 "So?" 
 
 "About that." 
 
 "Good. I m sure to find it, and if you re passing 
 this way again to-day ?"
 
 6 2 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Thank you. Good-evening." 
 
 " Good-evening." 
 
 She went away with a faint idea that either the 
 man was rather dense, or that behind his apparent 
 earnestness was something that was well, really, 
 it would be downright impudence But it 
 couldn t surely he was not that sort of man! 
 She rather puzzled as to what sort of man he 
 was. He was decidedly shabbily dressed. His grey 
 flannel trousers had stains on them spots of oil 
 apparently. His white sweater was dingy. He had 
 no hat on, and his hair looked as if it wanted cut 
 ting as well as combing. His speech had not been 
 exactly common, however. He was n t a country 
 man, evidently. She felt, however, that if he found 
 the book he would undoubtedly return it. 
 
 In the meantime the caravan man climbing into 
 his caravan had felt under the seat of a chair in 
 one corner, and had extracted a book, with reddy- 
 brown covers, a black back, and the title "Hearts 
 Entangled" stamped on it in gilt letters. He looked 
 it through thoughtfully, then put it back under 
 the seat. 
 
 If he had formed an idea that he was going to 
 receive an early visit from the girl he had deceived 
 in so unprincipled a fashion, he was mistaken. Rose 
 did not again visit the caravan, either that evening 
 or the next morning. Once or twice next day he 
 saw the white dress and the black tam-o -shanter
 
 The Caravan Man 63 
 
 pass along the road that skirted the common, but 
 their wearer never crossed the turf among the gorse 
 bushes towards his caravan. With no sense of 
 offence or fear, Rose had decided that she had 
 better keep away from the caravan. No sense of 
 offence, nothing of fear this explains, perhaps, 
 why she felt if anything rather pleased when, going 
 to the village in the afternoon, she was aware that 
 the grey flannel trousers and the dingy sweater 
 were moving rapidly towards her. She looked 
 straight in front of her, but all the same she could 
 see that a towel or something of the sort was being 
 waved. This was decidedly unceremonious you 
 must understand that Miss Rose Nieugente, grand 
 daughter of Old Mrs. Grampette, at the Priory, 
 was a personage thereabouts but after a moment 
 she decided that there was nothing undignified in 
 admitting the fact that she was aware that the 
 caravan man was coming to speak to her. She 
 turned her head towards him, halted, and waited. 
 He came up in a hurry. 
 
 "Good-afternoon," he said very heartily, as he 
 approached. 
 
 "Good-afternoon," answered Rose, quite prop 
 erly stand-off. 
 
 "A reddy-brown book, you said?" he enquired. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "With a black back?" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 64 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Gilt title?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Hearts Enwrapped ?" 
 
 "Yes no Hearts Entangled. " He was 
 annoying her. If the man had found a book, it 
 did n t want all this identification. It was stupid. 
 Was he stupid? She looked at him. No. Then was 
 he no, surely not; never making fun. Oh, well, 
 it really did n t matter. Evidently he had her 
 book and would give it her. 
 
 He did nothing of the kind. 
 
 "I found it." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 "I ve got it." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 "In my caravan." 
 
 "Oh! " He hadn t even had the sense to 
 bring the book across with him. Evidently stupid, 
 then. She felt disappointed. 
 
 "I saw you passing," he explained, "and ran 
 across to tell you. Now, where can I leave the 
 book for you?" 
 
 She was determined to accept no favour. 
 
 "Don t trouble. I ll call when I pass." 
 
 "Oh, but I might not be in." 
 
 "It won t matter." 
 
 "But, if you d say when you will be passing, 
 I ll take care to be there, and have it handy." 
 
 This was sheer common sense. It would be too
 
 The Caravan Man 65 
 
 pointed not to accept the arrangement. "Very 
 well. I shall be coming back in an hour or so, and 
 I will call at your caravan." 
 
 "Do," he said, cheerfully, "and I ll be in." 
 
 She merely inclined her head and walked on. 
 
 It was about an hour later when, her errand 
 finished, she set out again for the Priory, taking 
 the common way. To her great surprise, she had 
 hardly gone a hundred yards along the green path 
 among the gorse that led to the pond when she 
 heard footsteps behind her, and turning encoun 
 tered the caravan man. He drew up by her side 
 again with that eager and earnest smile whose 
 complete innocence she was now beginning faintly 
 to doubt. He had a shabby hat on this time, and 
 this he doffed with due deference. 
 
 "How fortunate!" he said. "I was hoping to 
 meet you. I remembered after you were gone that 
 I had an appointment in the village about my 
 camera, and I had to run down there. I Ve been 
 hurrying back. My camera," he added, evidently 
 introducing the canvas bag he was carrying under 
 his arm. " I had to get the bellows mended." 
 
 Rose had to say something, though she felt 
 bound to say it stiffly. Nothing in her arranging 
 to call for her book should have involved her in 
 this walk in his actual company. Still, again, in 
 face of his explanation one could not take offence. 
 "Camera?" she said.
 
 66 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Yes," he said. " I m a photographer, you know. 
 You don t happen to know any one in this neigh 
 bourhood who wants a photograph taken?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Excuse my asking. But, you see, coming into 
 a new neighbourhood, it s important to get going. 
 Once make a start, get some one to give you a sit 
 ting, and you re all right. I m hoping to meet some 
 one who ll patronize me, some one influential, you 
 know, who d set the fashion. Not," he added, 
 "that I m greedy for custom. I like to take a few 
 photographs and take them well." 
 
 This was commendable. Rose felt it incumbent 
 on her to drop him a word of kindly approval. 
 "That is a very proper spirit." She felt like Aunt 
 Anne as she said it. 
 
 "You think so?" he asked gratefully. "I m so 
 glad. I wish there were more people in the world 
 like you." 
 
 Rose did not answer this. She was conscious of 
 a feeling, which perhaps smacked of haughty pride, 
 that possibly the world would be nicer to live in if 
 there were more people like herself. Still, she 
 could not very well admit the thought to this 
 man, and, besides, she had a feeling that the re 
 mark was not one he should have ventured to 
 express, even if there were no harm in his thinking 
 it. So she merely walked on, the caravan man by 
 her side.
 
 The Caravan Man 67 
 
 When they reached the caravan he ran up the 
 steps and brought out her missing book. 
 
 "Thank you," she said. "I m sorry to have 
 troubled you so much." 
 
 "Not at all. A pleasure. You have n t lost any 
 thing else, I suppose?" 
 
 "I don t think so." 
 
 "Not a hatpin, for instance?" 
 
 "No at least have I ?" 
 
 "I found one." 
 
 "I did n t know. May I see it?" 
 
 He went in again, and presently came down the 
 steps with a hatpin. Rose knew it at once; it was 
 one she had lost some weeks before. It had a pretty 
 silver top, but the shaft was rusted. 
 
 "Found it down a rabbit-hole," explained the 
 caravan man. 
 
 " It is mine," said Rose. "Thank you, I m sure." 
 
 He gave it her. "Now, is there anything else?" 
 
 "No at least, I don t think so." She won 
 dered what he could have found. 
 
 "Sure?" 
 
 "I think not. What else have you found?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "Oh." He was a puzzling sort of man. 
 
 "Only I thought, if you had lost anything else, 
 I might have a look round for it this evening, and 
 next time you re passing " 
 
 "I m sure I have n t lost anything else."
 
 6 8 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Well, all right; but one never knows." 
 
 "Of course and thank you for finding my 
 book and my hatpin. Good-evening." 
 
 * Good-evening. 
 
 She moved away. He spoke again. "When are 
 you going to let me take your photograph?" 
 
 "Photograph? I I did n t say I mean, 
 I m not thinking of having my photograph taken." 
 
 "Are n t you? Why not?" 
 
 He put his abrupt question so solemnly that 
 Rose felt a touch of guilt. He seemed to suggest 
 that she had overlooked a duty or, at any rate, 
 a proper custom. Rose could not for the life of her 
 see why she should feel apologetic about it, yet 
 somehow an explanation seemed demanded. 
 
 "I had my photograph taken only two years 
 ago." 
 
 "Two years it can t be a bit like you now. 
 You Ve altered tremendously in the last two years, 
 haven t you?" 
 
 Rose could not deny it. For one thing, her hair. 
 In her photograph it showed as a thick pigtail, 
 pulled over onto her breast, at Granny s request, 
 when the photograph was taken. Then, last sum 
 mer, the queer illness had come that kept her in 
 doors all June and part of July, and had made her 
 hair come out "in handsful." Anxious consulta 
 tions with Mr. Hooper who did the "Ladies 
 Special Hairdressing" in Ouseton had resulted in
 
 The Caravan Man 69 
 
 his clipping it off short, almost a schoolboy crop, 
 and now it hung just below her ears, thick, live- 
 looking, but making her look, she knew, totally 
 different from the girl photographed two years ago. 
 She had never thought about it, but now, being 
 questioned, she felt rise in her the desire that comes 
 to every self-respecting girl of twenty for a really 
 good photograph. 
 
 And then, too, there was the fact that she was 
 under an obligation to this man, a complete 
 stranger, and, moreover, a man who got his living 
 as a photographer. He had recovered her book 
 and her hatpin, and had most courteously offered 
 to do any further service she might require in 
 that direction. She could not very well offer him 
 money, but here he was, no doubt from a proper 
 business spirit, suggesting just the way in which 
 she could discharge her debt. She ought to patron 
 ize him. 
 
 See, now, Rose s dilemma, and comprehend her 
 embarrassment, the cause of the faint tinge of red 
 that went creeping over her cheeks. Rose was short 
 of money as usual. 
 
 It was not that she was extravagant. There was 
 perhaps a certain heedlessness about her in money 
 matters. Aunt Anne had often rebuked her for it. 
 Aunt Anne had a tremendous head for domestic 
 figuring. Aunt Anne never in her life forgot to pick 
 up her change, or allowed her change, by foul play
 
 70 The Caravan Man 
 
 or fair miscalculation, to fall one halfpenny from 
 its just level. Rose did. And the result was that 
 it had been agreed that "she was not to be trusted 
 with money till she showed herself able to take 
 care of it." Aunt Anne meant genuinely enough 
 to rouse any dormant genius for finance that might 
 lie in Rose s head. So far, if there, it had slum 
 bered on, unheeding. All Rose knew about her 
 slender allowance for this month was that she had 
 about seven-and-sixpence left to carry her through 
 the month. It was now the 9th. 
 
 "How much do you charge?" she faltered, and 
 knew herself on the instant committed to having 
 her picture taken. She had raised the question of 
 price, and for her dignity s sake could now do no 
 less than sit. 
 
 "The price of one dozen cabinet prints, vignetted, 
 sepia-toned, on plain mounts, is five shillings." 
 
 Was that all? Thank goodness, she could do 
 it. And since she could, she must. 
 
 "I think I think I ll have my photograph 
 done," she told him. 
 
 "Thank you," he said, so gratefully that Rose 
 saw instantly the anxiety he had been through 
 while endeavouring to secure her patronage. He 
 was very poor, no doubt, and though five shillings 
 was n t a lot to charge, it meant bread-and-butter 
 to him. He was tremendously businesslike, too. 
 He began to settle preliminaries on the spot.
 
 The Caravan Man 7 1 
 
 "How would you like it taken?" he proceeded. 
 "Profile, or full face, or how?" 
 
 " I don t know," said Rose. "Perhaps I d better 
 let you decide." 
 
 "If you think so. The profile is yes ah- 
 hum certainly would you mind if I " He 
 walked round and surveyed her full face. It was a 
 little trying, but Rose instantly stiffened herself as 
 a young lady should, and allowed no sign of em 
 barrassment to betray her. "Full face also is ex 
 cellent," murmured the caravan man. "And three 
 quarters" he stepped to one side "just as 
 promising. I should have all three," he recom 
 mended, "and then there s all sorts of possibili 
 ties" he passed behind her she half turned 
 "yes, head over shoulder, chin down" Rose 
 lifted her chin; "also up. If I may say so, you 
 should give excellent results from any point of 
 
 view." 
 
 "But I don t think I m afraid How 
 much will they be?" Rose never dared get far 
 away from that point. 
 
 He reassured her cheerfully. "All in the one 
 price, five shillings only." 
 
 "What a number of poses?" 
 
 "As many as you like. I make no restrictions. 
 Have a dozen different, one to each print I advise." 
 
 Were n t they cheap! "Thank you," said Rose. 
 "I will, then." She said it with real feeling. No
 
 7 2 The Caravan Man 
 
 normal woman exists in whom the prospect of 
 being photographed does not rouse a feeling of 
 pleasure, and to be taken in this lavish, this opu 
 lent fashion A sudden spurt of enthusiasm for 
 photography ran through her. 
 
 "When will you sit?" asked the caravan man; 
 and suddenly Rose blenched. It was all very well 
 to plan a sitting on this extended scale, but to put 
 the scheme into execution was quite another thing. 
 It went without saying, she knew, that she was 
 now landed into a course of deceit, for the simple 
 reason that what she proposed would be instantly 
 forbidden by both Aunt Anne and Granny. 
 Nothing much further had been said about the 
 caravan man at the Priory, but no question had 
 been allowed to exist as to his status. He was an 
 undesirable. Rose knew that, and on reflection 
 her inward pleasure damped down. A dozen poses 
 It would be difficult to snatch time for one. And 
 at that reflection the little thrill of exultation that 
 had possessed her at the delicious thought of so 
 many pictures faded away into her usual resigna 
 tion to authority. The whole thing was impossible. 
 
 "I hope you won t think me changeable, but, I 
 almost think I won t have them done." She went 
 quite white as she said it. She would have given 
 what would she not? to have been able to say, 
 "You may expect me on Monday morning at 
 eleven, if that will suit you."
 
 The Caravan Man 7 3 
 
 "Not?" said the caravan man, disappointed 
 evidently. 
 
 "I think not." She got it out decidedly, and 
 turned to go. But could she? Was it possible to 
 swing away in that abrupt fashion? No. She could 
 not hurt the man s feelings so callously. 
 
 "I m sorry," she murmured. 
 
 "So am I," said the caravan man. 
 
 " I had forgotten something." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "As it happens, I am not likely to be free on 
 on on that day." 
 
 "Which day?" 
 
 "The day I meant to choose," said poor Rose. 
 
 "Choose another," said the caravan man per 
 suasively. "I shall be rather busy that day my 
 self." 
 
 "I mean, I hardly know how I can find time." 
 
 "It won t take long." 
 
 "Then, perhaps, another time " No, that 
 would not do. You must n t leave people expecting 
 like that. " I m really afraid I must say, better not ex 
 pect me. I don t see how I can come at all just now." 
 
 The caravan man seemed inclined to bring for 
 ward either question or suggestion, but almost as 
 if he had glimpsed in her face the distress she felt, 
 he forebore, and Rose felt grateful to him when 
 he suddenly accepted the situation. "Very well. 
 I m sorry."
 
 74 The Caravan Man 
 
 "So am I. Good-evening," said Rose, and went 
 away. ... At breakfast next morning Rose had a 
 shock. The caravan man had been encountered 
 on the Cuckleford road at twelve o clock the night 
 before, in a state of disgusting inebriety, his arms 
 linked with those of three other men of low class, 
 all staggering about the road, singing, shouting, and 
 behaving generally in a shocking way. They had been 
 seen by Aunt Anne herself, Aunt Anne, whose lynx 
 eyes saw everything and never mistook a face. 
 
 Rose felt a wave of shame sweep over her. This 
 was awful. She had spoken to this man, had vis 
 ited the spot on which his moving habitation was 
 planted only temporarily, thank goodness; had 
 engaged him in conversation and all unknown 
 to Aunt Anne or Granny. True, she told the accus 
 ing voice that thundered within her, she had no 
 direction not to visit the caravan, and not the 
 slightest idea of the debased character of the indi 
 vidual whose sins had so soon found him out. But 
 in her heart of hearts she knew herself a sinner. No 
 interdict? No, not expressed, but implied? 
 Most certainly. And, hacking away ruthlessly at 
 her hurriedly made defences, her dumb pleadings 
 with an outraged conscience, one damning fact 
 faced her she had carefully kept from both 
 Aunt Anne and Granny all knowledge of her visit 
 to the caravan. 
 
 In that lay her admission of sin. When, that
 
 The Caravan Man 7 5 
 
 morning in church, she would openly before, and 
 in company with, the congregation, confess that 
 "there was no health in her," and that she had 
 "done those things she ought not to have done," 
 she now recognized that the words would not, as 
 heretofore, constitute a confession so vague that it 
 never amounted to anything really disturbing. 
 They now embodied a grim truth. 
 
 There was but one thing to do she must 
 immediately make full admission to her two rela 
 tives. She had done wrong. Confession must pre 
 cede absolution. It was awful. She must own up. 
 She would now do so. She opened her mouth to 
 speak. The words, "Granny, I must tell you " 
 trembled on her tongue. They died there. Her lips 
 closed again. In that agonizing moment, when 
 every instinct within her sought for a way of escape, 
 a brilliant idea flashed with lightning speed before 
 her. It ran, "Don t believe it Aunt Anne s 
 made a mistake for once; you need n t own up." 
 
 Whence came that thought, revealing as it did 
 an entirely new state of mind, the beginnings of 
 rebellion, a questioning of Aunt Anne s infallibility, 
 hitherto accepted as one of life s fundamental 
 facts, any one of which disproved, the whole uni 
 verse resolved into a rabble of contradictions ? 
 
 There is no need, reader, to plunge into specula 
 tion. The matter can be simply stated. Rose 
 doubted the caravan man s delinquency, whatever
 
 7 6 The Caravan Man 
 
 the doubt implied, for one and one only reason 
 she liked the caravan man. There you have it. 
 
 Are you vexed, with Rose, or the caravan man 
 or me? Yes? Well, what are we going to do 
 about it? This is a plain and straightforward story, 
 relating facts, concealing nothing, or very little, 
 glossing the merest trifle. Come; be reasonable; 
 accept the position. Run over the facts. Here s a 
 charming girl, of twenty or so, cooped up in a large 
 house on the outskirts of a remote country village, 
 with few girls in the neighbourhood of her own 
 class, none she particularly cared for, and under 
 the surveillance of one elderly aunt and one aged 
 grandmother, who had persuaded themselves that, 
 for reasons which shall be disclosed later, the in 
 stincts and free promptings of the girl s mind must 
 be supervised, directed, trained, discouraged, re 
 pressed. In the breast of this young girl there was 
 a wellspring of eager and laughing interest in life, 
 that sought to send a bubbling jet of mirth to joy 
 the beholder with its sparkling. The two older 
 ladies had determinedly capped it, put on a cover 
 and clamped it down. So, cramped in spirit, her 
 thoughts driven inward to brood as no young girl s 
 thoughts should be driven, she lived her life, full 
 of vague longings that obediently enough she tried 
 to suppress as wrong. 
 
 And she had encountered the caravan man 
 and in the first minute of their meeting, with the
 
 The Caravan Man 77 
 
 first clashing of mutual glances, the beginnings of 
 liking had stirred within her. All unconsciously, 
 perhaps, "Liking" was a state of mind that had 
 never actually presented itself to her among her 
 thoughts as a mentally visible word. But a power 
 that Rose was all unconscious of, could never have 
 comprehended, that, to put it bluntly, no one in 
 this mortal world has ever comprehended, chatter 
 about it as we may, had swayed the poise of her 
 mind to one side, had borne down ever so lightly 
 the even balance of her judgment concerning the 
 caravan man. His clothes were rough and dingy; 
 she liked them rough and dingy. His hat was old 
 nice and old, said her judgment. He peered at her 
 at times quite searchingly; in some men it might 
 have seemed an impertinence. She might quite 
 easily have resented it but the scales were not 
 longer balanced, and she accepted his glances se 
 renely, and looked him over in return. His voice 
 pleased her. She liked his abrupt way of speaking. 
 She liked his caravan, his fire, his stupidity of 
 course it was stupidity and not impudence 
 about her book, the way he returned it, his camera, 
 his taking photographs ... all these predilections, 
 hitherto unrecognized, now emerged from their 
 lurking places in the recesses of her mind, boldly 
 planted themselves in her mental balance, and 
 brazenly bore down the scale. She liked the cara 
 van man.
 
 7 8 The Caravan Man 
 
 She was quite sure Aunt Anne was mistaken. 
 She was sure he did not get drunk. Some other 
 person, rather like him, had walked the Cuckleford 
 road the night before, inebriated. He ought to be 
 punished, whoever he was. It was disgraceful to 
 take away an innocent man s character in that 
 careless fashion. In short in short she would 
 contrive to have her photograph taken, by the 
 caravan man, after all.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 NOW the facts as to the condition of sobriety 
 or insobriety of the caravan man had better 
 be stated at once. 
 
 He had not been in the least intoxicated as Aunt 
 Anne had averred. It is true he had spent the late 
 hours of Saturday in the Pink and Lily, the thatched 
 inn with the September roses still in full bloom 
 about it, that stood at the Cuckleford end of the 
 common, and during that time he had consumed 
 a pint of ale. But his prolonged stay had been 
 brought about solely by a very human interest in 
 the society the inn afforded, and a natural desire 
 to see all there was of the fun. 
 
 When first he entered on the Saturday evening 
 he found sitting disposed on the three benches of 
 the low-ceilinged room a collection of eight aborig 
 ines of Cuckleford. They were an assorted lot, of 
 varying ages and mode of face-adornment. Some 
 had beards, some mustaches only, some side- 
 whiskers ; one that most chic of all arrangements in 
 hair, a clean-shaven face with a bushy fringe of 
 whisker running in one undisturbed sweep from 
 ear to ear under the chin. All who shaved at all 
 needed shaving badly. The Cuckleford custom 
 was shave reg lar every Sunday morning. They
 
 8 o The Caravan Man 
 
 were dressed in tweeds, whipcord, corduroy. 
 Smocks, gaiters, hats, offered proof of independ 
 ence in taste as regards dress. But they bore this 
 likeness to each other. Each man grasped in his 
 hand usually his right a pewter pot, in which 
 lay from a quarter of an inch to an inch of the 
 Pink and Lily ale, all that remained unconsumed 
 of the pot boldly ordered on entry and carefully 
 nursed throughout the ensuing hour. Each pot 
 held a pint. One man, one hour, one pot (pot 
 equalling pint). This was the formula for the Pink 
 and Lily, and was strictly adhered to under ordi 
 nary circumstances. To each of the eight custom 
 ers it occurred simultaneously that the coming of 
 the caravan man might constitute an extraordi 
 nary circumstance. Without building too much on 
 it they permitted themselves to shall we say, 
 hope? no, speculate. 
 
 On his entry they stopped talking as one man, 
 and stared at him with blank, impassive scrutiny. 
 He was aware of it, but bore himself as a man well 
 used to the ways of Pinks and Lilys, Cocks and 
 Bottles, Loads of Hay and such-like country-houses 
 of refreshment; that is to say, he ignored all there 
 save Mrs. Whatley who kept the alehouse. To 
 her he offered greeting and custom in two sen 
 tences and one breath. "Evening, missis. A pot, 
 please." 
 
 So far, correct. The ale was drawn, the pot
 
 The Caravan Man 8 1 
 
 placed on the little counter. The newcomer put 
 his hand in his pocket to pay. All eyes were on 
 him. The psychical moment was come. He either 
 would or he would n t. He did. 
 
 Addressing the house which accorded him a 
 courteous hearing he put the question they had 
 all strained ears to catch. 
 
 "Any of you gentlemen care to fill up?" 
 
 Eight pots, held in eight right hands, rose simul 
 taneously to eight mouths, tipped rims, turned 
 bottom upwards ceilingwards, lingered, lowered 
 again. Eight men rose and in beautiful unison 
 stepped to the counter, placed each his empty pot 
 down gently, and all together cried, "I don t care 
 if I do. It s a fine evenin , mester." 
 
 The "ayes" had it. 
 
 Each man received his pot, full, waited while 
 the caravan man paid, two good shillings and three 
 pence, then as, pot in hand, he faced them and 
 nodded, each man lifted his pot, remarked, "Good 
 ealth, mester," and took a fair drink, down to 
 somewhere near the halfway mark, sat down, low 
 ered pot to thigh and said, "Ah!" 
 
 Footing was established. He was of their com 
 pany for that evening. 
 
 The time passed as time passes in such places. 
 A little drinking and a good deal of talking. Good- 
 fellowship, no more and no less genuine than you 
 might find among eight acquaintances in more
 
 8 2 The Caravan Man 
 
 luxurious surroundings than the alehouse afforded. 
 Some scandal, some philosophy. A wasted even 
 ing, one may concede and yet, little harm, and 
 even some good. Here and there a man might be 
 inclined to be too outspoken as his consumption 
 of ale increased. He was gravely rebuked. The 
 sense of the meeting was against argumentative- 
 ness and personalities. Decorum was inculcated. 
 Manners maketh man; the Pink and Lily stood for 
 reasonable behaviour. 
 
 Any humour that was there was unintentional. 
 The caravan man, who seemed to find some, had 
 doubtless his own point of view. To some of the 
 talk, deadly serious, he listened, as the company 
 noted, as if there was something funny about it. 
 There was the matter of young Alf Western, and 
 what his end would be. Nothing definite suggested, 
 but you might infer something bad, probably ca 
 tastrophic. 
 
 Young Alf Western was too smart for Cuckle- 
 ford, and Cuckleford was relieved to feel that it 
 had probably seen the back of him for good. Teddy 
 Parker s peas had been a dreadful business. Teddy 
 Parker, the caravan man learnt, was the oldest 
 hedger-and-ditcher round these ere parts. He was 
 also, beyond all question, the champion pea- 
 grower. Year by year, regularly, he swept the 
 board at all the local flower and vegetable shows 
 with an unrivalled display of peas. His supremacy
 
 The Caravan Man 8 3 
 
 was confessed with no touch of jealousy, yet the 
 caravan man could surmise that under the strain 
 of his laurels there had developed in Ted Parker 
 an undue pride of bearing. And young Alf Western 
 had took him down something cruel. 
 
 The two had met and clashed over those peas. 
 Young Alf Western had openly and publicly de 
 rided Parker s peas. Good peas, he admitted, but 
 other people could grow good peas, and a shaking- 
 up was more than likely in store for Teddy Parker, 
 and that very season. Teddy Parker had been 
 dignified, terse, and irritating. The matter passed 
 off. 
 
 But only last Saturday night, at this very same 
 Pink and Lily, the company being assembled, with 
 them Teddy Parker, young Alf Western had ap 
 peared again, and deliberately (as was now seen) 
 led the talk onto Parker s peas. And there had 
 been a wrangle between him and Parker. And 
 Parker, stung by Alf Western s nimble wit and 
 sarcasmism, had finally attempted to crush all 
 opposition by offering to back the merits of his 
 peas with money. "There y are, the s my five 
 shillin s, any fair bet you likes." And after further 
 heated discussion Alf Western had put up five 
 shillin s, and a wager was made as follows: 
 
 Young Alf Western might take all Cuckleford 
 in his purview and select twenty pea-pods there 
 from, the finest he could pick, from any garden, 1
 
 84 The Caravan Man 
 
 or as many gardens as he chose, one from each if 
 he liked, and should produce them before the 
 assembled judges at the Pink and Lily. And Teddy 
 Parker would then undertake to go to his garden 
 and there and then, from his own pea-patch, would 
 pick twenty of his fairest pods and match them 
 against young Alf Western s selection. A generous 
 bet on Teddy Parker s part, yet, knowing the man s 
 peas, the company felt sorry for young Alf Western. 
 
 He rejected pity. More, his conduct invited re 
 buke. For, ostentatiously drinking his beer, he 
 announced that he had already, in his pocket, 
 twenty pea-pods, Cuckleford-grown, and Teddy 
 Parker might hurry up and cull his champions. 
 
 And Teddy Parker went off to get a lantern and 
 do so, with half the company, and young Alf 
 Western remained behind and skilfully drew no 
 less than three other bets from the remaining com 
 pany, one of five shillings and two of half-a-crown, 
 and saw the money put up, and covered it. 
 
 And then Teddy Parker came back and showed 
 his peas. And young Alf Western pulled his out 
 of his jacket pocket, and the two lots were exam 
 ined. And, incredible but true, young Alf West 
 ern won. Seventeen of his twenty pods were ad 
 judged to be superior to anything in the Parker 
 group. 
 
 The bets were paid, and young Alf Western 
 offered his twenty pods to Teddy Parker, who de-
 
 The Caravan Man 8 5 
 
 clined them; and then young Alf Western left the 
 Pink and Lily. As he opened the door, the warmint 
 said, "Night, all. Ted, know whose garden I got 
 them peas out of?" And Parker only stared, hav 
 ing a vague idea of what was coming; and young 
 Alf Western, grinning, had said, "Yourn!" and 
 gone out immediately. 
 
 Thank Heaven he had now gone from Cuckle- 
 ford to London, which was the natural end of such 
 men as he. Nothing yet had transpired as to what 
 had happened to London, but news would trickle 
 through soon. 
 
 With such stories, told in deadly earnest, and the 
 occasional emptying of pots, the time slipped by. 
 Admittedly an unedifying evening, and at its ter 
 mination, when Mrs. Whatley announced the time 
 with, " Come, all you men," more than two or three 
 of those assembled there were none too steady on 
 their feet as they turned out into the rather chilly 
 night, and the now darkened door closed behind 
 them. 
 
 It was then that the caravan man, all uncon 
 sciously and inspired by nothing more intoxicating 
 than the pure milk of human kindness, laid himself 
 open to the imputation Aunt Anne had flung at him 
 in Rose s hearing. 
 
 One pair of footsteps in particular was unsteady, 
 inclined, in fact, to meander very vaguely indeed 
 about the road. Enquiry told the caravan man
 
 86 . The Caravan Man 
 
 that their owner lived at Watercreese Farm, down 
 by the canal, this side of Ouseton, and thereupon 
 the caravan man had decided to give them his 
 friendly assistance and counsel. Sordid, this epi 
 sode? Well doubtless it would have been easier 
 and more pleasant to stroll home caravanwards 
 under the stars, hands in pockets, pipe in mouth, 
 all unaccompanied, sufficient of rustic humour for 
 the occasion. The caravan man did not exactly 
 make his offer accepted for his own increase 
 of pleasure. 
 
 The further help that was volunteered by two 
 other members of the group was not easily declined 
 or easily utilized. For here again in bearing and 
 speech the less commendable influences of the Pink 
 and Lily were plain to be seen. The night air, too, 
 had its effect. The caravan man soon found him 
 self in a position of irksome responsibility. To put 
 it plainly, he found himself with a devil of a job 
 on his hands. His close companions all arms 
 were linked were aware of nothing but the hap 
 piness of living in that sociable hour, and they 
 became hilarious, they voiced their high spirits in 
 song, they danced or thought they did . . . 
 
 When Aunt Anne drove home near midnight, 
 the carriage swerved perforce to avoid the group 
 of four men who swayed across the road from side 
 to side, close-linked, laughing, happy, tuneful, 
 corybantic; one of them was the caravan man, and
 
 The Caravan Man 8 7 
 
 Aunt Anne, who recognized him by the light of 
 one of the lamps, was all unaware that he alone 
 was silent, grave, perspiring in the effort to per 
 suade, assist, and compel the other three men to 
 keep to something of a reasonable homeward way. 

 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 HAVING thus demonstrated that instinct is 
 sometimes superior to knowledge Rose s 
 surmise being much nearer the truth than Aunt 
 Anne s conclusions let us examine the dealings 
 of fate with Rose, and the caravan man, and the 
 photograph. 
 
 Fate behaved extremely well or extremely 
 badly, you may say. It depends on how your sym 
 pathies run. Aunt Anne went over to spend the 
 day at the house of her great friend, Mrs. Stick- 
 ford, at Stickfordleigh. She was to meet there Mr. 
 Ickledew, the great Woman s Rights leader. He 
 was an exhilarating advocate, and fought for 
 woman s rights up to the hilt. You would have 
 thought, if you had heard him, that he was a 
 deeply wronged woman. Go and hear him, if you 
 ever get the chance. You will be delighted. 
 
 In the evening, after dinner, came the news that 
 Aunt Anne had slipped going up the steps of Stick 
 fordleigh House, and sprained her ankle badly. 
 "Oh, dear!" said Granny, and Rose said, "Oh, 
 dear!" too, but in her inmost heart she felt a great 
 glowing conviction that the way was being made 
 clear for her photograph. 
 
 And it was. Granny and she drove over next
 
 The Caravan Man 8 9 
 
 morning, and found Aunt Anne reclining on a 
 couch. Mrs. Stickford and she were really great 
 friends, and Aunt Anne knew that she was being 
 genuinely pressed to stay till the foot was well. It 
 would have been perfectly easy to get her down 
 stairs and into the Priory carriage, but, after all, 
 why not stay where she was ? 
 
 And Granny, too; Mrs. Stickford was hospitality 
 itself. Would she stay? Granny did n t think so 
 then Rose? Rose blenched, but Aunt Anne stopped 
 that. So it was arranged that Rose should stay at 
 the Priory, and Granny would run over in the 
 carriage to see Aunt Anne nearly every day, and 
 stay the night or not just as she felt inclined. 
 
 Could anything be happier? Rose asked her 
 self that; yet she thought of Aunt Anne s ankle, 
 and wondered if she, Rose, was an out-and-out 
 hussy. 
 
 Granny went off next day, and just before she 
 went decided that that night, at any rate, she would 
 stay at Stickfordleigh House. 
 
 "Shall I come, too, Granny?" 
 
 "I think not, Rose. Give an eye to the servants 
 don t let Mary go anywhere near the caravan." 
 
 "I won t, Granny." 
 
 "And if I m not home to-morrow night, you ll 
 be all right, dear?" 
 
 "Perfectly, Granny. You forget I m growing 
 up."
 
 90 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Grow up good, dear, like your Aunt Anne," 
 said Granny, as she kissed her with real tenderness. 
 Away went the carriage. 
 
 This was at half-past ten on the Wednesday 
 morning. Rose did some sewing. She decided that 
 among other things to be done that week, if oppor 
 tunity offered, she must really see if she could 
 squeeze time to have her photograph taken. 
 
 At eleven o clock she wondered if she could find 
 time that afternoon. At half-past eleven at half- 
 past eleven she was at the caravan. 
 
 The caravan man was not immediately visible. 
 All was quiet in the caravan, but as Rose looked 
 about her he appeared up the bank from the pond, 
 fishing-rod in hand. 
 
 He looked pleased when he saw Rose. "Good* 
 morning," he said, and stood the rod up by the 
 caravan side. 
 
 "Good-morning," said Rose. "I came across 
 I thought perhaps you might be able to take my 
 photograph." 
 
 A look of undeniable pleasure crossed his face. 
 
 "Rather! That is to say, certainly. This morn 
 ing? Now?" 
 
 "If you could." 
 
 "Decidedly." His "decidedly" was very de 
 cided. " Won t you sit down ? " he said, and waved 
 her towards where one of the beech-tree roots 
 offered a natural seat.
 
 The Caravan Man 9 1 
 
 Rose sat down, and he ran into his caravan. Out 
 he came again with his camera, and proceeded to 
 adjust its long, weak-looking legs. He went up 
 the steps again, said, "Excuse me a minute," went 
 inside and closed the caravan door. Rose saw 
 some red blinds pulled down over the windows at 
 the end of the caravan, and waited for a minute 
 or two, when he came out with three darkslides, 
 which he put down in the shade and covered over 
 with a coat. 
 
 "You have n t thought exactly what pose you 
 would like?" he asked, surveying her steadily. 
 
 "No," she said. 
 
 "Well, we must make up our minds to get the 
 best." Rose agreed. "And that s not the easiest 
 matter in the world." "No?" By no means, he 
 assured her. He explained himself. He explained 
 a good many things as he went about, dragging the 
 spidery-legged camera with him, suggesting frames, 
 now round, now oblong, now square, with his 
 hands, and peering at her through the opening. A 
 face, to an intimate acquaintance, might give an 
 altogether different impression from that which a 
 stranger might gather. Had n t she noticed that? 
 No? Surely she had met with cases where, for 
 instance, children were declared by a new acquaint 
 ance to resemble a parent, where those who knew 
 them well saw no likeness. And then, too, plain 
 faces lost their ugliness with intimacy, and,
 
 9 2 The Caravan Man 
 
 strangely enough, beauties were apt to lose their 
 freshness, though not perhaps their charm, if you 
 saw them often. 
 
 "Your face, for instance, to any one who knows 
 you well, sees you often, might appear quite" 
 Rose was startled. Was he going to say "plain" or 
 " beautiful " ? And which would be complimentary ? 
 "different from what I see it," he ended. 
 
 Rose nearly asked him, "How do you see it?" 
 She did really commence "How " but concluded 
 deftly with " stra nge ! " 
 
 He decided on a profile, and got Rose to adjust 
 her seat. He was extremely careful and particular 
 in the smallest details. Rose felt that if care could 
 make a good photograph, she was going to come 
 out well. Very respectfully he guided her, actually, 
 once or twice, touched her head. "May I? 
 That s it." Then he was a long time under the 
 voluminous folds of a black cloth which he spread 
 over the camera and himself, and took more time 
 shifting the camera about. 
 
 "Could you keep like that, do you think?" he 
 asked, emerging. 
 
 "Yes," said Rose. 
 
 "You can talk, if you don t shift your head," 
 he said, and got one of the darkslides out from 
 under his coat. 
 
 He had been so earnest in his work that Rose felt 
 it almost incumbent on her to carry on the con-
 
 The Caravan Man 93 
 
 versation. "It s a beautiful morning, isn t it?" 
 she offered. 
 
 "Rather," he said. "And is n t this a glorious 
 bit of common just now, I mean, with the leaves 
 turning?" 
 
 "And the pond," said Rose. 
 
 "Yes. This patch of water * makes the view so. 
 Do you often come here, or are you, like most peo 
 ple, so used to a pretty view that you lose its 
 charm?" 
 
 "Oh, no," said Rose. "I love this spot, and I 
 often come here." 
 
 "Do you? I have n t seen you." 
 
 "No; well, you " .She stopped. She had been 
 going to say something awkward. 
 
 " I m afraid I m driving you away." 
 
 "Not in the least," murmured Rose, and felt 
 untruthful. 
 
 "Then perhaps I may see you here sometimes?" 
 
 This would not do. Rose merely glimmered 
 something indistinct. 
 
 He adjusted her head again, and got ready to 
 take off the lens cap. "Quite still, please." 
 
 Rose, keeping her head still, suddenly inter 
 rupted. "May I speak?" 
 
 He took his hand down from the lens. "Cer 
 tainly." 
 
 "My hair?" said Rose. "Is it all right?" 
 
 "I think so it looks splendid," he answered,
 
 94 The Caravan Man 
 
 with such enthusiasm that Rose felt embarrassed. 
 "Perhaps, after all, you d like to look in a glass?" 
 
 " I should," said Rose. 
 
 So, abandoning the photography for the mo 
 ment, he went into his caravan and brought out 
 Rose, polite girl as she was, could scarcely help 
 laughing. It was just an irregular bit of mirror, 
 unframed, no bigger than the palm of his hand. 
 "Manage with this?" he asked. 
 
 Rose took it, and "managed," adjusted a pin or 
 two, then gave him back the glass. He looked her 
 over carefully as he took it. Rose hoped it looked 
 as nice as she thought it did. 
 
 So he took that photograph, and began another. 
 It was a leisurely business, with frequent chats, 
 always interesting, but, Rose saw later, apt to 
 diverge a good deal from the matter in hand. This 
 second photograph was still a profile, with her 
 head lowered this time, and he followed it with a 
 three-quarters face. 
 
 Then, to Rose s astonishment, it struck one. She 
 jumped up. "One?" she said. 
 
 He looked at his wrist-watch. "One, exactly." 
 
 "I must go in," she said. 
 
 "I hope I m not ruining your lunch?" he said 
 politely. 
 
 "Not at all. It s cold. But I had no idea the 
 time had gone so." She felt sorry he had got only 
 three views of her. She would have liked the dozen.
 
 The Caravan Man 95 
 
 "It s a lengthy matter, you know, making a 
 really good photograph. I hope you 11 forgive my 
 taking rather a long time over yours," he apolo 
 gized. 
 
 "Not at all," said Rose. "I should like them 
 nicely done." 
 
 "Oh, they shall be nice. How long will you be 
 over lunch?" 
 
 Rose started. She had not thought of contriving 
 more than one sitting. "I don t quite see " she 
 began. 
 
 "It s an exceptionally favourable day," he as 
 sured her. "The light this afternoon will be even 
 better than this morning." 
 
 Rose wondered if she could manage it saw 
 that she could, perhaps decided that she would. 
 "I could be back by two." 
 
 " Capital. I 11 cook my kipper and get it out of 
 the way, and be ready." 
 
 Rose nodded and went home. She was laughing. 
 "Cook my kipper"! Why not? She had a mental 
 image of him crouched over his fire, with the fish 
 in a frying-pan, or possibly on a fork somehow 
 it gave her a friendly feeling towards him. It 
 was n t much of a lunch, though. Would it be 
 right or not to offer to supplement it? Or, even, 
 something to drink a bottle of ale? No (with a 
 momentary shrinking), that incident of the Cuckle- 
 ford road, on Saturday night! It was n t true,
 
 96 The Caravan Man 
 
 but but, all the same, don t put temptation in 
 his way. 
 
 So she had lunch at the Priory, and the caravan 
 man had his at the caravan it was n t kipper at 
 all ; it was quite a comfortable steak and soon 
 after two she was back at the caravan.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE business of the afternoon resembled 
 closely that of the morning. Rose and the 
 caravan man certainly got on well. Their con 
 versation roved about a good deal, but it seldom 
 drooped. She found herself insensibly led into 
 something like intimate talk. She chattered about 
 Ouseton, the Priory, Granny, Aunt Anne, herself. 
 And all the while she knew he was taking the great 
 est pains about her portrait. He posed her with 
 the greatest care, making minute adjustments in 
 her position, altering the poise of her head, getting 
 her once to change the simple arrangement of her 
 hair. Once or twice she seemed suddenly to realize 
 the strangeness, to her, of her situation, spending 
 a whole day in intimate association with a strange 
 man. But even though it seemed almost a duty to 
 have some qualms, she found herself unable to 
 conjure up anything more than a momentary, per 
 functory timidity. He did everything so naturally 
 and simply. 
 
 Once he himself apologized for allowing or in 
 ducing their conversation to flow so unrestrainedly, 
 but he explained that it was part of the craft of a 
 photographer to get a sitter to talk, not too stren 
 uously, on any topic of interest.
 
 98 The Caravan Man 
 
 A most intelligent photographer, thought Rose, 
 and then in her mind the question shaped, why 
 was he not successful? Obviously he could n t be. 
 Five shillings a dozen that was no price for a 
 successful photographer. Mr, Bapkin, who was n t 
 anything much at taking pictures, charged a guinea 
 a dozen. And then, this sort of life, gipsyish, really 
 homeless it meant failure, surely. 
 
 She put no question to him, yet he felt himself 
 drawn to explain. "I m new to this work," he 
 said. "Don t think I shan t do your pictures all 
 right, but I m something of a novice. Still, before 
 I took this up, I was a painter." 
 
 "I suppose this is a better trade than that?" she 
 said. 
 
 He was under the cloth, moving about, just 
 then. 
 
 He suddenly pulled up, came out from under the 
 cloth and looked at her. "I beg your pardon?" he 
 said. 
 
 "Perhaps I m wrong," said Rose; "and of course 
 you ve got to learn all about it. But I suppose, 
 when you really grow competent no, not that" 
 (hastily) " confident, I mean, you could make 
 this a more profitable occupation." He still looked 
 questioningly at her. Had she made a mistake? 
 "But perhaps you were a decorator as well?" 
 
 He suddenly dived under the cloth again and did 
 not speak for some seconds. Then: "Yes, I ve
 
 The Caravan Man 99 
 
 done a bit of decorative work in my time, but not 
 much." He worked the camera about. "And of 
 course there s the plumbing. There s good money 
 in that." 
 
 "What made you give it up and take to this?" 
 she asked. 
 
 He lifted the cloth and looked gravely at her. 
 "Do you want any pipes mended at the Priory?" 
 
 "I don t think so. Why?" 
 
 "Get them done." He pulled out the slide. 
 " Still, please." She sat rigid, he took off the cap, 
 replaced it, turned the slide. "In a few months 
 time there will be no more plumbing, no more 
 pipes, in England." 
 
 "Whyever not?" 
 
 "Shortage of solder. The solder mines are giv 
 ing out . . . But it was n t for that I gave up." 
 
 "Perhaps you were ill, and needed an outdoor 
 life?" 
 
 "That s it." 
 
 "What was the matter with you? Lead poison- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Yes. And wrist-drop, and painter s colic, and 
 plumber s blue-gum, and and decorator s jaun 
 dice. And locomotor ataxia." 
 
 "I ve heard of that," said Rose. "What is it?" 
 
 "Awful. And almost incurable. Do you know 
 what to do if a locomotor ataxia? Why run. 
 It s your only chance."
 
 ioo The Caravan Man 
 
 She felt bewildered, but he was under the cloth 
 again. 
 
 He got nine more negatives of her that after 
 noon, between lunch and half-past six. She missed 
 her tea, but later she dared not stop. In fact, she 
 began to get into a bit of a panic. Granny might 
 be home. 
 
 As a matter of fact, Granny came home, in the 
 Stickfordleigh carriage, not ten minutes later. She 
 only drove over to see that Rose was all right, the 
 Priory where she had left it that morning, and to 
 get something for Aunt Anne. She would drive 
 back to the Stickfords to dinner and spend the 
 night. 
 
 "Is everything all right, Rose?" she asked. 
 
 "Quite, Granny." 
 
 "Where is Mary?" 
 
 "This was her afternoon off. She went directly 
 after lunch." 
 
 "Oh, yes. I hope she has n t been over to that 
 
 caravan." 
 
 " She has n t. I m sure," said Rose. Deplorable. 
 Here went duty and opportunity hand in hand. 
 She knew it and said not a word. 
 
 Her conscience got busy with her that night as 
 soon as her head was on the pillow. She found her 
 self presenting it with ingenious yet unworthy 
 excuses. " I m only doing it for a surprise for for 
 Aunt Anne. I know she d like a new photograph
 
 The Caravan Man i o i 
 
 of me." "Now, look here," began Conscience; but 
 she would not look. Indeed, she shut her eyes and 
 went to sleep, unconvicted. 
 
 Next morning, Rose, breakfasting by herself, 
 chose to sit in her bedroom awhile to do some writ 
 ing. It was a pleasant room. She had written in it 
 before once. Seated there she had a beautiful 
 view of the common. The caravan also was an 
 object of interest in the neighbourhood. 
 
 She recalled naturally her occupation of the 
 previous afternoon, and hoped that Saturday 
 would bring her photographs as excellent as she 
 imagined they would be. He had taken so much 
 trouble. When one reflected how modern work of 
 every kind was scamped Aunt Anne often said 
 so it was pleasant to have given a commission 
 of this kind to a man so conscientiously devoted to 
 his craft. Saturday, she had no doubt, would show 
 results worth his earnest endeavour. 
 
 She confessed that she was impatient for Satur 
 day. Saturday morning, no doubt. Ouseton, as is 
 the custom of country villages, became thronged 
 on Saturday afternoons and evenings, and no doubt 
 the caravan man would be there. He would there 
 fore expect her to call on Saturday morning; as 
 likely to be early as late. So that so that 
 obviously he would have the prints ready on 
 Friday evening, or, more likely, Friday afternoon. 
 She knew that prints were made in sunlight, the
 
 i o 2 The Caravan Man 
 
 brighter the better. So that really, if she called on 
 Friday afternoon, say, after tea before tea was 
 perhaps a little too early she could probably see 
 what her prints looked like. 
 
 She felt great confidence in the caravan man. 
 He had said that he could judge from the negatives 
 whether her prints would be good enough, so that 
 really she could satisfy her mind on the Friday 
 morning. Yes, Friday morning. 
 
 Friday morning? But he developed the things at 
 night. He had said so. Just then, happening to 
 glance out of the window, she caught a glimpse of 
 the man himself. She could, as it happened, spy 
 through a sort of tunnel through the trees, and 
 there he was, lying down, luxuriously. Smoking, 
 no doubt. 
 
 Now she remembered that he had said he would 
 develop the plates that night last night. They 
 were done, then. At that very moment he was in a 
 position to tell her whether his and her hopes were 
 justified. No doubt everything was quite all right. 
 But supposing just supposing they were not? 
 Mr. Bapkin once had to ask her to sit again. How 
 silly she would feel if she went there on Friday 
 (no, Saturday), and discovered that he had failed! 
 Failure, announced now, could be remedied. She 
 could sit again. Put off learning how things stood, 
 and she might never get the chance. 
 
 This young girl acted with a decision older people
 
 The Caravan Man 103 
 
 might well copy. Did she halt and hesitate, delay 
 ing action from sheer inability to move, letting 
 inertia and timidity overmaster initiative? No. 
 
 She went over to the caravan. 
 
 She arrived there at a quarter past eleven. 
 
 Those with a sense of exactitude in time may 
 note that that was precisely a quarter of an hour 
 earlier than her visit of the previous day. 
 
 She had not even waited to put on her tam-o - 
 shanter. 
 
 The caravan man jumped up when she came. 
 "Well?" she said. "Are the negatives all right?" 
 
 He looked at her uncomfortably. He had to 
 choose the words in which to convey his answer to 
 her question. He dropped his eyes, knocked his 
 pipe out on his hand, put it in his pocket. A dread 
 began to steal across her spirits. She looked anx 
 iously at him. 
 
 "I m sorry," he said. "I hardly know how to 
 tell you. Don t blame me, but something went 
 wrong with the developer " 
 
 "And what happened?" 
 
 He got the word out, the one word she had 
 dreaded to hear. 
 
 "Spoilt!" 
 
 "All?" 
 
 "Every one." 
 
 She felt for him. In his voice was a bitterness 
 he strove in vain to conceal. He had been so buoy-
 
 IO4 The Caravan Man 
 
 ant, so confident; he had worked so hard, taken 
 such pains, such a long, long time over her and 
 now 
 
 She must say something. What was it the 
 right word? the right tone? 
 
 She looked at him as he stood there, downcast, 
 depressed. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "Pm so glad I came across." 
 
 He looked up, a glad light in his eyes. "Are 
 you?" he said. "Are you really? So am I."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ONE morning, about a week later, up the pack- 
 horse track, across the main road, and onto 
 the common walked a stout, comfortable-looking 
 man, a large, fat-faced, fat-bellied man, who so 
 unexpectedly and decidedly protruded beneath the 
 waist that he looked as if he had inadvertently 
 swallowed a football, thoroughly well blown-out, 
 at some previous time, and had followed expert 
 advice as to the inadvisability of attempting its 
 removal. 
 
 He wore a blue serge suit, very comfortably cut, 
 and yet it was his custom, whenever decent oppor 
 tunity offered, to leave unbuttoned the top button 
 of his trousers front and the bottom button of his 
 waistcoat. Thus he often displayed a lozenge of 
 shirt at the spot where the front centre line of these 
 two garments met. You knew by this that here 
 was a man with too much sense not to waive ap 
 pearances when comfort demanded, and you re 
 spected him for it. The lozenge of shirt was dis 
 played now, as he crossed the common and halted 
 at the caravan. 
 
 The movements of the caravan man that morn 
 ing, could you have traced them, would have given
 
 io6 The Caravan Man 
 
 you, perhaps, some faint indication of a tendency 
 towards the erratic in his disposition. 
 
 He had risen very early, so early, in fact, that he 
 had had to light a candle to dress by. The first 
 flush of dawn was only just showing in the eastern 
 sky when he emerged from his caravan, clad in a 
 pair of white flannel trousers and an ample white 
 wool sweater, whose voluminous folds, encircling 
 his neck and coming well up to the tops of his ears, 
 were welcome enough at that early hour, even 
 though the month was September and every prom 
 ise in air and sky was of a fine day. 
 
 He first went to the pond, where he hauled in 
 and examined a night-line evidently set the evening 
 before. No luck. He re-baited and flung it again 
 into the pond. He then got out from the caravan 
 and rigged up a fishing-rod, baited the line, ad 
 justed a float, and crawling stealthily on hands 
 and knees to another part of the bank, gently low 
 ered his bait into the water. He then lit and 
 smoked a pipe with great satisfaction, and, the 
 sun being now well up in the heavens, lounged on 
 his back on the bank with his hands behind his 
 head. This for at least an hour. Then, apparently 
 startled from a day-dream, he hastily felt that part 
 of his trousers which had borne the major portion 
 of his weight. As might have been expected, these 
 had drunk thirstily of the night-dews, and his grunt 
 of evident discomfort signalled his return from
 
 The Caravan Man 107 
 
 dreamland to the world of cold and damp 
 facts. He examined both his lines again, quite un 
 ruffled, apparently, at his continued failure to 
 secure any sort of trophy from the pool s depths, 
 and putting on a fresh bait, left the unfortunate 
 worms he had selected for the job to carry on with 
 out his supervision, and wandered away across the 
 common. He went at a steady tramp, smoking his 
 pipe, swashing a gorse bush from time to time with 
 the rough hazel stick he carried, and pausing occa 
 sionally to make an imaginary frame in the air 
 with his hands, through which he surveyed por 
 tions of the landscape. 
 
 Somewhere between five and six o clock he was 
 back at his caravan. He again examined his fishing 
 lines, rejected a small and too adventurous carp 
 which had essayed a flirtation with one of the 
 worms (it was foul-hooked), released the worm 
 from further duty, yoked another miserable in the 
 toils in its place, and set about making a fire of 
 sticks a yard or two away from the caravan. He 
 then breakfasted on tea, two eggs, a sardine on 
 bread, an apple, and what looked like some pepper 
 mint-drops which he found loose in his trousers 
 pocket. He then clambered into his caravan and 
 went to sleep. 
 
 Some hours later he suddenly appeared at the 
 door of the caravan, yawned, ambled down the 
 steps, put fresh sticks on his fire, hung in the
 
 1 08 The Caravan Man 
 
 flames on a tripod a round iron pot which he filled 
 at the pond. From the caravan he brought out a 
 shaving-mug and brush, and when the water in 
 the iron pot was hot he filled the mug, beat up the 
 soap, and commenced to lather his face preparatory 
 to a shave. A slight, perhaps fancied, movement 
 of his float, just visible over the tops of the reeds 
 in the pond, caught his eye. He flew lightly over, 
 seized the butt of his rod and struck. Again no 
 luck; the float and line jerked upward, the hook set 
 tled gracefully among the branches of the overhang 
 ing tree, and laughingly beckoned him to other pas 
 time. Adopting one only of the short selection of ap 
 propriate remarks fisherman s custom has compiled 
 for use on such occasions, he proceeded, standing on 
 tiptoe, to disentangle his hook no easy job. He 
 had succeeded, had cast to the winds of heaven the 
 dilapidated remains of the worm, a silent but not 
 quite passive participant in the amusement of the 
 moment, when a rapping noise from the caravan 
 caught his ear, and looking up, he discovered that 
 the day had already brought him visitors. 
 
 He picked up his shaving-mug and brush and 
 went over. 
 
 "Hullo," said he. 
 
 Mr. George Gubbins and Miss Dorothy Double- 
 daisy turned at his greeting. 
 
 " Mamm ," said Mr. Gubbins, and Dorothy 
 nodded.
 
 The Caravan Man 109 
 
 " Morning," responded the caravan man and 
 kept a grave face. 
 
 Dorothy was a plump country maiden, grey-eyed, 
 rosy-faced, clear-skinned, an appetizing morsel, with 
 a great bun of red hair on her neck, red arms, dis 
 played to the elbows, thick ankles, and the finest 
 of fine teeth. She was dressed for a wedding; doubt 
 of that was impossible in face of the evidence of 
 her white cotton gloves, her dress, donned for the 
 first time, of silk, something between grey and 
 lavender in hue, and a huge bouquet of flowers of 
 all kinds, roses, marigolds, sweet-william, verbena 
 and lots and lots of maidenhair fern. 
 
 A wedding, yes but in that case, what did 
 Mr. Gubbins in that galley? For Mr. Gubbins was 
 dressed in weeds of woe an ample black broad 
 cloth frock-coat, a waistcoat to match, a pair of 
 rather tight-cut trousers, also black, a large black 
 bow at his neck, emerging from under a broad 
 turned-down starched collar, and a very tall silk 
 hat, round which was draped, one might almost 
 say festooned, a voluminous scarf of crape, which 
 soared in front, even above the level of the roof of 
 the hat, and was caught into a cunning rosette at 
 the back, from which the ends drooped onto his 
 shoulder. 
 
 He was a sandy man, with freckles. He wore 
 short side-whiskers and his hair, a trifle thin, per 
 haps, was brushed well forward over his ears. In
 
 no The Caravan Man 
 
 the crook of his left elbow rested one of Dorothy s 
 gloved hands, in his right hand was clutched an 
 umbrella, black, ivory-handled, and of a majesty 
 of proportion that could lend dignity, even gravity, 
 to any human occasion. It was this umbrella 
 whose rapping had interrupted the fishing. The 
 caravan man looked expectant. 
 
 "We wants our photos took," explained Mr. 
 Gubbins. 
 
 "And a beautiful picture you ll make," said the 
 caravan man confidently. 
 
 Dorothy unfolded the situation further, with 
 pretty shyness and dignity conjoined. "Us be 
 goin to be married." 
 
 "To be what?" said the caravan man. "To be 
 ma Oh, no, no!" He appealed to Mr. Gubbins. 
 "Don t tell me that. Not in those not in that 
 suit, surely!" 
 
 "Just as we are," said Mr. Gubbins. "Not that 
 these be my ch ice, mind ee, but I ain t got no 
 ch ice, have I, Dolly?" 
 
 "No, Jarge," said Dolly, a faint wrinkle in her 
 brow. "But it don t matter." 
 
 "She don t mind, so I don t," said Mr. Gubbins. 
 "It s to oblige my fust wife." 
 
 "Well," responded the caravan man heartily, 
 "I must say you re a very obliging man. If I 
 might say so, there s even something of generosity 
 about it."
 
 The Caravan Man 1 1 1 
 
 "Don t you mistake me," said Mr. Gubbins with 
 a touch of bitterness. "I ain t doin it because I 
 want to. Ye see, she owned the watercreese beds, 
 down by the canal, and when she died last Michael 
 mas, she left it in her will that if I got married 
 again before the year was out it was to be in the 
 same clo es as I buried her in." 
 
 "I take it," said the caravan man, "that you 
 followed the usual custom and performed the last 
 sad rites before ascertaining the final disposition 
 of her worldly goods?" 
 
 "If you mean," said Mr. Gubbins, "did we bury 
 her fust and read her will arterwards, yus, we did. 
 Ef I d a known what she d wrote down," he con 
 tinued, " I d a gone to her berryin in something 
 a bit more sporty than this get-up." He examined 
 his trousers with distaste. "But there, that was 
 er, to the life. Always a spoil-sport." 
 
 "Not without a sense of humour, I fancy," sug 
 gested the caravan man. 
 
 "You oughter known er. Why, Sunday arter 
 she died Parson in pulpit give it out that one of our 
 little community well known to us all ad been 
 released from this earthly purgatory, and er 
 own mother as was a-settin in the pew next to 
 me leans over an ses, Does e mean er, Jarge, or 
 you? " 
 
 "Well, I don t mind, Jarge. I m marryin you 
 and not your trousers, so hurry up, young man."
 
 H2 The Caravan Man 
 
 Dorothy Doubledaisy was properly businesslike. 
 "Besides, there s an am b ilinV 
 
 "A what?" asked the caravan man, pardonably 
 puzzled. 
 
 "An am," explained Mr. Gubbins. "You know 
 what an am is, don t you?" 
 
 "Oh, an am I see. Quite, quite. Good luck 
 to it. Very well; just go over there, will you?" 
 he indicated the roots of the beech tree sprawling 
 round his caravan wheels "and look your love 
 liest while I get the machine ready." 
 
 He dived inside, the door closed, red blinds were 
 pulled down over the windows, and after a minute 
 or so he came out, bearing his camera on its feeble 
 legs, a folded black cloth under one arm, a double 
 darkslide under the other. With these he edged his 
 uneasy way down the caravan steps, and proceeded 
 to make the necessary disposition of the apparatus 
 of his trade. 
 
 It took some little time, and in correct profes 
 sional manner he engaged his patrons with chat of 
 a light and agreeable nature. 
 
 " So you two are going to make the great adven 
 ture together, eh?" 
 
 "For better, for wuss," quoted Mr. Gubbins 
 with great satisfaction. 
 
 Dolly nudged him meaningly. "You could n t 
 be much wuss than you was Sat dy before last, 
 Jarge," she murmured.
 
 The Caravan Man 113 
 
 For all her maiden shyness, the caravan man 
 thought he could detect in the tones of her voice a 
 tinge of reproof that later would not be content to 
 stop at the merely remonstrative. Possibly so 
 subtle are the instincts of self-preservation in man 
 inclined to pleasant error Mr. Gubbins s ear 
 caught the same note. 
 
 "Couldn t I? That s all you know," he an 
 swered Dorothy with conviction. 
 
 "Let s hope not," intervened the caravan man 
 from under his black cloth. 
 
 "What do you know about it?" demanded Mr. 
 Gubbins. "Was you there?" 
 
 "Was I there!" repeated the caravan man, com 
 ing out from under his cloth, doing something to 
 the front of the camera, and diving under the cloth 
 again. "Was I there ! Was n t I one of the three 
 good men that brought you home from the Pink 
 and Lily after closing-time?" 
 
 " I did n t know I s pose I did n t know much 
 about anything. Much obliged." 
 
 "Not a bit. A pleasure, I assure you." 
 
 "Was I singin ?" asked Mr. Gubbins. 
 
 The caravan man, again coming into view, 
 breathed thoughtfully on his lens and began to 
 polish it with his handkerchief. 
 
 "Singing?" he answered. "Well, I don t know 
 that I should exact " He broke off the thread 
 of that speech and spun another. "Singing?
 
 H4 The Caravan Man 
 
 rather! You were the brightest little skylark I ve 
 heard for many a long time." 
 
 "Singin ," said Mr. Gubbins, "is a nabbit of 
 
 mine." 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "A nabbit you know what a nabbit is, don t 
 you?" 
 
 "Oh! an abit I beg your pardon. It s a cap 
 tivating habit, at times." 
 
 "Down at the Pink and Lily," continued Mr. 
 Gubbins, "they give me credit for havin some 
 thing of a v ice." 
 
 "I don t think," rejoined the caravan man," that 
 that s doing quite the square thing by you." 
 
 "Why not? Whatd yer mean?" asked Mr. 
 Gubbins. 
 
 "Giving credit in public-houses has long been 
 recognized as a dangerous custom," answered the 
 caravan man, " and if, as in your case, it is in open 
 encouragement of an admitted vice " 
 
 " Ere!" said Mr. Gubbins. "Who are you get- 
 tin at? I m arf a mind not to have my photo 
 took, arter all." 
 
 "Come, come," said the caravan man sooth 
 ingly, "we must n t disappoint the lady. Let s get 
 on with it." His camera was now apparently ad 
 justed to his liking. He came over and urged both 
 Dorothy and Mr. Gubbins towards the shade of 
 the beech tree. "I think," he said reflectively, "I
 
 The Caravan Man 115 
 
 think we will pose the group in the accepted fash 
 ion. The lady sits just here, will you, madam? 
 and the gentleman stands a little behind her 
 a simple but effective arrangement." 
 
 Mr. Gubbins suddenly disclosed a quite violent 
 objection to the suggestion, despite its effective 
 ness and simplicity. 
 
 "I bain t goin to have her in front o me. I 
 bain t goin to stand behind any wumman." 
 
 He meant it. The caravan man essayed persua 
 sion. "I quite understand your feeling, sir, but 
 the world belongs to women nowadays. Better 
 give in without a struggle." He came suddenly 
 across. 
 
 "Let me take your umbrella." He annexed it, 
 and leant it against the caravan wheel. 
 
 Mr. Gubbins started forward. " Ere, gimme 
 my umberella. I wants that took as well." 
 
 "Oh, not the umberella, Jarge!" Dorothy Dou- 
 bledaisy interposed. 
 
 Mr. Gubbins was roused. His blood was up. 
 "Then I ain t goin to be photoed and what s 
 more, I ain t goin to be married." 
 
 "There now!" Dorothy was almost in tears. 
 She turned despairingly to the photographer. 
 "Young man, let him have his umberella." 
 
 " Certainly, by all means. I 11 let him have mine 
 as well." 
 
 Fresh grievance. Mr. Gubbins, firmly grasping
 
 1 1 6 The Caravan Man 
 
 the large ivory handle of his own umbrella, turned 
 with renewed wrath on the photographer. " Oo 
 arst you for your umberella?" 
 
 " I proffered it,"answered the caravan man, con 
 siderably taken aback, " in the kindliest spirit." 
 
 Mr. Gubbins refused to be placated. " Go s 
 payin for this photograph?" 
 
 Dorothy let a slow tear drip down one rosy 
 cheek. "Oh, Jarge," she faltered, "do let s get on. 
 Think of the am." 
 
 Perhaps Mr. Gubbins thought of the ham. 
 Though his words were spirited enough, a sugges 
 tion of placability came into his tones. He ad 
 dressed Dolly. "If he thinks he s goin to stick 
 his umberella into a photograph I pays for, I wunt 
 get married." 
 
 "Oh, Jarge!" A heart of very stone could not 
 resist an appeal in such a voice. 
 
 The caravan man seized the moment to obliter 
 ate all possible offence. "Sir," he said, "I with 
 draw my umbrella. I apologize." 
 
 Mr. Gubbins s face cleared as does the April sky 
 after a shower. He seized the hand of the caravan 
 man and shook it heartily. "You means no arm," 
 he conceded handsomely. "Coom down and see 
 us this arternoon when the am s b iled." He con 
 tinued to shake hands affectionately. 
 
 "Oh, Jarge," said Dolly, "do let s get on." 
 
 "Yes," said the caravan man, "do let s get on.
 
 The Caravan Man 117 
 
 Perhaps you d sit, and let the lady stand by your 
 side, close " 
 
 "Tell you what, Dolly," Mr. Gubbins knew 
 how to be magnanimous in victory "you shall 
 set aside me, close up." 
 
 The two sat happily down on one of the tree- 
 roots. 
 
 "Hold the umberella well forward," directed 
 the photographer. He dived in under his black 
 cloth, came out again, twisted Dolly s head a little 
 to one side, dived under again, and again came out, 
 lifted Mr. Gubbins s head a little, assumed the 
 cloth again 
 
 At just that moment the fat-faced, fat-bellied 
 man finished his journey across the common and 
 arrived at the caravan. 
 
 He pulled up short, his eye ran over the group 
 of two perhaps, seeing the importance attached 
 to the umbrella, we had better say group of three 
 on the tree-root, then he surveyed the caravan 
 man, or rather, his white-trousered legs, which 
 were all that was to be seen of him, moving ob 
 scurely about, enveloped in the focusing cloth and 
 mingling with the attenuated legs of the camera. 
 The fat man perpended these legs for a second or 
 two, then with the hooked handle of the light cane 
 he carried he hooked up some of the folds of the 
 cloth, as if a larger field of view might resolve a 
 present perplexity. This apparently was the case.
 
 1 1 8 The Caravan Man 
 
 He unhooked his cane handle, let the cloth drop, 
 moved a pace or two backwards and, "Bamfield!" 
 he exclaimed, with great earnestness. "Good 
 Heavens, Bamfield! " 
 
 At his voice there was a convulsion of the black 
 cloth, and the caravan man suddenly started from 
 underneath it. His eyes fell on the fat man, and 
 the two stood for a second staring intently at one 
 another. Then a slight flush overspread the face 
 of the caravan man, and he spoke loudly and 
 aggressively: 
 
 "One at a time," he said, "if you please, sir. 
 And kindly note that my name is Jones." 
 
 Apparently the fat man s astonishment was too 
 great to allow of the proper assimilation of this 
 direction, for he answered, "Good Heavens! it is 
 yes, it is Bamfield! Bammy, old man " 
 
 "Jones, please; Jones," said the caravan man. 
 Under his breath he added, "Shut up, you fool," 
 and turning his back on the fat man proceeded 
 with his professional task. 
 
 He addressed the couple sitting on the tree- 
 roots. "We must have a smile," he said. Dorothy 
 smiled. The caravan man smiled acknowledgment. 
 The convulsive writhing of Mr. Gubbins s face, 
 however, failed to please him. "Oh, no," he re 
 monstrated, " not that not that " He thought 
 for a moment. "Perhaps, after all, it will be as 
 well if the gentleman does n t smile." Mr. Gub-
 
 The Caravan Man 119 
 
 bins relaxed his efforts. "Just look natural," 
 suggested the caravan man. Mr. Gubbins s face 
 commenced another and still more distressing 
 series of muscular acrobatics. "Oh, well," said the 
 man at the camera, resignedly, "Still, please." 
 He put his hand to the cap of the lens. 
 
 Instantly Mr. Gubbins shot from his seat. " Old 
 ard," said he. "What s this goin to cost?" 
 
 The caravan man replaced the loosened lens cap. 
 "The charge for one dozen cabinet prints, vignetted 
 sepia-toned, on plain mounts, will be seven shil 
 lings and sixpence." 
 
 "Seven-and-six!" Mr. Gubbins was openly an 
 noyed. He turned on Dorothy Doubledaisy. "Why 
 did you tell I foive shillin s?" 
 
 "I thart it was foive shillin s," was all Dorothy 
 could offer. 
 
 The photographer explained quite lucidly. " Five 
 shillings is the charge for a single sitter. In the 
 case of a group of two an extra charge of half-a- 
 crown is made." 
 
 There seemed, one would say, nothing not en 
 tirely reasonable in this explanation, but Mr. 
 Gubbins s native obstinacy was of a sort to resist 
 mere reason. "I bain t goin to pay more n five 
 shillin s," he announced. 
 
 "Oh, Jarge!" expostulated Dorothy. 
 
 "Come," persuaded the caravan man, "come; 
 I m throwing in the umbrella for nothing."
 
 1 2 o The Caravan Man 
 
 "You art to," returned Mr. Gubbins, unmoved. 
 " E don t occupy a seat, do e?" 
 
 "Oh, Jarge!" said Dorothy again. Mr. Gubbins 
 was obdurate. 
 
 The caravan man vacated his entrenchments 
 unreservedly, and with a touch of grace. "A mo 
 ment. The occasion is no ordinary one. Allow me 
 to contribute to its felicity by waiving my usual 
 extra charge. The group of two shall cost five 
 shillings only." 
 
 "Right!" said Mr. Gubbins. He smiled broadly, 
 grasped the hand of the caravan man and shook it 
 heartily. "Coom down this evenin , when the 
 am s cut." 
 
 "Expect me," said the caravan man. "But now, 
 let s get on. As you were." Dorothy and Jarge 
 seated themselves again. "Ah, that s something 
 like a smile this time Now, ready! Steady!" 
 The cap was lifted, the happy pair sat like rocks, 
 the cap was replaced. "Right," said the caravan 
 man. "Prints ready on Saturday." He shook 
 hands with them both heartily, considered Dor 
 othy s rosy face for a second, decided rapidly that 
 perhaps he had better not try it on. "Good luck!" 
 
 "Coom down to-night," said Mr. Gubbins, 
 "when the am s cold. Ye know my place the 
 watercreese beds, down t other side o the canal. 
 It 11 be a fine am." 
 
 "I should n t wonder," said the caravan man.
 
 The Caravan Man 
 
 121 
 
 Dorothy nodded and smiled, Mr. Gubbins drew 
 her arm through his, waved his umbrella, and 
 maid and swain moved off to where the spire of 
 Ouseton church peered meaningly at them across 
 the common. 
 
 The caravan man now whipped round on the 
 fat man, who, during the operation of taking the 
 photograph, had stood a little away, his pipe, 
 fireless and foul, projecting from between firmly 
 compressed lips. "Now, sir," said the caravan 
 man breezily, "it s a beautiful morning for having 
 your photograph taken. May I have the pleasure? 
 Five shillings a dozen only, and no waiting. Have 
 every confidence, sir. I guarantee a likeness if 
 that s any inducement in your case. My name," 
 he went on, "is Jones, George Jones, artist in 
 photography. Wedding groups and funerals a spe 
 cialty. Babies barred." The fat man continued to 
 chew his pipe-stem, and regard him with expres 
 sionless face. The caravan man gave it up. He 
 extended his hand. 
 
 "Monkey, how are you?" he said. 
 
 His greeting was one of cordiality, not of deri 
 sion. The fat man shook heartily the hand held 
 out to him. "Well, Bammy," he said, "here you 
 are, then." 
 
 "Yes, here I am," said the caravan man. There 
 was just a touch of defiance, a hint of "Well, what 
 about it?" in his manner.
 
 122 The Caravan Man 
 
 The other filled his pipe again and sat down 
 leisurely on the caravan steps, looking him over 
 and smiling. Then: 
 
 "You are a fathead, you know, Bammy," he 
 said earnestly. 
 
 " I don t see it," said the caravan man. 
 
 "Yes, you do. We heard about it up in Scot 
 land, were n t you ? going about in this precious 
 caravan, taking photos and painting landscape. 
 What s it mean? What s your idiotic idea?" 
 
 "What s wrong with it?" 
 
 "My dear boy, why need you ask? Now, look 
 here; why is it? We all want to know. You slog 
 away, harder than most of us, at your proper work 
 figure, nudes. You give us to understand that 
 you intend to be the only pebble on the beach in 
 that line. You sweat at it year after year. And 
 then" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well, you hop it in a caravan. And here you 
 are taking photos and painting landscape land 
 scape, mark you! A thing any mug can do! Silly 
 ass!" 
 
 " I suppose I can drop figure and go in for land 
 scape, if I want to?" 
 
 "My dear lad, you can open an eel-pie shop if 
 you want to. It s a free country." 
 
 "But supposing I find I can work more steadily 
 at landscape?"
 
 The Caravan Man 123 
 
 "Work work!" The fat man eyed him with 
 pitying scorn. "Are we artists?" 
 
 The caravan man evidently fretted under this 
 questioning. He began to pace about. 
 
 "I I m ambitious," he said said it with a 
 touch of apology, as does any decent Englishman 
 forced to disclose anything of serious inner feelings. 
 " I want to be one of the big men." 
 
 "You will be." 
 
 "Well, but old man I mean one of the men 
 who are are always going to be big to count. 
 Sometimes I feel I can that I Ve got it in me, that 
 everything s inside me that s necessary, and all I Ve 
 got to do now is work and work damned hard, 
 mind you. It can t be done without that, Monk." 
 
 The other nodded. "But why not stick to the 
 nude, your proper work? There s not another man 
 living can paint skin as you can." 
 
 "Well, the nude s too distracting. You start 
 with an abnormal appreciation of that variety of 
 beauty; you train hand and eye and brain on it, 
 year after year, till it s an obsession; your whole 
 life is filled with the sense of the beauty of a 
 beautiful woman and everything else is of no 
 importance." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well, if you re human and you can t paint 
 that sort of thing unless you are it s the devil s 
 own job to work steadily."
 
 124 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Oho!" said the fat man, sucking his pipe re 
 flectively. 
 
 "And you find the world full of it full of 
 lovely feminine things full of grace and charm 
 and inspiration and and distraction and 
 good-bye, work, and where are we now? You 
 know it can t go on, Monkey. I just thought it 
 all out, bought this caravan, shut up my studio 
 and went in for landscape." 
 
 "As I said before, silly ass!" 
 
 "No, Monk. I m right. It s been splendid 
 training in lots of ways. When you ve worked at 
 landscape and learned the charm that lies in trees 
 and skies water this sort of thing" he in 
 dicated the broad sweep of the common "you 
 get the point of view for every sort of beauty. You 
 can fill yourself with the sense of a woman s loveli 
 ness and still be safe." 
 
 The fat man chuckled. "Now, that s a long-felt 
 want. It s what the world s been waiting for ever 
 since Adam told Eve he preferred her as she used 
 to be." 
 
 The other stopped his peregrinations. "Think 
 of a woman s hair the marvel of it when a 
 great thick curve of it comes welling over her ear! 
 And her skin the colour, the texture you see 
 it on her face and hands and neck, and it makes 
 you wonder what she d be like and when she 
 turns her head over her shoulder, or stoops, or
 
 The Caravan Man 125 
 
 bends the living line that flies all along the edge 
 of her Gods, is n t she fine!" 
 
 "And who s the lady?" queried the fat man in 
 a matter-of-fact tone. 
 
 The caravan man came back from his rhapsody. 
 "Oh, I m speaking in the abstract. Well, what I 
 feel is that I could paint that sort of thing now 
 without qualms. I could go back to my old studio 
 at Primrose Hill I still keep it on and take up 
 figure again. But this life gets hold of one. Fifteen 
 months of it, rambling about, dressing anyhow, 
 consulting no one it s ideal." 
 
 Monk refilled his pipe. "You ll come back to 
 figure, Bamfield. What about your landscape? 
 Sells, I suppose?" 
 
 "I don t sell it." Bamfield began to pace about 
 again; "I m painting to please myself and damn 
 the dealers!" 
 
 "Certainly damn the dealers, damn them all. 
 I m with you there," agreed Monk. "But our un 
 fortunate profession " 
 
 "And damn the profession! Art should be ama 
 teur all the arts music, painting, drama, liter 
 ature. Work at em for the love of them, but never 
 for money." 
 
 "And how do we live?" queried Monk, open- 
 eyed. 
 
 "Get your living at anything else never at 
 creative work of that sort. I take photographs." J
 
 126 The Caravan Man 
 
 " Proper photographs ? " 
 
 Bamfield walked into his caravan, came out 
 with a handful of prints and offered them for in 
 spection. Monk stared at him, aghast. "You 
 know, Bamfield, you are absolutely the limit!" 
 
 Bamfield was warming to his theme now. "You 
 know, Monkey, we artists build a temple of pure 
 fancy to dwell in, and there we minister to our 
 idols, our dreams." 
 
 "I don t, dear boy believe me, I do not," said 
 Monk solemnly. 
 
 "We rage," went on Bamfield, "because when 
 we ve painted something fine, most of us have to 
 chaffer with swine who will see only money in our 
 loveliest efforts." 
 
 Monk grinned. "They won t always do that, 
 even, will they? Blast em!" 
 
 "Well, but it s an invigorating thing for a man 
 of imaginative temperament to be brought into 
 occasional contact with earth. So just for the tonic 
 of the thing, I earn my living as I go, at photog 
 raphy. Five bob a dozen. And another splendid 
 thing, it s cured me of this cursed inspiration." 
 
 Monk felt bewildered. "Cured you of " he 
 began weakly. 
 
 "Inspiration" Bamfield laid down the law 
 "like the artistic temperament, is a fraud, a mere 
 excuse for being damnably lazy and doing about a 
 quarter of a proper man s work."
 
 The Caravan Man 127 
 
 "Here, don t give our snug little trade away!" 
 
 "Sometimes, when I m ready to start a canvas, 
 some fat old frump turns up in her best velvet 
 frock and wants to be took. In the old days, when 
 I rather cultivated being a sensitive creature, that 
 would have put me off work for six weeks, but now 
 I take her photo, I take her five bob, and I go on 
 with my painting like a proper craftsman." 
 
 "Like a plumber." 
 
 Bamfield ignored the comment. "I m a crafts 
 man. And art will flourish, and great ideals will 
 live in England once again, when every artist 
 learns to make himself a sane and healthy work 
 man." He broke off and came back to earth. 
 "What are you sniggering at?" 
 
 Monk knocked out his pipe, put it into his 
 pocket, rose, and, making his cap into a bag, pro 
 ceeded to collect coins from an imaginary crowd, 
 smiling ingratiatingly as he did so. 
 
 "Thank you, sir and you, sir. Thank you, 
 miss. Brother Bamfield will repeat his highly 
 humorous address this evening, on the beach, close 
 to the pier." He surveyed Bamfield with good- 
 humoured scorn. "My lad," he went on, with real 
 good-nature, "I ve a bit of news for you. You ve 
 arrived!" He delivered his information with a pro 
 found sense of the dramatic effect of simplicity. 
 
 To his evident astonishment, the caravan man 
 replied with equal simplicity, " I know I have."
 
 128 The Caravan Man 
 
 "The critics have found you out, the people who 
 buy have found you out, Bamfield. The Daily 
 Mail " He broke off. "You know! what do 
 you mean?" 
 
 "I mean," said Bamfield, "that I am fully aware 
 that I can now sell whatever I paint at my own 
 price. IVe known it for the last three months. 
 Know how I found out? Remember Iffelstein?" 
 The other nodded. "Twice he came hunting me 
 out to let him have stuff. I wondered why. I went 
 up to town and made enquiries and I found out. 
 They want me at last!" He stretched himself 
 luxuriously. 
 
 "And do you know where our friend Iffelstein 
 is now? I came down part of the way in his car. 
 He s hunting round the far side of the common for 
 you, and I was to meet him and bring him along if 
 I found you." 
 
 "Then go and stop him! Stop him, Monk, or 
 there ll be murder. When I think of the way that 
 swine used to sweat me Bring him here and I 11 
 drown him in this pond." 
 
 "Good Lord, Bammy, don t be a fool! Come 
 back to London. Fame s waiting for you." 
 
 "Let it wait" (with a magnificent gesture). 
 " I Ve waited long enough. I m in no hurry. This 
 life s a joy. I m waiting for canvases and in the 
 meantime I ve picked out some lovely little bits 
 round here that simply cry to be painted."
 
 The Caravan Man 129 
 
 "Did this one cry much?" asked Monk suddenly. 
 
 Bamfield stared. 
 
 Monk held out a number of the prints he had 
 taken from the packet Bamfield had submitted. 
 "Lovely little bits! and this is one of em, I sup 
 pose?" 
 
 Bamfield strode across and grabbed the pile of 
 prints. "That? Oh, that should n t be there." 
 
 Monk shook his head sourly. "I see. The long 
 and short of it is you re going to get mixed up 
 with a wife." 
 
 "Whose wife?" 
 
 "Don t frivol. Bamfield, old man, don t do it. 
 Remember what we ve agreed on so often the 
 man who proposes to a girl till he s known her inti 
 mately for at least twenty years is a fool, and the 
 artist who gets married under any circumstances 
 whatever is a criminal." 
 
 "I know. But, my dear Monk, Oh, it s ab 
 surd. What should I want with a wife? I ve got 
 a carpet-sweeper." 
 
 The fat man started up as if stung. "I knew it 
 I guessed it! A carpet-sweeper! first symp 
 toms of the nesting instinct. I ve seen it in other 
 sufferers. Oh, Bamfield, beware. A man begins 
 with an innocent carpet-sweeper, and before he 
 knows where he is, he finds himself landed with a 
 house full of furniture and a wife." 
 
 Bamfield paced away impatiently. "Monk, don t
 
 130 The Caravan Man 
 
 worry. You know my sweetheart, my one and only 
 mistress, the little girl painted on my studio wall. 
 Nothing lives that s half so sweet as she looks. For 
 ever my only love!" He struck a pose, hand on 
 heart. 
 
 "Pah!" Monk was bitterly incredulous. "Well, 
 God forgive you. Might have been a great painter" 
 
 he addressed the landscape generally " but 
 got married. I m off. I m not wanted here. I may 
 be intruding. Where s Iffelstein? I ll meet him 
 and take him away, since we re too swell-headed 
 to listen to reason. Bammy," he interrupted him 
 self suddenly, "mind she don t humbug you." 
 
 "Oh, shut up!" said Bamfield testily. 
 
 "Do you know what s going to happen to you 
 
 may have happened for all you know? Do you 
 know anything of Lord Bamfylde? No relation of 
 his, are you?" 
 
 "None at all. Never heard of him. Why?" 
 
 "He spells his name with a *y, but I thought 
 you might be in the family. He s one of these 
 nature-study men, the new sport, goes about in a 
 caravan, with a camera, snapshotting birds, beasts, 
 and fishes, all-alive-oh ! Now, supposing this 
 lovely little bit of yours has been a bit too smart 
 for once, and has mistaken you for his lordship " 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "Why, you duffer? D you suppose they 
 have n t paragraphed him in the papers ? Look at
 
 The Caravan Man 131 
 
 the chance for a muddle. Wandering individual, 
 caravan, photography, same name " 
 
 "No," said Bamfield. "I ve told you once 
 my name is Jones." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " Iffelstein s doing. The beggar hunted after me 
 steadily, and I dodged him by dropping Bamfield 
 and taking to Jones." 
 
 "Well, he s got you now, for all that." 
 
 "Has he! Well, then, Monk, stop him. Do you 
 want to see me swung by the neck?" 
 
 "Can t say it might be for the best," said the 
 other malevolently. 
 
 "Oh, go and stop him, Monk. Tell him he s a 
 dead man if he comes here." 
 
 "Keep calm, keep calm," said Monk. "I ll 
 explain." He moved away past the caravan. 
 "Bammy," he said, suddenly stopping, "have you 
 really, really let yourself in for a carpet-sweeper?" 
 
 With an air of lofty condescension the caravan 
 man went up the steps and came down with an 
 undeniable carpet-sweeper. He handed it to the 
 fat man, who took it silently. 
 
 "Bamfield," he said, "let me have it. Let me 
 take it away. Let me let me cut the plague spot 
 out. It may hurt, but one slash of the surgeon s 
 knife, and all risk of the infection spreading is 
 
 over." 
 
 Bamfield hastily grabbed his carpet-sweeper.
 
 132 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Out of it!" he commanded. "I know you and 
 your dirty old studio. Buy your own carpet- 
 sweeper, or pinch some one else s. Let it alone, 
 or " He held it up threateningly. 
 
 Monk made a despairing movement of his hands, 
 and lumbered away. "I warned you," he said, 
 solemnly and simply. 
 
 Bamfield put his thumb to his nose and spread 
 his fingers out. Monk, sadness in the line of his 
 dejected shoulders, moved off through the trees. 
 
 Bamfield suddenly hailed him. "Monkey!" 
 Monk pulled up and looked back. "Look us up!" 
 called Bamfield. Monk waved a hand and went on. 
 
 Bamfield put the carpet-sweeper down against 
 the caravan steps, went over to his fire and stirred 
 it. The kettle swinging over the blaze immedi 
 ately spat into his shoes. He hopped, blessed the 
 kettle, picked up a shaving-pot which lay there, 
 tipped some boiling water into it, mixed up a 
 lather with the brush, and began to lather himself. 
 
 He heard the swift movement of a skirt near him, 
 turned his head there was Rose Nieugente. 
 
 Up he jumped, pot in one hand, brush in the 
 other, his face a smother of lather. He oifered 
 Rose first the right hand, with the brush, then the 
 left hand, with the pot. Then he tucked the brush 
 into the pot and began to wipe the lather off. 
 
 Rose, however, was too charged with an errand 
 of importance to take heed of his appearance. She
 
 The Caravan Man 133 
 
 was breathless with concern and with hurry. She 
 had run all the way from the Priory. 
 
 Aunt Anne had come home the previous night. 
 Her ankle had been quite well for a few days, but 
 the Stickfords had kept her with them. It was her 
 temperament to look for the discovery of something 
 gone awry during any prolonged absence of hers, 
 but she was unprepared for what she gathered 
 before she went to bed that night. 
 
 Do you imagine Rose s visits to the caravan had 
 been entirely unobserved? Other windows besides 
 that of Rose s room looked towards the spot on 
 which the caravan was resting. Not a word had 
 escaped the properly trained serving-maids, but 
 the establishment at the Priory, ignorant of any 
 thing but an outline of the circumstances, were 
 agog with the discovery that Miss Rose was having 
 what must surely be a most elaborate photograph 
 or series of photographs taken by the caravan man. 
 The maids were but women ; they had undoubtedly 
 a liking for Rose, but news is news ; the acting 
 head of the household was back, demanding infor 
 mation; here was matter for disclosure It all 
 came out. 
 
 Rose, brought to book, found an unexpected 
 courage. "Why, what was wrong? I wanted a 
 photograph; I don t think much of Bapkin; this 
 man was handy, and he s very cheap." Aunt Anne 
 was taken considerably aback at being faced in
 
 134 The Caravan Man 
 
 this way. "Five shillings a dozen," said Rose. "It 
 was absurdly cheap. And then, I could n t very 
 well go far from the Priory. I was in charge. You 
 said I was to keep an eye on the maids " 
 
 "Do you call that keeping an eye on them, 
 spending day after day over there? Whatever 
 were you doing?" 
 
 " Sitting," replied Rose. 
 
 "All that time?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "For five shillings?" 
 
 "He had bad he was n t successful. Perhaps 
 he does n t know much about photographing 
 perhaps that s why he was so cheap." 
 
 Of course the interview between Rose and her 
 aunt had much more in it than that, but that was 
 its essence. 
 
 "You understand," said Aunt Anne. "No more 
 of it. I 11 have an end put to this. I 11 see the man 
 myself, directly after breakfast. Does a man of 
 that class imagine that he can spread his demoraliz 
 ing influence broadcast in this locality? Ah-huh, 
 he ll find his mistake when I talk to him. I m sur 
 prised at you, Rose I m shocked. But there! 
 we know where this sort of thing comes from." 
 She had a habit of winding up like that. Rose 
 usually hung her head. To-night it was just 
 before bedtime strange to say, she lifted it, and 
 stared at Aunt Anne very hard. Aunt Anne almost
 
 The Caravan Man 135 
 
 fancied for a moment that the child intended to 
 "answer" her. If she did, she changed her mind, 
 and marched out of the room to her own. 
 
 Rose heard Aunt Anne and Granny, who had 
 gone to bed before her daughter s arrival home the 
 night before, and who breakfasted in bed that 
 morning, holding a long conversation after break 
 fast downstairs was finished. Then Rose was sent 
 for. The conversation of the previous night was 
 repeated almost verbatim, with Granny s voice 
 intervening at frequent intervals. 
 
 When she was allowed to go, Rose went down 
 stairs, and into the rose-garden, now losing much 
 of its summer beauty. The caravan man was going 
 to catch it. It was too bad. He ought to be warned. 
 If he knew, perhaps he would run away. Rose did 
 not want him to but still, was it fair to leave 
 him in ignorance of what the next hour held for 
 him? 
 
 The end of it was that she swept down on the 
 caravan man herself, before Aunt Anne had cleared 
 off the first of her household supervisory duties. 
 
 "Look out!" said Rose. 
 
 "What for?" demanded Bamfield. 
 
 "I ve come to warn you." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "My Aunt Anne s coming." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "To see you."
 
 136 The Caravan Man 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "She s going to give you a talking to." 
 
 "What for?" He clasped his hands nervously 
 together. "Save me!" he said, a tremor of appeal 
 in his voice. "What have I done?" 
 
 "It s about my coming here so often," explained 
 Rose. She looked over her shoulder through the 
 trees the way she had come. The coast apparently 
 was clear, and she proceeded: "My Aunt Anne 
 came home from Stickfordleigh last night, and 
 and there s been a lot of talk, at breakfast, and 
 after . . . You know, my photographs do seem to 
 have taken rather a long time, don t they?" 
 
 "Well, but that s quite easily explainable." 
 Bamfield proceeded to explain. "You were good 
 enough to patronize me, and I ve had shocking 
 luck. There you have it just luck. Sometimes 
 I might have taken half a dozen plates from 
 each of twenty sitters without a single mishap, 
 but it just so happens it does just so happen at 
 times " He looked appealingly at Rose. 
 
 "I quite understand," she said good-naturedly. 
 
 "I was sure you would," he said gratefully. 
 "You see, you were good enough to patronize me, 
 and things began to go wrong. There are so many 
 ways in which photographs go wrong. Let me see 
 last Wednesday, was n t it, that you sat for the 
 first time?" 
 
 "All day," said Rose.
 
 The Caravan Man 137 
 
 "Ah, but then, you were my first sitter in the 
 neighbourhood, and naturally I had to make rather 
 a special job of you." 
 
 "Is that quite honest?" asked Rose doubtfully. 
 
 "I ll be frank it isn t," conceded Bamfield 
 with an air of revealing a past full of dark deeds, 
 and an implied appeal for tender consideration. 
 "But the photographer, caught in the toils of a 
 grinding commercialism, is forced to discard, in 
 the struggle for existence, all the finer instincts of 
 his nature, and to adopt methods that in his better 
 moments revolt his soul. I admit," he went on, 
 appealing eyes on hers, "I admit that it was 
 my intention to turn out, at five shillings a dozen, 
 some photographs of you that would honestly be 
 worth at least ten shillings. Miss Rose, forgive me. 
 I confess it. I intended to use you as an advertise 
 ment in the neighbourhood." 
 
 "Well, I don t think you ought to," answered 
 Rose; "and from what you told me you don t seem 
 to have got much advertisement out of me. After 
 all my sittings on Wednesday you did n t get a 
 good photograph of me, did you?" 
 
 "Something went wrong with the developer," 
 said Bamfield. 
 
 "And on Thursday, I think you said something 
 went wrong with the plates," said Rose. 
 
 "And on Friday something went wrong with the 
 with the "
 
 138 The Caravan Man 
 
 "The darkslide, was n t it? I must say, you 
 have had bad luck." 
 
 "Shocking. And on Saturday something went 
 wrong with the lens, and on Sunday you did n t 
 
 come." 
 
 "I did, in the afternoon." 
 
 "Well, you would n t sit, on a Sunday, so that 
 was another day wasted." 
 
 "And on Monday what went wrong on 
 Monday?" 
 
 "I don t remember, but I know it was something. 
 And yesterday, I managed for the first time to get 
 something reasonable; but I was thinking that if 
 you could spare the time, I " 
 
 Splash! 
 
 From the pond came a loud smack, a flat, crisp, 
 sudden concussion as of water smitten decidedly. 
 Had Rose, making for the caravan that morning, 
 looked at it instead of at Bamfield, she would pos 
 sibly have seen a large fat man working his way 
 unostentatiously round the caravan towards the 
 carpet-sweeper leaning against the steps. He saw 
 Rose, and immediately dodged back behind the 
 nearest tree. From behind this tree he was a spec 
 tator of the meeting between Rose and the caravan 
 man. They were, he noted, earnestly engaged, and 
 very soon he decided that a trifling precaution in 
 the matter of approach should put him in safe 
 possession of what he sought. He came from be-
 
 The Caravan Man 139 
 
 hind the tree, stepped behind the caravan, dropped 
 not too easily on hands and knees, and began to 
 crawl under it. He bumped his head on the hind 
 spring, he scraped his back rather painfully on the 
 front axle, but worming forward undaunted, he 
 reached out and secured the carpet-sweeper. 
 Backing noiselessly, he stood up with his prize, 
 peered round the caravan to see the two by the fire 
 still busily engaged with each other, eyed the pond, 
 swung the carpet-sweeper 
 
 Bamfield and Rose, moved by the same instinct, 
 turned their faces towards the pond. All the blood 
 of the sportsman roused in him, Bamfield forgot 
 Rose Nieugente, forgot the foreshadowed advent 
 of Miss Grampette, lost consciousness, in fact, of 
 almost everything in the world not connected with 
 that sudden smack on the water, and the slowly 
 widening ripples urging their slow circles across 
 the smooth surface of the pond. One spring, and 
 he was at the water s edge. Rose was after him a 
 second later. The fat man, wondrous nimble, was 
 safely in hiding on hands and knees behind a gorse- 
 bush not twenty feet away. 
 
 "Got him!" gasped Bamfield, stooped, grasped 
 his rod, struck he turned a blank face to Rose. 
 "No, I have n t," he said, crestfallen. Not a 
 question as to his failure. The line came placidly 
 up, never a suggestion of a bend in the slender top- 
 joint of the rod. "He s got off," he continued.
 
 140 The Caravan Man 
 
 " I don t think he was ever on," laughed Rose. 
 "What are you after? old Mouldy Methuse 
 lah?" 
 
 "I don t know the gentleman s name," an 
 swered Bamfield, "but I seem to recognize the 
 implied description. It s a fish, species unknown, 
 but of a simply enormous size, the kind, in fact, 
 that always gets away." 
 
 "I know," said Rose; "that s the one. Old 
 Mouldy Methuselah he s always called. Well, you 
 may as well give tip. You ll never catch him. He s 
 the aborigine of this place, the oldest inhabitant. 
 I dare say the Romans fished for him when they 
 were here." 
 
 "I m no ignorant Roman," interrupted Bam 
 field. 
 
 "Well, everybody about here has done his best, 
 but they say he knows more about fishing than 
 any man. I Ve heard people say that one of these 
 days old Methuselah will take it into his head to 
 start fishing for men, and then look out!" 
 
 Bamfield all this time was selecting and adjust 
 ing a fresh worm. "I have no wish to boast," he 
 remarked, "but I will merely ask you to defer 
 judgment for a time. I content myself for the 
 present with pointing out that I have set myself 
 the task of landing Gloomy Jeroboam. I may 
 possibly have something to report in a day or so." 
 Stooping cautiously on hands and knees, he began
 
 The Caravan Man 141 
 
 to lower the bait into the pond. It needed both 
 skill and care to manoeuvre it into the exact spot 
 he desired to reach, and engrossed on this task, he 
 lost touch for a second or so with Rose. He did not 
 therefore see her sudden start, her swift step back 
 wards, her fleet disappearance behind the shelter 
 of the caravan, nor catch the word of warning 
 flung hastily at him, "My aunt here she comes! 
 I must hide!" Unconscious of the loss of his 
 auditor, he continued complacently to address her 
 over his shoulder. 
 
 " I concede Musty Ezekiel all the artfulness you 
 claim for him; I merely put forward the proposi 
 tion that the brain of man is superior to that of a 
 fish, and a contest between the two can end only 
 in one way. Of course, if you treat fishing as a 
 mere lark, you are inviting disappointment. I tell 
 you what" he had now adjusted his line in the 
 pond as he wanted it " don t you think we might 
 get hold of a day s fishing together? Don t you 
 think that would be awfully jolly?" He turned as 
 he spoke, to address Rose directly 
 
 So far, nothing in this story has offered any direct 
 description of Aunt Anne. In brief it may be said 
 here that Miss Grampette Anne Grampette 
 was tall, forty-seven, and stood no nonsense from 
 anybody. Bamfield felt that at the first glance. J 
 
 "Good-morning," he said. "Er excuse me 
 er but it s a little embarrassing "
 
 142 The Caravan Man 
 
 * "Not in the least," said Anne Grampette. 
 "Nothing," she added, "embarrasses me." This 
 was nearly true. 
 
 "I meant me," explained Bamfield, resigning 
 himself to the inevitable. "You want to speak to 
 me?" he enquired, with his invariable politeness. 
 
 "Yes," she answered. "In reference to the 
 photographs you take." 
 
 "You want me to take some photographs?" 
 
 Anne Grampette s simple directness was never 
 displayed to better advantage. 
 
 " I want you not to take photographs. I want you 
 to stop taking photographs in this neighbourhood." 
 
 "I I beg your pardon ? " replied the startled 
 Bamfield. 
 
 "We don t approve of them," said Miss Gram 
 pette. She did not explain who "we" were, but it 
 was unnecessary. She herself was as important 
 and her wishes as conclusive as quite a wide- 
 embracing "we." "We look upon it as a quite 
 unnecessary extravagance among the class of 
 people you cater for." 
 
 Bamfield was still polite. "Excuse me," he re 
 turned, "if I don t quite grasp this. Do you really 
 feel that it matters so much if people have their 
 photographs taken ?" ..-.,... . v 
 
 Miss Grampette had it all ready for him. "We 
 consider the individual photograph to be an exhibi 
 tion of childish vanity, and therefore immoral."
 
 The Caravan Man 143 
 
 "Immoral! Oh, come, I say " remonstrated 
 
 Bamfield. 
 
 "Immoral," insisted Miss Grampette. "A com 
 bined group, perhaps " this she conceded with a 
 fine charity " such as the Sunday-School Ex 
 cursion, or the Mothers Annual Outing, or the 
 Men s Mutual Improvement Society. But we de 
 precate the encouragement of an undue sense 
 of personal importance in the humbler walks of 
 life." 
 
 Bamfield drew a deep breath. Anything quite 
 like this he had not met before. His fine manners 
 wilted a trifle. 
 
 "Apart from that," went on the lady, "Mr. 
 Bapkin, our organist, and headmaster at the 
 parish schools, is quite able to carry out any 
 photographic work that is unavoidable in the 
 neighbou rhood . 
 
 Bamfield s politeness, though stricken grievously, 
 still raised its head from the dust. 
 
 "It seems a very select neighbourhood," he ven 
 tured, with what he hoped was an ingratiating 
 smile. 
 
 "There are a number of people, mostly ladies 
 like myself, who have a proper sense of duty to 
 wards their humbler neighbours." 
 
 "How jolly," said Bamfield, "to live here always 
 and be a humble neighbour! But do you know 
 how much I charge?"
 
 1 44 The Caravan Man 
 
 "It is a matter of principle, not of cost," re 
 turned Miss Grampette loftily. 
 
 "But five shillings a dozen think of it, my 
 dear lady!" remonstrated Bamfield. "Come; you 
 can t get much immorality for five shillings, you 
 know." Miss Grampette s lips compressed further. 
 "Let me show you." He ran over to the caravan 
 and came back with the bundle of prints. "There, 
 now!" He spread them out under Miss Gram 
 pette s nose. " I 11 ask you, could photographs like 
 these encourage anybody s sense of personal 
 importance?" 
 
 " I don t feel called upon to express any opinion 
 on the " began his visitor, and then stopped 
 abruptly as he dealt the prints over like a pack of 
 cards. She pounced on one; her eyes opened. 
 "What is this? My niece?" 
 
 Bamfield s most exquisite manner flashed to the 
 forefront on the instant. A smile in which respect 
 ful admiration and gratification vied for expression 
 in friendly contest suffused his ingenuous face. 
 
 "Oh, are you Miss Grampette?" He held his 
 hand out. "How do you " 
 
 The young man actually seemed to think that 
 Miss Grampette was going to shake hands with 
 him. She ignored his hand and eyed him stonily. 
 
 "It is as I feared." She again looked darkly at 
 the print she held in her hand. "But after what I 
 have said I don t think" her lips curled in an
 
 The Caravan Man 145 
 
 unpleasant smile "I don t think that she is 
 likely to be seen again in the vicinity of this cara 
 van." To Bamfield s horror, as she said it she 
 swung round and deliberately walked towards the 
 standing offence. 
 
 Bamfield shuddered convulsively.. While ad 
 dressing Miss Grampette, he had caught a glimpse 
 first of Rose s skirts, then of her face* peeping out 
 from behind the caravan. Three strides of Miss 
 Grampette would bring her lurking-place into full 
 view. Two were taken the third followed al 
 most an audible sigh of relief escaped from Bam 
 field. The figure of Rose came into view under 
 the caravan! Involved in imminent catastrophe, 
 with barely a second s warning, she had instinc 
 tively taken the only possible course to save her 
 self she had dived between the wheels. Miss 
 Grampette s third stride came uncompromisingly 
 down on the turf as the tail-end of her niece s skirts 
 whipped into their place of concealment. Bamfield 
 breathed relief. So, one may judge, did Rose. 
 
 Miss Grampette, all unaware that she stood on 
 the brink of a great discovery, paused to continue 
 her remarks to Bamfield. "May I ask I had 
 better understand from you are you likely to 
 make a prolonged stay in this neighbourhood?" 
 
 No getting round her. Bamfield abandoned the 
 attempt. 
 
 "It depends on what my horse says. She s de-
 
 146 The Caravan Man 
 
 cided to lie up for a week or so. She s she s 
 rather a neurotic horse has queer ideas about 
 her near hind hoof " 
 
 He stopped. Miss Grampette s level brows told 
 him that she was in no mood for feeble jesting of 
 this kind. She spoke acidly. 
 
 "While you stay in this neighbourhood, I shall 
 look to see you make some improving use of your 
 time. Improvement is our watchword in this 
 parish. There are several admirable societies and 
 leagues which will guide you on sound lines. Are 
 you married?" 
 
 Bamfield started violently. 
 
 "No," he said, very loudly, and turned red 
 he did not know exactly why. 
 
 Miss Grampette eyed him keenly. Again Bam 
 field could not see why. He guessed it had some 
 thing to do with his blush and turned redder 
 than ever. 
 
 "Dash it all!" he reflected. "This awful woman 
 is making me feel nervous." 
 
 Miss Grampette continued: "Then you should 
 take a special interest in an address on eugenics 
 which will be given in the town hall to-morrow 
 night, at seven-thirty." 
 
 "This is most kind," began Bamfield, "but " 
 
 She cut him short. "Name?" 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 "Name?" severely.
 
 The Caravan Man 147 
 
 Bamfield was nervous. "Bam er Jones," he 
 jerked out. 
 
 "Christian name?" She was taking it all down 
 in a little notebook. 
 
 "George," Bamfield answered, then corrected 
 himself: "No James." He corrected himself 
 again: "No John." 
 
 Miss Grampette held her pencil stationary and 
 surveyed him coldly. 
 
 "Christian name?" she repeated, in her iciest. 
 
 "John," Bamfield maintained. She accepted 
 it this time. 
 
 "Permanent address?" 
 
 Bamfield was less docile. "What do you want 
 my permanent address for?" he asked suspiciously. 
 
 "I propose to send you from time to time a 
 selection of literature suitable to your age, sex, 
 and class." 
 
 " I have n t got a permanent address," said 
 Bamfield with decision. 
 
 She looked at him darkly. "No permanent 
 address? How do I find you?" 
 
 Under the stress of this sort of thing even Bam 
 field was slowly stiffening. 
 
 "Nicely, thank you," he answered flippantly. 
 "How s yourself?" 
 
 She snapped her notebook together and slipped 
 a bit of elastic round it with a look expressive of 
 her certainty that somewhere, somewhen, some-
 
 148 The Caravan Man 
 
 how, he was to pay for that, and handed him a 
 ticket. 
 
 "Here is a ticket." He had to take it. "No 
 charge. Row B, Number 8. I am in the chair." 
 
 Bamfield s mild flippancy still persisted. "Re 
 ally? That makes it so tempting. I Ve half a mind 
 to be there." 
 
 Anne Grampette prepared to let loose her re 
 maining flood upon him a drowner. 
 
 "I should strongly advise you not to be any 
 where else," she remarked in her most detached 
 manner detached, but ominous. 
 
 Bamfield took the challenge. "I say," he re 
 marked admiringly, "you really ought to be 
 chairman of the parish council!" 
 
 It came: "I am chairman of the parish council." 
 
 It secured every bit of the effect she expected. 
 Bamfield s mouth opened weakly. 
 
 "Oh er ah "was all he could offer. 
 
 She opened the floodgates a little wider. 
 "There is no compulsion, but where pressure seems 
 desirable in the interest of any particular individ 
 ual, we do not hesitate to apply it." 
 
 Bamfield stood up to it. "Now we re coming 
 to it! What happens, then, if I don t come?" 
 
 The first of the remaining double-handers swung 
 home. "You have already raised the point that 
 I am chairman of the parish council. I am, there 
 fore, ex qfficio, a member of the highways and
 
 The Caravan Man 149 
 
 byways committee, which is charged with the 
 care of the common on which your caravan is now 
 illegally trespassing." 
 
 "Tres er tres But I but you " 
 
 The second followed, and all was over. "If I 
 see you at the meeting, I may not feel called upon 
 to urge any immediate action with regard to the 
 indictable offence of which you have now been 
 guilty for just upon a fortnight." 
 
 She waited to see if any power of offence or 
 defence remained. No. The wreck was still on its 
 feet, but obviously shattered beyond further feel 
 ing. With a majestic sweep of the eyelids that dis 
 dained him further notice, Miss Grampette walked 
 away. 
 
 The caravan man rallied his forces and for the 
 third time that morning set about his shave.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 ANNE GRAMPETTE S visit and message 
 had so impressed Bamfield that he actually 
 forgot Rose. For the sake of that respect for the 
 dignity of womanhood which is one of our civiliza 
 tion s safeguards, let us be glad of it. Her crawl 
 from under the caravan was inevitably ungraceful. 
 Rose herself was glad that Bamfield did not see her 
 doing it. He jumped as he heard her voice almost 
 in his ear, and stopped lathering again. 
 
 "You see," said Rose; "you ll have to go." 
 
 "I won t." 
 
 "But if they prosecute you " 
 
 "Let em. I refuse to budge. Is this Ingerland, 
 my Ingerland? Mustn t a bloke live, lidy? Give 
 me work or give me death! I shall go bankrupt 
 soon. Here s this costly plant" he waved his 
 hand at the caravan " standing idle, eating its 
 head off. I m going round Ouseton soon with a 
 couple of sandwich-boards. Be good-natured 
 patronize art. Order another half-dozen photo 
 graphs. Give me some fresh sittings. ): 
 
 Rose laughed. "I say, you are a worker! You re 
 sure to succeed, you know, sooner or later." 
 
 "I beg your pardon?" said Bamfield in shocked 
 surprise. "I beg your pardon sooner or later ?
 
 The Caravan Man 151 
 
 Do you wish to suggest that I am not successful 
 now? Do you come to throw my failure in my 
 wretched teeth?" 
 
 Rose blushed. "Oh, I beg your pardon! That 
 was very rude of me ! But I mean just going 
 about in a caravan, taking people s photographs 
 at five shillings a dozen Ought n t you to have 
 got on further?" 
 
 "How?" demanded Bamfield. 
 
 "Well I don t know, but well, for instance, 
 ought n t you to have a shop somewhere?" 
 
 "A shop? Why?" 
 
 "It would be a sort of home for you." 
 
 "I see. But don t you think this caravan is a 
 good enough home for me?" 
 
 Rose hesitated. "Well, I thought Most men, 
 you know, would feel " 
 
 "I know," broke in Bamfield. "You think that 
 most men would feel ashamed of going about in 
 this gipsy fashion, and would look forward with 
 longing to a shop, with a name over it just 
 fancy, I have n t even got a name-board up on my 
 caravan! and plate-glass windows with gilt let 
 tering, and lamps inside perhaps" he went 
 on with lowered voice, as if awestruck by a glimpse 
 of a new and great idea "perhaps even lamps 
 outside! Perhaps even a man outside , to invite 
 people in as they passed!" He looked gloomily at 
 his caravan. "Oh, why," he asked, with a touch of
 
 152 The Caravan Man 
 
 passionate remonstrance in his voice, "why have 
 you set me longing? I was so happy in my humble 
 caravan, till you yes, you stole into my Eden 
 and planted the seeds of discontent in my heart!" 
 
 Rose chilled. This was too flagrant. 
 
 "I think you are laughing at me," she said re 
 proachfully. "I don t choose to be laughed at. 
 Good-morning." 
 
 She was turning away, head high, when Barn- 
 field s natural voice, eager and apologetic, detained 
 her. 
 
 "Oh, but wait! I m so sorry! I ve something 
 to show you. Do wait a minute." He picked up 
 from the caravan steps the bundle of prints he had 
 shown Miss Grampette and, sorting them out, 
 selected two. "There!" He offered them for Rose s 
 inspection. 
 
 Rose took them and looked pleased. "How 
 splendid!" 
 
 "Do you think so?" said Bamfield. He took 
 them from her and tore them in four. 
 
 Rose looked alarmed. "Whatever did you do 
 that for?" 
 
 "They were n t good enough to please me 
 that s all," replied Bamfield. "I m going to ask 
 you to sit again." 
 
 "Oh, but I ought to tell you," said Rose, "I 
 hardly see how I can. I ought not to be speaking 
 to you. My aunt forbade it."
 
 The Caravan Man 153 
 
 "Did she?" said Bamfield. "Well, I half guessed 
 as much." 
 
 "I m so sorry " Rose hesitated. 
 
 "Oh, it s all right," said Bamfield, "She did n t 
 hurt me. But, I say, why won t she let you speak 
 tome?" 
 
 Rose felt embarrassed. "I don t quite know 
 how to put it," she said, looking distressed. " She 
 says, and so does my grandmother, that I ought 
 not to be here at all. I I have been rather a lot, 
 have n t I ? " she asked, frankly admitting her 
 wrongdoing. 
 
 "Well, I don t see it." Bamfield thought of a 
 plausible excuse for her, for him, for them both. 
 "You wanted your photograph taken, and I under 
 took to do it, and I ve had bad luck that s all. 
 It s meant a lot of sitting a lot of trouble for 
 you, of course " 
 
 "Not at all," said Rose politely and truth 
 fully. 
 
 " So that you are n t in the least to blame." 
 
 "Well, but, apart from that " she began, and 
 stopped. 
 
 "Apart from that?" 
 
 "I hardly know how to say it. You see, I look 
 upon you as quite quite an intelligent man " 
 
 "You are awfully good," said Bamfield grate 
 fully. 
 
 "And I feel that in speaking to you I m not
 
 154 The Caravan Man 
 
 doing myself any harm, and it might do you 
 some good." 
 
 "That," explained Bamfield, "that is what has 
 been uppermost in my mind all the time the 
 good which I felt your conversation might do me. 
 In fact, it has, already. I sometimes lie and won 
 der at the the immense improvement that is 
 taking place in me imperceptible to outsiders, 
 perhaps, but unmistakable to me. And if you d 
 only keep on even your aunt will be sure to 
 notice it in time. You have n t always lived with 
 her, have you?" he asked, dexterously sweeping 
 the conversation into the stream which he felt 
 would float them both along. 
 
 "No," answered Rose. "Only the last seven 
 years. Before that, we lived in London." 
 
 "We?" 
 
 "My father and I. I don t remember my mother. 
 Father was n t very well off most of the time. Only 
 when he sold a picture." 
 "Oh, was he an artist?" 
 
 "Yes. We lived together, just us two," went 
 on Rose. She was floating along as the cunning 
 Bamfield had intended, on the placid stream of 
 general conversation, all thought of her aunt s 
 interdict lost sight of. "We had an old studio 
 somewhere near Primrose Hill in London, I Ve for 
 gotten exactly where a big barn of a place, with 
 whitewashed walls and a roof like a church. One
 
 The Caravan Man 155 
 
 day, I remember, when I was twelve years old, 
 father drew me on the wall painted me, just a 
 quick sketch, with my hair all tumbling over my 
 face and my eyes peeping through " She had 
 noticed Bamfield s look of astonishment and now 
 stopped. He was staring at her queerly. "Why 
 are you looking at me " 
 
 He was indeed. The thing had come upon him 
 with an unexpectedness that swept him off his 
 feet. Day by day, with at times a feeling almost 
 of uneasiness, he had felt the charm of this girl 
 growing on him. At first she was just a piece of 
 juvenile femininity of unusual grace and a face 
 rare in shape, colour, poise, and particularly 
 noticeable large grey eyes. Then the frankness, 
 the innocence, the strange air of comradeship grad 
 ually allowed to exhibit itself as she grew used to 
 talking to him had brought with it an immense 
 satisfaction. In the evenings, smoking by his fire, 
 his thoughts invariably turned to her, and he was 
 used to survey himself with something of amused 
 disdain at their wanderings. 
 
 And inevitably he recognized it now his 
 thoughts had always linked Rose up in the queerest 
 fashion with the picture on the wall at Primrose 
 Hill. What a blockhead he had been! He had 
 noticed a likeness, particularly when, at some 
 extravagance in speech of his, her grey eyes had 
 rested half puzzled, half amused, wholly fearless,
 
 156 The Caravan Man 
 
 on his, yet till this moment no glimpse of the truth 
 had opened to him. 
 
 "Studio at Primrose Hill!" murmured Bamfield 
 more to himself than to Rose. "The face on the 
 wall!" 
 
 "Yes," said Rose, "and father said he was sure 
 that the next man that took the studio would want 
 to know who the girl was, and would go search 
 ing for her. But nobody does," she concluded, 
 pulling the corners of her mouth down in mock 
 sadness. 
 
 Bamfield walked over to her. "Have you such a 
 thing as a pin about you?" he asked. Rose, star 
 tled, produced one. "Would you mind," continued 
 Bamfield, pulling up his coat-sleeve and the wrist 
 of his shirt and displaying his bare forearm, "would 
 you mind just sticking it in here? Ow!" as Rose 
 did as requested. He pulled down his cuff and coat- 
 sleeve again. "Thank you." 
 
 "Whatever is it?" asked the puzzled Rose. 
 
 "Nothing at all really nothing. I find I m 
 wide awake." He laughed. "Go on. Tell me some 
 
 more." 
 
 "Soon after that," said Rose sadly, "my father 
 died." 
 
 Bamfield looked his sympathy. "Then you came 
 here?" 
 
 "Yes. Sometimes I wish I d been a year or two 
 older and able to get a living for myself, as some
 
 The Caravan Man 157 
 
 girls do. You know, my aunt does n t like me. 
 Sometimes I wish I could go and find the old 
 studio at Primrose Hill again, and knock at the 
 door, and when the nice old man that lives there " 
 
 "Old?" interjected Bamfield hastily, as if re 
 monstrating. "I say, why old?" 
 
 "Oh, yes old, nice, and white-haired," de 
 cided Rose, " like my father. I should n t like a 
 young man to have it, somehow our old studio." 
 
 "Sorry," murmured Bamfield. For a second 
 something further hovered on his lips, but he 
 checked it, and Rose continued: 
 
 "Then perhaps he d let me live there, and I d 
 cook for him I can cook and I d dust and 
 sweep and keep everything nice and tidy, and if he 
 got worried, I d sit and talk to him and make him 
 laugh, as I used to do to father. I say, you do 
 stare!" 
 
 "Do I?" Bamfield was thinking deeply. 
 
 Rose was sitting on one of the great limbs of the 
 tree s roots. Bamfield brought over his stand cam 
 era. The girl was in a day-dream, her thoughts 
 away in the whitewashed studio at Primrose Hill. 
 Bamfield was chuckling to himself. "Dashed 
 funny!" he said to himself, but his heart was 
 beating fast. He got the camera into position and 
 focused her in the screen, pulling the velvet cloth 
 over his head in the regulation fashion. Rose 
 hardly noticed him.
 
 158 The Caravan Man 
 
 "I say, turn sideways, will you?" said Barn- 
 field suddenly. 
 
 She started. "I don t think I ought to really, 
 you can t possibly afford to take all these photos 
 for five shillings, and I can t afford any more. Be 
 sides besides" she stood up, her voice full of 
 regrets "I ought not to be here. They told me 
 not to come. I must go. Send on my prints when 
 they re done, will you?" 
 
 Bamfield came out from under the cloth. He 
 was n t going to have this not in this way, at 
 any rate. 
 
 "I say," he said, speaking seriously, "are n t you 
 really going to speak to me any more?" 
 
 Rose was as serious as he. "I mustn t," she 
 said, unsmiling. 
 
 They were both desperately grave. 
 
 "It s a shame!" Bamfield thought hard; then: 
 "Look here! Wait a minute. I passed the Priory 
 this morning between four and five o clock, and, 
 do you know, there s a part of that big stone barn 
 quite near the house " 
 
 "I know," said Rose. "There s a part that s 
 very old." 
 
 "Yes," said Bamfield. "Early Norman, I m 
 sure. I mean it. You find things like that some 
 times real old stuff still standing as part of a 
 quite modern building. And I believe there s more 
 to be found about the Priory if we looked about.
 
 The Caravan Man 159 
 
 Well, now, would n t your aunt like to have some 
 photographs made of the place by a man who 
 knows a lot about Norman architecture?" 
 
 Rose sparkled. "Do you?" 
 
 "I do." Rose was agleam, Bamfield alert and 
 smiling. Schemes formed in his brain. " I tell you 
 what I 11 come over this afternoon, and bring 
 my camera and take photos. You ll come and 
 watch me, won t you?" 
 
 "If I can if they ll let me." Rose was de 
 lighted. 
 
 "What time do you finish lunch?" 
 
 "About two o clock." 
 
 " I 11 be over directly afterwards. And I m going 
 to get on your aunt s right side. Ask me to tea." 
 
 Rose s face fell from eager anticipation to dis 
 tress. 
 
 " I m afraid " 
 
 "What? Must n t you?" 
 
 She flushed. "I m afraid," she explained un 
 willingly, "they might ask you to tea in the 
 kitchen." 
 
 Bamfield laughed. "Oho! Never mind. You 
 leave that to me. I tell you what" a new idea 
 danced through him "Will you come and have 
 tea with me here say to-morrow afternoon ? " 
 
 Rose s teeth flashed in a smile as she replied: 
 " I d love to, but I dare n t. And, anyhow, we have 
 some people coming to tea to-morrow afternoon."
 
 160 The Caravan Man 
 
 Bamfield s idea had now taken possession of 
 him. He varied it at once to suit the difficulty. 
 
 "Then come to supper to-night! There, now 
 I dare you! I ll have supper by eight o clock, if 
 you dare to slip away. I 11 have my fire going, and 
 I ll cook you the dinkiest supper out here in the 
 open " 
 
 The wild-woman-of-the-woods that lurks in 
 every true female breast roused to life in Rose at 
 the thought. 
 
 "Oh," she breathed, "if I dared!" 
 
 "Dare!" Bamfield adjured her, in just that tone 
 of challenge and urge that from the right man to 
 the right woman is irresistible. "Dare! You re 
 not afraid of me are you?" 
 
 "Not a bit," she said frankly. "I think you re 
 quite quite nice." 
 
 "You ve splendid taste," Bamfield announced, 
 heartily commendatory. "Make up your mind. 
 Say you ll come." 
 
 Rose hesitated, thrilling. The wild-woman-of- 
 the-woods tore at her. She must come oh, she 
 must! 
 
 "Could I be home by nine?" was her last diffi 
 culty. 
 
 "Absolutely without fail." Bamfield s confi 
 dence closed on her, binding her down to an irre 
 vocable step. "That s settled, then." 
 
 "No, no," she objected, frightened at his un-
 
 The Caravan Man 1 6 1 
 
 principled rushing of any last defences she might 
 have had. 
 
 "Right!" he returned, with brass-fronted assur 
 ance. "That s a promise. I 11 just shave, and then 
 cycle into the village and get some more plates for 
 my camera. And when I come, you must come and 
 help me. You know how a camera works, don t you ? " 
 
 "No, I don t," said Rose. "I know you take a 
 cap off, and I know you get under a cloth and walk 
 the thing about on its legs, but what for I Ve never 
 understood." 
 
 "You must learn," said Bamfield. "Then you 
 really could help me. I mean without any humbug. 
 Have n t you ever looked into the focusing glass?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Then have a look now. Come on." 
 
 Over to him she stepped. Bamfield uncapped 
 the lens, put in the focusing glass, held up the 
 black cloth. Rose stooped down; he popped its 
 fold over her and over himself. There they 
 were, close together, their heads and shoulders in 
 close contact under the cloth. Bamfield altered the 
 point of view. To do so, he had to pass his arm 
 round Rose s waist to grasp the spidery legs of the 
 camera. Rose blushed in the darkness. 
 
 "Now," said Bamfield, "can you see?" 
 
 "It s very queer," she answered. 
 
 "No, it s all right. It s the pond and the com 
 
 mon."
 
 1 6 2 The Caravan Man 
 
 She was puzzled. "I can t make it out Oh, 
 I see! Everything s upside down!" 
 
 Bamfield laughed. "Of course didn t you 
 know that? Everything s wrong way up when 
 you see it through the lens." 
 
 "Well, how was I to know that?" 
 
 "Of course. I ought to have told you. Can you 
 see it now?" 
 
 She squirmed a little sideways to try and get a 
 more naturalistic view of the brilliant image, 
 sparkling and shifting in the ground-glass screen. 
 Bamfield again moved the camera around that 
 is to say, he again placed his arm around Rose s 
 waist to reach the camera legs. He kept it there, 
 moving the camera around from point to point, 
 delighting her with the panorama of pictures 
 sweeping across the screen as the camera turned . . . 
 
 "Good Heavens! It s Rose! Rose!" 
 
 Rose and Bamfield came out from under the 
 cloth as if a chastising hand from the clouds had 
 descended upon them. Rose s hat was pushed 
 rakishly aside; Bamfield s hair, never very tidy, was 
 swept in a dissipated heap across his eyes ; both were 
 startled. Rose, telling herself furiously that she 
 was innocent, felt that she looked guilty. Of what, 
 in Heaven s name? Nothing and yet 
 
 Two paces away stood two ladies one, Aunt 
 Anne; the other Bamfield saw in a flash that 
 this must be "Granny."
 
 The Caravan Man 163 
 
 She was Rose s height; she was eighty at least; 
 she was skinny, tough, energetic, brown-eyed, and 
 a most imposing figure. In her dress she was a 
 joy to Bamfield. She was clothed in the style 
 affected by ladies round about the year 1860. On 
 her head was a dark-green coal-scuttle bonnet, 
 round her shoulders an admirable Paisley shawl; 
 her ample gown was extended from her wiry and 
 agile figure by a large crinoline; she wore white 
 stockings displayed well above the ankle and 
 spring-sided boots, and the slightly frilled ends of 
 a pair of long white linen trousers glinted coyly at 
 the beholder. She carried a fat green umbrella, 
 holding it in just the manner you would expect 
 that is, with its ferrule concealed by her hands, fold 
 ed over one another at the region of her waist, while 
 its head sloped upward across her left upper arm. 
 
 Rose spoke: "Granny, this is Mr. Jones. He is 
 taking my photograph." 
 
 The old lady looked grimly at Bamfield. "Tak 
 ing your photograph ! Was that what he was doing 
 when I saw you just now?" 
 
 "Saw me just now, Granny? When?" 
 
 "When I came here this very second and found 
 you endeavouring to conceal yourself under that 
 cloak or whatever it is, with this man s arm round 
 your waist?" 
 
 Rose blushed. Bamfield endeavoured to draw 
 the lightning to himself. He raised his hat no,
 
 164 The Caravan Man 
 
 he had forgotten he was n t wearing one, but he 
 raised his hair from his forehead and assumed what 
 he hoped might pass for a photographer s profes 
 sional manner. 
 
 "I was explaining the working of a lens," he 
 said. "The working of a lens is a rather technical 
 matter very few people really understand. If you 
 think it would be of any interest to you " he 
 went on diffidently. He held up the fringe of his 
 black cloth invitingly. 
 
 Granny stiffened, but gave him no reply beyond 
 a withering glance. Rose stood with clasped hands 
 innocent, but awkward. The faint and formless 
 questionings of the past week had not yet borne 
 fruit. Rose, with the heart of a lioness within her, 
 was still a timid thing in the presence of her aunt 
 and her grandmother. 
 
 Bamfield had a shot at Aunt Anne. "I m so 
 glad to see you again," he ventured, with what he 
 hoped was a successful attempt to look delighted. 
 "I wanted to say you were quite right about that 
 promiscuous photography." 
 
 "Indeed?" from Aunt Anne. 
 
 "And as regards to-morrow night," went on 
 Bamfield, "I shouldn t think of missing the lec 
 ture. It will be awfully" awfully what, he won 
 dered? "jolly, I ve no doubt." 
 
 Jolliness, even in perspective, evidently did not 
 appeal to the chairman of the parish council.
 
 The Caravan Man 165 
 
 "Indeed?" was again all she vouchsafed. 
 
 Even now Bamfield did not give in. "I had been 
 wondering," he tried, "if I might take a few photo 
 graphs at the Priory. I have noticed " 
 
 "Certainly not," said Aunt Anne. 
 
 Bamfield went on rapidly: "I had noticed several 
 distinctly interesting bits of architecture about the 
 place Early Norman, some of it and I was 
 hoping " 
 
 "No," said Aunt Anne. 
 
 " Was hoping that I might get permission to 
 make a negative " 
 
 " I have already told you our feeling with regard 
 to your photography." 
 
 A slight perspiration made its appearance on 
 Bamfield s brow. The day was hot and his task 
 was a hard one. 
 
 " I hope you won t think me too persistent, but 
 it s rather a hobby of mine Early Norman 
 architecture " 
 
 "We prefer to preserve the Priory from intru 
 
 sion." 
 
 "Of course quite so. The charm of these old 
 houses is their privacy." 
 
 "Distinctly," said Aunt Anne; and even Bam 
 field s persistence paused to draw breath. She 
 waited with malicious pleasure to slash off its head 
 when it next ventured to raise itself from the dust. 
 Rose stood writhing at her rudeness. Granny, all
 
 1 66 The Caravan Man 
 
 this time But no. Granny s occupation must 
 be disclosed later. 
 
 Bamfield turned up his last card, or, rather, he 
 endeavoured to do so. 
 
 "Forgive me it s purely a personal matter, 
 but I m not excuse my dragging it in but 
 this photography, you know it s not really 
 In a way I m I m sailing under false colours " 
 
 Aunt Anne swept his card off the table without 
 deigning to look at it. 
 
 " I am not surprised and I am not interested, 
 either. And in any case, we decline to admit you 
 to the Priory." 
 
 He gave it up. Only for the present, he told 
 himself, but this odious woman was too terrible 
 for words. She should not defeat him finally 
 that he swore; but for the moment he confessed 
 she had him beaten. He drew a long breath and 
 looked at Rose. Anne turned away triumphant. 
 Granny took Rose s hand in hers, Anne ranged up 
 on her other side, Rose threw Bamfield a glance of 
 shame and apology, and the three women moved 
 away. 
 
 For an instant the primitive being that lurked 
 in Bamfield s mental background urged him sav 
 agely to rush forward, seize Rose, wrench her away, 
 lift her into his caravan, and drive the others away 
 with spear or club. But in that same instant 
 came something else that robbed the moment of
 
 The Caravan Man 167 
 
 every tinge of bitterness. Quite simply it signalled 
 to him, "All this is nothing, this good-bye to her. 
 Ask yourself, is it possible? Does n t every instinct 
 in you tell you with infallible certainty that you 
 and she cannot possibly part like this ? Don t you 
 know, are n t you certain in yourself, that you two 
 will meet and talk again?" And with a great in 
 ward laugh of pleasure, he gave himself the confi 
 dent answer, "Yes." 
 
 She was gone. He backed, still looking after her, 
 towards the caravan steps, where his shaving-mug, 
 brush, and razor were waiting to fulfil their purpose 
 of the day. His shaving-water was cold. He de 
 cided to use it as it was, and in a few seconds had 
 covered his chin with the cold lather. He perched 
 his fragment of looking-glass on the steps, opened 
 his razor 
 
 At that moment a bicycle rounded the caravan, 
 pulled up short, and Bertha Babbage jumped off 
 and offered him a telegram, with the remark, 
 "Bamfield, Caravan, Ouseton-under-Mere Is 
 that right?" 
 
 Bamfield took the telegram, opened the envel 
 ope, took out the form inside, ignored it, and 
 stared at Bertha Babbage. 
 
 Bertha Babbage was tall, broad-shouldered, 
 broad-hipped, long-armed, long-legged, handsome, 
 fearless as an Amazon. She was the assistant post 
 mistress at Ouseton; she earned thirty shillings a
 
 1 6 8 The Caravan Man 
 
 week and kept herself on it. Perhaps that was why 
 it took an eye like Bamfield s to comprehend all 
 her excellence. It is true that she had grace with 
 out slenderness, strength without coarseness, bulk 
 with long lines that spoke of the utmost harmony 
 of structure, the bosom of a goddess. But a skirt 
 none too well-cut, a ready-made blouse, a hat 
 nearing the end of possible service even for busi 
 ness purposes, shoes bought for economy these 
 gave a suggestion of clumsiness that undiscerning 
 minds accepted. Yet her poise was firmness itself, 
 the carriage of her head on her great neck imperial. 
 Her mass of fair hair was first plaited, then wound 
 round the crown of her head in fashion half Greek, 
 half Scandinavian. 
 
 A shop-girl, most of her waking existence 
 bounded by the shop s horizon, she had acquired 
 that easy and casual confidence necessary to a 
 woman so situated. For any girl shop-life means 
 dirty weather, and therefore she assumes a bold 
 and challenging frankness, for the same reason that 
 her more happily situated sister puts on at times a 
 mackintosh and a rainy-day skirt. It s the sensible 
 wear. 
 
 It was the artist, not the man, that stared at her 
 beyond the limits of good manners. Bertha never 
 turned a hair. She was used to such small rude 
 nesses. 
 
 "Any answer?" she queried.
 
 The Caravan Man 169 
 
 Bamfield jerked himself back. He wiped the 
 lather from his face. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he said with sincerity, and 
 read the wire. It ran : 
 
 Just found out where you are. May I come and talk 
 business? Iffelstein. 
 
 "Got a form?" asked Bamfield. Bertha pro 
 duced a blank telegraph form. "Thanks," said 
 Bamfield. He found a pencil, wrote a reply, and 
 handed it to Bertha. "How much?" he asked. 
 
 Bertha took the form, read it over, smiled, and 
 shook her head. 
 
 "This won t do," she said. "We could n t send 
 this." 
 
 "What s wrong?" asked Bamfield. 
 
 "Well, this. You 11 have to put something else." 
 
 "What may I put?" 
 
 "I don t know. Put, No, thank you, not, No, 
 damn you." : 
 
 "All right." 
 
 He took the form back and made the necessary 
 alteration. This Bertha accepted, together with 
 the amount of the charge, put the telegram in her 
 pocket, wheeled her bicycle a yard or so, hesitated, 
 looked at Bamfield consideringly. Then, "I say " 
 she began, and stopped. 
 
 "Yes?" enquired Bamfield. 
 
 "I suppose that telegram was all right? I mean, 
 I thought your name was Jones."
 
 1 7 o The Caravan Man 
 
 "Trade name," Bamfield explained. 
 
 Bertha still forbore to mount and ride. Bam 
 field looked her over admiringly. She caught his 
 eye and smiled good-humou redly. Bamfield wanted 
 to talk to her. 
 
 "Are you a sample of the telegraph-boys about 
 here?" he ventured. 
 
 Bertha accepted the chaff and the implied com 
 pliment quite pleasantly. 
 
 "We have only one at Ouseton, and he was out, 
 so I offered to run up with your telegram. As a 
 matter of fact, I particularly wanted to speak to 
 you." 
 
 "Yes?" Bamfield was all attention. 
 
 "You take photos, don t you?" Bertha went on. 
 " Would you take a rather special one of me?" 
 
 "Perhaps I could. What s the special ?" 
 
 "You don t mind my telling you? I want a very 
 nice one in evening dress." 
 
 "And fine you d look, my lady," thought Bam 
 field. Aloud he said, in proper businesslike manner, 
 "All right. Where?" 
 
 "That s it," said Bertha. "Could you do it up 
 here?" 
 
 "I dare say. But won t you look rather queer 
 coming up here in evening dress?" 
 
 "Could n t I come after dark?" 
 
 "I don t quite see how I can photo you after 
 dark," Bamfield told her.
 
 ARE YOU A SAMPLE OF THE TELEGRAPH-BOYS 
 ABOUT HERE?"
 
 The Caravan Man 171 
 
 She grew downcast, looked at Bamfield again as 
 if considering. He felt that there was something 
 more in the girl s request than appeared on the 
 surface. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked. "I don t want to be 
 curious, you know, but if you cared to tell me a 
 little more, perhaps I might be able to help." 
 
 "Well, I will tell you," said Bertha, wheeling 
 her machine a little closer and dropping her voice 
 as she made her modest confidences. "You see, 
 I m engaged or as good as. I don t know why 
 I don t really even like him. He s an architect 
 here, and he s been very nice, I must say, and 
 somehow you know how it happens " 
 
 "I know," said Bamfield encouragingly. 
 
 "Well, somehow, the more I thought of it, the 
 more I did n t like it, and at last I made up my 
 mind I ought to tell him. I meant to write and say 
 I wanted to give him up when I m bothered if 
 he did n t write the very same thing to me!" 
 
 She was fair enough. It was the humour of the 
 thing that struck her, and when Bamfield laughed, 
 she laughed too, a hearty "Ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 "But it was a take-down for me, wasn t it?" 
 she went on. "Of course I found out all about it. 
 He s been running up to London a good deal, and 
 he s got to know a girl an actress, he calls her, 
 some chorus-girl, I should think. She s sent him 
 her photo I know all about it from his sister
 
 172 The Caravan Man 
 
 and you can guess what she s like. It s taken in 
 tights." 
 
 "Oho!" said Bamfield portentously. 
 
 Bertha laughed again. "Well, I won t bemean 
 myself, but I Ve seen the photograph and Well, 
 I don t want to brag, but thinks I, My boy, if you 
 only knew!" 
 
 She looked primly at Bamfield. He roared. 
 
 "And he doesn t?" Bertha s glance reproved 
 him. "I beg your pardon, but I thought you said 
 you were engaged." 
 
 "Well, you see how it is. I don t want him 
 only, I do really want to make him feel sick and 
 sorry. Of course," she went on, with a divine 
 blush, " I would n t I could n t But, thinks 
 I, You can let him see your photo in evening dress, 
 and well, perhaps that will make him open his 
 eyes a bit. r 
 
 Her frankness was irresistible. Bamfield smoth 
 ered as best he could the laugh that was shaking 
 him inwardly. 
 
 "I ll help you," he said decidedly. "Got the 
 dress?" 
 
 "No," said Bertha, "but some one I know a 
 lady s-maid down here can get me one of her 
 mistress s very best. Lady Badderley-Boulger 
 wears the most tremendous evening frocks, and 
 she s got a new one that s a dream. I know, be 
 cause I ve tried it on already on the sly, and it
 
 The Caravan Man 173 
 
 suits me really, you would think it was made for 
 me. I can get it this evening, but I can t get away 
 till half-past eight. Now, if I came up here with it 
 on she can lend me a cloak as well say by 
 
 nine " 
 
 "Nine!" Bamfield stopped her. "My dear girl, 
 I can t photograph by moonlight." 
 
 Bertha s expressive face showed the keenness of 
 her disappointment. "Can t you? Are you sure? 
 I hoped perhaps you could." She looked at him 
 pleadingly. "I wish you could." Another look. 
 "Have n t you got a light that would do? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 Bertha sighed. Bamfield took thought, consider 
 ing her all the while. Her pose was irresistible 
 regret, hope, and appeal all conveyed in the droop 
 of the head and the upward glance of the eye. 
 
 "Look here you re sure you can t get here in 
 daylight?" 
 
 "Certain." 
 
 "Then I ll try and make a flashlight of you." 
 She sparkled. "You come up When did you 
 say? Nine? No, that won t do. I m engaged till 
 nine, and possibly a little later, this evening; say 
 half-past nine. Any one coming with you?" 
 
 " I don t suppose so." 
 
 "Does n t matter. Come up, ready dressed, and 
 I 11 get hold of some flash powder and make some 
 pictures of you. Come at half-past nine."
 
 174 The Caravan Man 
 
 Bertha was all smiles. "You are good! How 
 much will they be?" 
 
 "We ll see. Now, are you sure you re com- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Rather!" There was n t a doubt about it. Miss 
 Bertha Babbage had no intention of wasting her 
 chance. She put one foot on the pedal and pre 
 pared to mount. "I say," she paused to add, 
 "promise me not to tell any one about me. People 
 talk in the country." 
 
 "Not a soul shall know," Bamfield assured 
 her. She was in the saddle and slowly pedalling 
 away, glancing at him with the greatest friend 
 liness and gratitude. "We ll make that fugitive 
 youth of yours want to kick himself," called Bam 
 field. 
 
 She laughed delightedly. "Was n t it cheek of 
 him?" over her shoulder. "Thanks awfully." 
 
 "Right-o!" Bamfield waved his hand. 
 
 Bertha stopped. The caravan man, as if seized 
 with a sudden insanity, was leaping for the pond. 
 Horror! Suicide! Bertha fell off her bicycle, 
 picked herself up, rubbed her knee, ran to the 
 bank It was all right; there he was, rod in hand 
 and almost dancing with excitement. 
 
 "You there!" he shouted. "Give me a hand! 
 I Ve got him!" 
 
 "Got who?" she panted. 
 
 "Muddy Jerusalem, or whatever he s called. I
 
 The Caravan Man 175 
 
 say, run up into my caravan, will you? look 
 about; you ll see a landing-net. Bring it here and 
 help. Run!" 
 
 She ran, flew up the steps, caught up the net 
 which she saw at first glance, dashed back with 
 long strides. 
 
 "Come down here," shouted the caravan man, 
 "and do what I tell you! Don t fall in, and keep 
 cool." 
 
 "One of us had better keep cool," reflected 
 Bertha but wisely kept the thought to herself. 
 
 "Now, then, just lower the net below the sur 
 face steady! You won t snatch, will you?" 
 
 "Won t snatch what?" 
 
 "My fish. I ve got him! I said I would. Oho, 
 my beauty ! I 11 just let him feel the strain 
 sulky, are you ? Aha ! I 11 work him over to 
 you . . . See him?" 
 
 Bertha peered into the depths among the reeds. 
 "I can see something" 
 
 "I ll bring him up to the top; you get the net 
 under him and lift him, deftly and surely . . . Wait 
 . . . Now, Senile Solomon . . . Up!" 
 
 "Up" it was. Bertha saw something rising to 
 the surface, swept the net under, lifted, swung it 
 onto the bank . . . 
 
 "Hah!" she croaked. "Haha! hahaha! hahaha- 
 ha!" 
 
 "Haha!" said Bamfield savagely. "Laugh, you
 
 176 The Caravan Man 
 
 you !" His native politeness saved him from 
 a bad break. 
 
 Bertha dropped the net-handle, and with tears 
 of laughter blinding her began to grope for the 
 handles of her bicycle. 
 
 Bamfield slowly began to disentangle the net 
 from his dripping carpet-sweeper . . . 
 
 He succeeded, held it up, began to tilt the water 
 from it. His eye lit on Bertha. She felt it was as 
 much as her life was worth to laugh again. She 
 began to wheel her bicycle away. "Look out 
 where you re coming!" said a voice sharply. 
 Through wet eyes she glimpsed a figure in grey, 
 holding a large bouquet of assorted flowers. It 
 was female, coy, yet with something of that air of 
 independence and self-confidence that dawns so 
 swiftly in the average woman after the wedding 
 ceremony has lifted her to the high estate of wife. 
 By her side was a figure in black, wearing a large 
 chimney-pot hat draped with crape . . . 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Gubbins halted to look at Bam 
 field. He had now fairly drained the carpet-sweep 
 er, and his usual air of careless confidence was re 
 stored. 
 
 He addressed the happy pair. "Done it?" he 
 enquired. 
 
 Mr. Gubbins grinned. "Yus," he answered. 
 
 With great decision the caravan man stepped 
 forward, and embracing the startled Dorothy,
 
 The Caravan Man 177 
 
 imprinted a resounding kiss, a proper country kiss, 
 on her rosy cheek. The indignant husband made 
 a move into his arms Bamfield pressed the wet 
 carpet-sweeper. Mr. Gubbins grasped it Barn- 
 field again kissed Dorothy. Then, releasing her, 
 "Bless you, my children," he said, and turned to 
 assist the almost helpless Bertha to mount.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 LUNCH at the Priory was over. It had been 
 an affair of suppressed thunder. Why sup 
 pressed neither Aunt Anne nor Granny could have 
 said. Both had intended to discharge their light 
 nings fully and completely at the culprit, as was 
 their wont, but but somehow a new and 
 strange feeling had come over them both, corre 
 sponding, had they known it, to a new and strange 
 feeling that now possessed Rose. Rose was half 
 frightened at herself. Somewhere within her 
 depths a terrible thing had raised its sinister head, 
 a thing the very existence of which she had never 
 suspected. 
 
 "You re not a child," it whispered. "You re a 
 
 woman." 
 
 It was terrible, unnerving. It could n t be true. 
 Aunt Anne and Granny were women, and see how 
 much older they were. 
 
 "Nonsense!" said the voice. "You re a woman. 
 Tell them so." 
 
 No, that she dared not do, but she almost trem 
 bled as she stood at her glass before she ran down 
 to the dining-room and tried to decide if there was 
 truth or falsehood in this insidious counsel. She 
 came to no decision, but the very fact that she
 
 The Caravan Man 179 
 
 had come to that questioning made a subtle change 
 in her that was sensed by the two others. She 
 spoke scarcely a word, and yet there was something 
 different about her. Aunt Anne looked fixedly at 
 her, undecided as to speaking. Rose, looking up, 
 caught her aunt s eye and looked steadily at 
 her in return till Aunt Anne looked away and at 
 Granny. Granny looked at Aunt Anne, and the 
 meal went on in silence. 
 
 After lunch Rose went into the garden and 
 wandered there, thinking. What had she done 
 wrong? Why had she been brought home like a 
 child? Why must she not speak to the caravan 
 man? Not that it mattered, but to be ordered, 
 directed, not to do so mattered very much indeed. 
 
 This Jones Mr. Jones, the photographer 
 was quite a well-behaved man. Any one could see 
 that. Never offensive, quite humorous at times, 
 and intelligent and well, really, superior. You 
 felt surprised when you talked to him at finding he 
 took people s photographs. And while he talked 
 about What did he talk about? Nothing in 
 particular, but you somehow discovered that he 
 had queer views on on what? Everything, 
 she supposed. 
 
 He was different from other men his dress, 
 his mode of life. Of course, the very caravan 
 marked him out as different. He wandered about 
 in it, refusing to be tied to one spot like people who
 
 1 80 The Caravan Man 
 
 lived in houses. He had to go shopping. She had 
 met him once or twice with pockets bulging with 
 little odd packages, on his way up from Ouseton. 
 And he did things for himself, and lit fires on the 
 common at night, going to bed, so she heard, tre 
 mendously late and sometimes apparently get 
 ting up almost immediately afterward. She smiled. 
 She liked the thought of Mr. Jones. And just then 
 Mr. Jones s head popped up over the hedge that 
 parted the garden from the common. His eyes 
 twinkled. 
 
 "Miss Rose," he said. 
 
 Rose s heart gave a great jump of surprise at 
 first, and then, she knew, of pleasure. 
 
 "You must n t," she said. 
 
 "It s all right. I shan t be a minute. I must 
 speak to you. It s tremendously important. Do 
 come here." 
 
 She glanced at the house, saw Granny and Aunt 
 Anne, through the French windows that gave onto 
 the lawn, sitting inside the drawing-room, and then 
 walked to the hedge. She could not be seen from 
 the house there. 
 
 Bamfield was standing on the top of the low 
 bank on which the holly hedge was planted. 
 
 "I say," he began, "you won t mind, but you 
 know when your grandmother took when your 
 grandmother and you went away this morning?" 
 
 "Yes?"
 
 The Caravan Man 1 8 1 
 
 "Well you won t mind ? she took my lens." 
 
 A furious flood of crimson dyed Rose s cheeks. 
 
 "Your lens?" she repeated. 
 
 "Yes," said Bamfield apologetically. "You 
 know off my camera." 
 
 "Are you sure?" asked Rose. Her heart sank. 
 She knew it was so. 
 
 "Yes," answered Bamfield. "Don t look like 
 that," he went on. "You make me feel such a cad 
 to say anything about it, but, you see, I can t take 
 photographs without it, and then it gives me an 
 idea, too." 
 
 Poor Rose divulged the secret of the Priory. 
 Not that it was a secret, but it had been secret from 
 Bamfield till now. 
 
 "I m so sorry," she stammered. "You know 
 of course she does n t mean any harm but 
 but she is like that at times over some 
 things." 
 
 Bamfield tried to put her at her ease. " I know," 
 he struck in. "Lots of old ladies do queer little 
 things. So do old gentlemen. Look at me, and all 
 the queer little ways I ve got. It s only old age 
 creeping on." 
 
 ."You re not old," said Rose. 
 
 "I am. I shall never see thirty again." He 
 sighed. "Well, now, about my lens I ought 
 to have it " I 
 
 "Of course," she answered. " I 11 get it for you."
 
 1 8 2 The Caravan Man 
 
 "No, no!" he cried in alarm. "Don t do that! 
 Good gracious! you ll spoil it all! Leave the lens 
 where it is." 
 
 "Then what will you do?" 
 
 " I m going to call and ask for it." 
 
 Rose saw it in a flash. Of course that was the 
 scheme. He was going to call boldly at the Priory 
 and ask for his lens. He had a perfect right to. 
 He could not be denied he could not very well 
 be treated rudely, even. Granny s queer little ways 
 were one of the everyday trifles of Ouseton exist 
 ence, so well known that no one even thought of 
 commenting on them, but here was a stranger, a 
 man, moreover, who had been snubbed " abom 
 inably treated " said Rose to herself, and he 
 was entitled to look at the matter from a very 
 different standpoint. His means of livelihood had 
 been appropriated that phrase might well pro 
 ceed from the stern lips of a prosecuting counsel 
 in a magistrate s court! He was a deeply injured 
 man, entitled to be hard and unforgiving, to waive 
 explanations and excuses to one side, to refuse to 
 be placated. Rose saw at once that he would have 
 to be appeased. She saw Aunt Anne attempting 
 it. She saw Granny, stiff, stubborn, and unre 
 pentant, standing on her dignity. She saw yes, 
 she saw quite plainly that in all probability she, 
 Rose, would be deputed to put matters straight. 
 
 "When are you coming?" She was all smiles.
 
 The Caravan Man 183 
 
 "You ve finished lunch, have n t you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then, I m coming now." 
 
 "Am I to let Aunt Anne know?" 
 
 "No, don t let any one know anything. I m just 
 going to stroll in directly, and well, you ll see." 
 
 "Give me a minute, then. I must be there. And, 
 oh!" she pleaded, "you won t be unkind, will you? 
 But there! I know you won t." She was quite 
 sure. 
 
 "Unkind I should think not! But it s just a 
 lovely chance, isn t it? All right. Good-bye. I ll 
 be there in a minute or two." 
 
 He dropped down from the bank, and Rose, with 
 beating heart, made her way back to the house. 
 
 Always after lunch Granny and Aunt Anne had 
 a cup of tea, Rose pouring out for them. The little 
 table was there on the lawn by the drawing-room 
 window, in the shade of the tall rhododendron 
 bushes, and Aunt Anne and Granny, with sewing 
 in their hands, were coming out of the drawing- 
 room. Rose sat down and poured them each a 
 cup. She usually went away directly afterwards, 
 but to-day she poured a cup for herself a third 
 cup was always set and drank at leisure, keep 
 ing a calm face and listening hard. 
 
 There came a step on the gravel drive. From 
 where they sat they could hear, but not see, the 
 approach to the front door of any caller.
 
 184 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Somebody calling!" exclaimed Aunt Anne. 
 "Whoever can it be?" 
 
 Round the rhododendron bushes appeared a 
 white-capped maid, and close behind her the 
 caravan man. With sublime bad manners, he had 
 followed her as she went to enquire whether Granny 
 would receive him, and now here he was, his big 
 camera under his arm, a bag over his shoulder 
 with darkslides in it, the legs folded up into a neat 
 bundle in his left hand, his hat raised in his right. 
 
 "Please, mum," began the maid, "a gentle 
 man Oh, here he is!" 
 
 Aunt Anne stood up. So did Rose. Granny sat 
 still. Rose glanced at her. Her eyes wore that 
 far-away look of pensive saintliness that always 
 indicated her sense of the approach of another dis 
 covery. 
 
 Aunt Anne stepped with easy confidence to the 
 top of her iceberg and sent a frosty blast onto 
 Bamfield. 
 
 ; "Not at home," she said to the maid, clearly 
 and loudly. 
 
 Bamfield bowed. "Oh, pardon me, I did n t 
 come to make a call. I hope you will forgive me 
 but I ve called about my lens." 
 
 Like a flash Aunt Anne guessed and grew 
 faint. She glanced at Granny, and her guess froze 
 to certainty. Yet the instinct of parley moved 
 her.
 
 The Caravan Man 185 
 
 "Your lens?" she said, in her most detached 
 manner. "Lens I don t quite " 
 
 "It s quite all right." Bamfield was cheerful, 
 but determined. He had got his foot in at the 
 Priory and did not mean to be dismissed easily. 
 He turned to Granny. "I am glad you felt inter 
 ested," he observed, in the friendliest way, "but 
 it s useless without the camera, so I brought that 
 with me." 
 
 He looked around as if seeking where to deposit 
 his impedimenta. Rose, with a boldness that stag 
 gered her, took the camera legs from him and 
 placed them on the table. He put the camera 
 there, also, and turned to Aunt Anne. 
 
 "I asked Mrs. Grampette this morning if she 
 would care to examine the working of a lens," 
 he went on, still in his politest style, "and she 
 could not spare the time then, evidently. I sup 
 pose you meant to find time this afternoon?" He 
 turned enquiringly to Granny. "But, as I say, 
 the lens by itself is useless, so I brought the camera 
 round, and if you ll let me have the lens 
 back" 
 
 Granny looked at Aunt Anne Aunt Anne 
 looked at Granny. Neither spoke. The intruder 
 held all the cards. The very ease of his manner, 
 though it spared the feelings of both even Aunt 
 Anne felt almost a touch of gratitude seemed 
 to leave him still more certainly in possession of
 
 1 8 6 The Caravan Man 
 
 the field. Again Rose, hitherto accustomed to 
 speak when she was spoken to, displayed a new 
 initiative: 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Jones," she said. "It s very 
 kind of you, and Granny will be delighted. I ll 
 get the lens. Granny, it s in your bag, is n t it? 
 in your room?" 
 
 "Yes," said Granny. 
 
 The old lady was really feeling very bad. These 
 discoveries took place from time to time, but al 
 ways among people who knew her the servants, 
 Rose or Anne, the tradespeople at Ouseton. But 
 to be exposed like this by this stranger it was 
 terrible! Still, she admitted, the man was behav 
 ing in quite a gentlemanly way. 
 
 Rose went into the house. Aunt Anne made a 
 movement to follow her, but stopped. An awk 
 ward silence of a few seconds followed. Then Barn- 
 field said: 
 
 "What a perfect day!" 
 
 "Delightful," said Aunt Anne. 
 
 If he had said, "What filthy weather!" and she 
 had replied, "Horrid!" the expression on her face 
 would have been much the same. 
 
 "Won t you sit down?" said Granny, and Bam- 
 field sat down in Rose s chair. 
 
 He felt a little thrill at the thought, and a great 
 sense of accomplishment. An hour ago he had 
 been an accursed outsider, and now here he was,
 
 The Caravan Man 187 
 
 the serpent, boldly ensconced in Eden, not wrig 
 gling in, but but stalking in, as one might 
 be forgiven for putting it, under the upturned 
 noses and flaming swords of the very angels at 
 the gate. 
 
 Rose appeared, carrying in her hand Granny s 
 bag, an affair of cloth drawn together at the mouth 
 with a string. She handed it to Granny. 
 
 "I have n t opened it," she said. 
 
 Granny took the bag without a word, slipped 
 her hand in, and drew out the lens, a thing of brass 
 and glass, not much bigger than a walnut. 
 
 "Is this it?" she asked. 
 
 Bamfield took it with easy unconcern. "Yes, 
 that s it a Zeiss," he remarked. "A capital 
 make of lens. I ll put it on the camera, and then 
 you can have a good look." 
 
 Rose spoke. She was staggered at her own au 
 dacity, but the look of affairs as she had rejoined 
 the group had nerved her. Bamfield was so at 
 home. He was leaning back composedly in the 
 garden chair, his hat on the grass, his camera by 
 his side, the bag with the darkslides at his feet, 
 the camera legs on the table; and he was looking 
 at Aunt Anne and Granny with so companionable 
 an air that Rose almost laughed outright. She 
 suppressed that, but her second impulse she 
 adopted. 
 
 "Have a cup of tea, first," she said.
 
 1 8 8 The Caravan Man 
 
 Aunt Anne jumped. Granny turned to stare. 
 Rose never flinched. 
 
 Bamfield jumped up. "Thanks. If you will " 
 
 "Sit down," said Rose. "Fm not going to sit. 
 And I want a fresh cup. You ve lunched, I sup 
 pose ? " 
 
 How she did it she scarcely knew, but the words 
 were out and Aunt Anne could stare as much as 
 she liked. 
 
 "Oh, thanks very much, yes." Bamfield sat 
 down again as he was bidden. 
 
 Rose went into the drawing-room and rang the 
 bell. The maid appeared. 
 
 "Another cup and saucer," said Rose, and a 
 minute later was standing at the table pouring tea 
 for Bamfield. She had a feeling that she could not 
 carry the thing through much longer. She felt 
 like one attempting to skate for the first time and 
 miraculously succeeding straight away that it 
 was delicious, but bound to end in catastrophe 
 very soon. But Bamfield s immense ease was a 
 tremendous asset. He sipped his tea and talked 
 to Granny. 
 
 He completely ignored all that had passed be 
 tween them that morning. He calmly assumed the 
 attitude of a friend, dropped in casually. No, not 
 quite that; somehow he had contrived to invest his 
 visit with the air of an arranged thing, a matter 
 of invitation and acceptance. Not one word of his
 
 The Caravan Man 189 
 
 touched on the subject, yet it was plain that his 
 stay was to be of some hours duration. Objec 
 tion was impossible. Granny had stolen his lens, 
 and if this was the price of forgiveness, they might 
 well be thankful. Rose, of course, was misbehav 
 ing. How dared she! Offering the man tea! But 
 there! Perhaps, under the circumstances, it was 
 all for the best. Anyhow, it was plain that he had 
 no intention of making a fuss, and if a little civil 
 ity would finally put matters right why, Rose 
 perhaps was doing the right thing. 
 
 "I almost wonder," Bamfield was saying, "I 
 almost wonder you have n t taken to photog 
 raphy. It s immensely absorbing and so easy." 
 Granny looked uninterested. "Not the way I do 
 it, of course, the professional way though that s 
 interesting, too. Let me show you." He got up, 
 screwed the lens into its holder on the front of his 
 camera, racked out the bellows, brought it round 
 to Granny s side, and put it on the table near her. 
 "If you ll look " He whipped his black cloth 
 out of the pocket of his jacket, slipped it over his 
 head, and focused part of the garden. "There! 
 Look," he said; "it s quite interesting." 
 
 Granny had to look. She did not want to, but 
 this photographer man was a person still to be 
 conciliated. She dipped her old head under the 
 black cloth. After a second or two, "It s upside 
 down," she objected.
 
 190 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Yes, it is, and that can t be helped, but " 
 
 "But are your photographs all taken upside 
 down?" 
 
 She came hastily out from under the cloth. A 
 thought had flashed through her. Rose had been 
 photographed Had she been taken upside 
 down? 
 
 Bamfield reassured her, explaining the differ 
 ence between a negative and a print. Granny did 
 not quite grasp it, but as Bamfield talked, he 
 twisted the camera about, focusing on different 
 parts of the lawn, and Granny began to feel in 
 terested at the moving pictures in the ground- 
 glass screen. 
 
 "It s pretty," she declared, "and so like." 
 
 "Yes," said Bamfield, "wonderfully like, is n t 
 it? Now let s look at somebody." 
 
 He pointed the camera at Aunt Anne, who sat 
 grimly enduring, but secretly resentful. 
 
 "Ha, ha!" said Granny. "There she is! You re 
 here, Anne, upside down." 
 
 Anne smoothed her frock down. 
 
 Then Rose must be looked at. She stood still, 
 confident, while Bamfield got her into focus. 
 
 "Oh, is n t that pretty?" exclaimed Granny. 
 
 "Rather!" said Bamfield heartily. 
 
 Rose moved away. 
 
 "I d like to have a picture like that," said 
 Granny.
 
 The Caravan Man 191 
 
 "Well, shall I take one?" said Bamfield. 
 
 "Could you?" asked Granny, surprised. 
 
 "Of course. If you would n t mind standing 
 there again, Miss Rose." 
 
 Rose stood, and Granny watched with interest 
 while Bamfield took her photograph. Then Rose 
 protested that Granny must have hers taken. 
 Granny accepted the suggestion, but Rose in 
 sisted on taking her up to her room first to make 
 her fine. Insensibly there was stealing over the 
 little party a friendliness, a sense of comradeship, 
 that Bamfield had the knack of creating. Only 
 Aunt Anne withstood it. Grimly enduring this 
 man s objectionable presence, she declined to be 
 thawed. Protest she could scarcely voice dis 
 cretion forbade; but she had to shut her lips tightly 
 to check the speech she would have given much 
 to make. Rose should hear something by and by 
 as to her conduct. And as for Granny well ! 
 
 Bamfield, who had done his best with her, 
 rested contented in his partial defeat. He had made 
 headway with the old lady at least and here 
 he was, in the garden, strolling round the lawn, 
 hands in pockets, smoking. 
 
 "Why don t you smoke, Mr. Jones?" Rose had 
 called out as she had led her grandmother away, 
 and he had lit a cigarette. 
 
 Granny was photographed. Aunt Anne de 
 clined.
 
 192 The Caravan Man 
 
 "What about the barn?" said Rose, in the most 
 casual manner. " If you d like to make some pic 
 tures there " 
 
 "I should," replied Bamfield earnestly. 
 
 "Will you come, Granny?" 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Round to the barn. Mr. Jones wants to make 
 some pictures there." 
 
 "I don t think I will. I don t want to stand 
 about. Does Mr. Jones know where it is?" 
 
 Rose looked at Bamfield. 
 
 "Round that side, isn t it?" queried the artful 
 man, pointing in the wrong direction. 
 
 Rose blushed. The swiftness of conception of 
 the flagrant piece of humbug appalled her. 
 
 "No. I d better show you." She was swept 
 into his web of deceit on that instant, she felt, and 
 though outwardly unmoved as she led the way, 
 she quivered inwardly at her sense of guilt. 
 
 So they went to the barn, and Bamfield disen 
 gaged himself of the burden of his photographic 
 apparatus and had a good laugh. Rose laughed, 
 too, and the avowed enjoyment sealed, she felt, 
 their mutual implication in whatever crime might 
 be imputed to them. 
 
 "How did I get on with your grandmother?" 
 asked Bamfield. 
 
 "Nicely," said Rose. "Mind, she s frightened 
 of you, but I m sure she likes you more."
 
 The Caravan Man 193 
 
 "Every one," said Bamfield, "every one likes 
 me more the longer they know me." 
 
 "What about my aunt?" said Rose. 
 
 "Oh, well, she s different," answered Bam 
 field. 
 
 They spent an hour in and out of the barn. Un 
 doubtedly there was some of the stonework that 
 plainly had never been part of a barn s construction 
 originally. Bamfield pointed it out to Rose, and 
 told her things about architecture and Roman 
 arches, and Gothic, and how bricklayers of differ 
 ent periods worked in different ways. He was full 
 of interesting bits of knowledge. And when he 
 took his pictures, she could see him considering 
 matters carefully, trying views, walking about, 
 shifting his camera backwards and forwards. 
 What, exactly, he would get by way of results, 
 Rose could not surmise, but she felt certain that 
 taste as well as judgment was at work. 
 
 He insisted once or twice on getting her into the 
 picture, and made one or two exposures inside 
 the barn. He called her to look into the screen 
 at times, and explained just why he took in this 
 particular bit and left out that. She learned to 
 put in the darkslide and pull out the shutter, to 
 cap and uncap the lens. She spoiled one or two 
 plates for him in doing so, and even that some 
 how made for friendliness. 
 
 Then he took one or two photographs of the
 
 1 94 The Caravan Man 
 
 house a fine old Queen Anne building and 
 with that all his plates were used up. 
 
 "Now," said he challengingly to Rose, "what 
 about tea?" 
 
 She flushed. The exalted mood that had seized 
 her at the moment of his visit had simmered down, 
 and she had to own it she was timid again. 
 Bamfield saw it. 
 
 "Look here," he said. "I was only joking, of 
 
 course." 
 
 "Not at all," she said. "Of course I shall ask 
 you to stop to tea." 
 
 "Wait a bit," said Bamfield. "Would n t it be 
 nicer if Mrs. Grampette asked me?" 
 
 " But but " began Rose. 
 
 He struck in: "I know you think she won t. 
 Shall I make her?" 
 
 "Can you?" 
 
 "I think so. I m going to try. Leave it to me.* 
 
 His confidence was superb. He did not even 
 make a pretence of making ready to go. He merely 
 stowed away the camera in the barn and strolled 
 with Rose round to the lawn again. What would 
 he say ? thought Rose as they went. Granny was a 
 terrible old lady to manage. The affair of the lens 
 might now fairly be considered dealt with and dis 
 posed of, and Aunt Anne s influence had doubt 
 less been at work to his prejudice during the last 
 hour. But as they rounded the corner of the house
 
 The Caravan Man 195 
 
 she saw that a most wonderful thing had hap 
 pened. 
 
 There, in the shadiest and prettiest part of the 
 lawn, was set a table, elegantly white-clothed, 
 with the best tea service the very special tea 
 pot and milk-jug and sugar-basin reserved for the 
 highest occasions and four chairs four chairs, 
 mark you ! and in one chair sat Aunt Anne, 
 freshly gowned since lunch-time, and across the 
 lawn to meet them came Granny, newly frocked 
 also, and smiling so affably, and with both hands 
 held out, positively eagerly, and the heartiest 
 welcome for Mr. Jones, expressed unreservedly in 
 word, manner, tone 
 
 "Well, so you ve finished your photographing? 
 And now you re going to stay and have tea, 
 are n t you, Mr. Jones?" 
 
 Granny was up to him by now, both hands on 
 his arm, smiling charmingly up at him, every pos 
 sible affability conveyed to him in gesture and 
 look. 
 
 Rose and Bamfield both pulled up short. Rose 
 was bewildered. Even Bamfield was nonplussed. 
 No doubt he had had something ready to say, some 
 phrase designed to lead up to an indication of the 
 desirability of inviting him to tea. But to be met 
 in this fashion, with a point-blank invitation, 
 backed up with the evidence of deliberate prepara 
 tion for his acceptance, was altogether unexpected,
 
 196 The Caravan Man 
 
 and positively a faint blush of embarrassment 
 tinged his cheek as he accepted, hastily, even stam- 
 meringly : 
 
 "Tea? Well really, if you re sure De 
 lighted, I m sure." 
 
 Aunt Anne had risen by this time, and, wreathed 
 in smiles also, had come across and joined them. 
 She linked her arm through one of Rose s; Granny 
 linked through the other. Granny and Aunt Anne 
 vied with each other in smiles smiles at the man 
 Jones at the caravan man ! 
 
 He stared at Rose Rose stared at him. He 
 was puzzled, puzzled, and his active brain, thrust 
 ing every way through his bewilderment for some 
 explanation of this marvellous transformation, 
 found nothing and yet persisted in its search. 
 
 The maid led him to the bathroom upstairs to 
 wash his hands. He heard Rose s voice outside, 
 "Give Mr. Jones these," and after a tap at the 
 door a brush and comb were handed him. He 
 brushed his hair thoughtfully. Still he quested 
 for explanation. Granny did not puzzle him so 
 much, but Aunt Anne! 
 
 Now, as he brushed his hair, his thoughts ran 
 thus, and led him to what, the instant it dawned 
 on him, he felt beyond all possibility of error was 
 the correct solution. 
 
 "Lie down!" as he plied the brush diligently on 
 his stubborn hair. "Too long wants cutting.
 
 The Caravan Man 197 
 
 Lot of hair I Ve got. A nuisance, sometimes. Bet 
 ter, though, than bald, like some people like 
 Monk, for instance. Good old Monk, sagacious old 
 Monk! Glad to have seen him this morning, with 
 his expostulations and his warnings Warnings 
 of what? They ll be taking you for him. For 
 whom? For Lord Bamfylde, the immensely 
 wealthy peer who goes about in a caravan, photo- 
 ing By Jove!" 
 
 Bamfield nearly dropped the brush. That was 
 it! That explained Granny and Aunt Anne and 
 Rose? No, never! She was genuine all through. 
 But these other two Oh, it was too palpable! 
 He chuckled to himself. What a lark! Silly old 
 fossils ! A lord ! 
 
 Well, let them think so. Why not? Nothing to 
 do with him if they made the mistake. No more 
 ordering off the common, he fancied; no more 
 difficulties in admitting him to the Priory; no more 
 forbidding Rose to speak to him. It was excru 
 ciatingly funny. Of course it would n t last long. 
 For one thing, of course, Rose would be told, and 
 it was bound to make a change in her, too. What 
 sort of a change ? He thought without effect, and 
 then dismissed the subject. Whatever it was, it 
 would be nothing mean, of that he was sure. But 
 these others 
 
 He was so delighted that he rumpled his hair 
 up and did it all over again.
 
 198 The Caravan Man 
 
 Bamfield s surmise was perfectly right. Rose 
 and he had scarcely reached the barn that after 
 noon when Aunt Anne began on Granny. 
 
 "Mother," she said, "it s disgraceful. After 
 all your promises, too!" 
 
 Mrs. Grampette looked obstinate. "Well, I 
 don t care." 
 
 " But look what it means this wretched man 
 practically compelling us to receive him here, 
 photoing about our place and Rose with him 
 she ought to be ashamed of herself and asking 
 him to take tea! And you, too, Mother, allowing 
 yourself to be photographed! Did you take any 
 thing else?" 
 
 "Of course not." 
 
 "Let me see." 
 
 She stretched out her hand to reach Granny s 
 bag. The old lady promptly took possession of it 
 herself. 
 
 "Really, Anne, after I ve told you!" 
 
 Anne was determined. "You were in the vil 
 lage this morning. I must look." 
 
 "Really, Anne! to your mother and after 
 I ve given you my word " 
 
 Anne reached across and took the bag from the 
 old lady s clutch. She put her hand in and with 
 drew various articles, and, laying them on her lap, 
 spoke bitterly to her mother. 
 
 "Three reels of silk Wiggin s, I suppose?
 
 The Caravan Man 199 
 
 Some almond rock really, Mother! * Seven for 
 a shilling " This last was a ticket so inscribed. 
 
 "I m sorry, Anne," explained Mrs. Grampette. 
 "I tried for some of the eggs, but the first one I 
 got I dropped, so I took the ticket. We must 
 send it back." 
 
 "And this boot-brush the Stores?" 
 
 "No. Jobson s." 
 
 "I ll take them back. Oh, Mother!" 
 
 "Don t bully, Anne. Hush! Here s some one " 
 
 The maid appeared with some letters, one for 
 Mrs. Grampette. She opened it, put on her spec 
 tacles, and read it, while Anne read through her 
 own correspondence. A startled exclamation from 
 Granny made Anne look up. 
 
 "Good gracious!" 
 
 "What s the matter?" 
 
 "Oh, Anne!" 
 
 "What, Mother?" 
 
 "The caravan man " 
 
 "What about him?" 
 
 "Anne, Anne, we have n t been rude to him?" 
 
 "Rude to whom?" 
 
 "To the caravan man the photographer." 
 
 "Well, really, Mother! Why?" 
 
 "We haven t addressed him improperly? You 
 know, Anne, you can be insulting at times." 
 
 "Really, Mother, I think I know by now how 
 to address a man of that class."
 
 2OO The Caravan Man 
 
 "Class! That class! Do you know who he 
 is?" 
 
 "A peripatetic photographer of the name of 
 Jones." 
 
 "He is Lord Bamfylde." 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 "Lord Bamfylde! Oh, Anne, I do hope we 
 have n t said or done anything wrong." 
 
 "But how do you know? Who says so? Is it 
 that letter? Who s it from?" Anne was almost 
 as agitated now as Granny. 
 
 "It s from your sister Emma at Brighton. I 
 wrote to her on Saturday as usual, giving her all 
 the news it was my turn and here s her 
 reply. She must have sat down and answered at 
 once. See what she says, here no, here 
 Where is it? I told her, of course, of the caravan 
 man on the common, and Oh, here it is. The 
 caravan man, as you call him, is n t what you 
 think. You say he takes photographs? Then it s 
 Lord Bamfylde. Immensely wealthy, but eccen 
 tric. One of the oldest families in England. Came 
 over with the Conqueror " 
 
 "Norman architecture!" interjected Aunt Anne. 
 "He said he was an authority on Norman archi 
 tecture." 
 
 " I enclose you a cutting from the Daily 
 Smudge. 9 Here it is, Anne." Granny held it out. 
 " I always keep my paper, and I knew that
 
 The Caravan Man 201 
 
 somewhere in the last six months I d seen some 
 thing about this man. What do you think of it, 
 Anne?" 
 
 Anne took the print. It was smudgy. "It is n t 
 very plain," she said. 
 
 "Oh, yes, it is," said Granny testily. "Here s 
 his lordship s face a nice-looking young feller." 
 
 Anne looked dubious. "Oh, no, Mother, that 
 is n t his face." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "No, that s his horse, turned the other way 
 round. I think this is his face, down here." 
 
 "I thought that was his photographic appara 
 tus. Anyhow, read what it says." 
 
 Anne read it out. Above the picture was printed : 
 "Takes Photographs," and underneath, "Lord 
 Bamfylde, celebrated as a hunter, not with a gun, 
 but with a camera. Eccentric but distinguished 
 Peer. Roams about England in Caravan, living 
 Bohemian Life." 
 
 Anne looked at Granny Granny returned the 
 look. Then, moved by one impulse, both rose and 
 went to the kitchen to give orders. 
 
 Learn now why Rose, a girl of twenty, was 
 treated with an anxious restriction that in the 
 seven years she had lived at the Priory, orphaned 
 of father and mother, might well have warped an 
 ordinary nature into sullenness.
 
 2 o 2 The Caravan Man 
 
 Lucy Grampette, her mother, a wayward, im 
 pulsive thing, had run away from the Priory in 
 her twenty-first year, and sought what she imag 
 ined would be a life of unending interest and thrill 
 as a dancer. 
 
 Spirited, determined never to confess defeat, 
 and, alas! almost totally ignorant of the difficul 
 ties of the career she had chosen, she had to ex 
 perience much of its bitterness. She had a natural 
 faculty, perhaps a genius, for dancing. She learnt 
 that genius goes for nothing without long training, 
 and that twenty-one is a hopeless age to com 
 mence to learn. She was spared full knowledge of 
 what stage-life has in keeping for its failures, when 
 she fell in love with and married Clarence Nieu- 
 gente, a young artist, like herself endowed with 
 talents, and like herself, untrained. They were 
 poor. They lived in Nieugente s studio at Prim 
 rose Hill, and there she died, at Rose s birth, a 
 year after their marriage. 
 
 To her mother and sister at the Priory her life 
 away from home had been a tragedy. They were 
 wrong. Her stage adventure was a disagreeable 
 but illuminating experience, her marriage year was 
 a time of unbounded happiness. Loving passion 
 ately, passionately loved, looking forward with a 
 joy unspeakable to the birth of her child, her swift 
 and painless death ended a period so exalted in 
 spiritual ecstasy that it is scarcely possible to
 
 The Caravan Man 203 
 
 contemplate the possibility of its long continu 
 ance. 
 
 Rbse, born and brought up in the studio, had 
 much of her mother in her. Her father s death at 
 twelve left her under the control of her grand 
 mother and her aunt. They were women not lack 
 ing in ordinary affection. They were fond of the 
 girl, but they were animated by a fear lest she 
 should develop those qualities which had, in their 
 eyes, ruined her mother. They feared her bubbling 
 spirits, winced when she burst into formless song, 
 deprecated even too warm an expression of affec 
 tion. They must train her it was their duty. 
 They did their duty. Thank God, the girl found 
 a kingdom within herself where she could sing, 
 dance, dream, fling love around. That saved her. 
 
 Undistinguished in habit of thought, the two 
 women took the obvious view of Rose s acquaint 
 ance with the newly discovered peer. 
 
 "Just fancy, Anne," said Granny. "And only 
 this morning you were scolding Rose " 
 
 "So were you," retorted Anne. 
 
 "Oh, dear me, no; I merely advised her." 
 
 "Shall we tell her?" 
 
 Granny thought it out. "I think not. To such 
 a man as his lordship Rose s very innocence must 
 have a wonderful charm. No, Anne, let it go on, 
 just just " She swayed her hands levelly 
 about, to and fro.
 
 2 O4 The Caravan Man 
 
 "And I suppose we must n t let him know we 
 know?" 
 
 "Decidedly not. His lordship chooses to live 
 this this vagabondish life, in his delightful 
 caravanserai. Well, let him disclose himself in His 
 Own Good Time." She actually glanced up at the 
 sky. 
 
 She was talking of a lord, mind you, not The 
 Lord, as you might suppose. But there are a great 
 many quite decent people who feel a little unde 
 cided as to which is the more important personage 
 when they meet a peer of the realm in the flesh . . . 
 Others have no doubt whatever . . . 
 
 Bamfield, spick and span, came down to the 
 lawn. Rose and Granny were sitting by the table. 
 Aunt Anne met him in the drawing-room as he 
 passed through. As a matter of fact, she had been 
 lying in wait for him. She simply could not rest 
 till this extraordinary matter had been probed 
 deeper. She wanted to put the question plainly and 
 starkly, to him, but dared not. But complete 
 silence was beyond her. 
 
 "Mr. Jones," she said. "Mr. Jones " 
 
 Bamfield looked attention. 
 
 "Jones," repeated Aunt Anne significantly, and 
 looked hard at him. 
 
 "Hush! "said Bamfield. 
 
 "I think not," said Aunt Anne. "In fact, I 
 rather fancy Bam "
 
 The Caravan Man 205 
 
 "Hush!" said Bamfield. 
 He laid finger to lip. Aunt Anne nodded. 
 "Not a word," said Bamfield, "to anybody." 
 "No," said Aunt Anne. 
 
 And Granny and Aunt Anne and Rose and Bam 
 field had the most delightful of teas in company.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 faint chime of the clock on Chi se ton 
 X church striking eight came across the com 
 mon as Rose, her heart beating quickly with the 
 sense of her audacity, shut quietly behind her the 
 gate of the Priory garden opening onto the com 
 mon. Breathless day had given place to breath 
 less night. There was no moon, but to the girl s 
 imagination, tingling with expectation, the night 
 seemed to hold a witchery that suffused every 
 thing with mysterious light. The sky had taken 
 on an unusual aspect. Spite of the dark she could 
 see the colours of things. A glow went with her 
 as she walked, coming out of the 
 
 "... Night, 
 
 Deep glooming, yet how fraught with light 
 From stars innumerable set 
 In the wide spaces of the sky s 
 Unfathomable violet." 
 
 It was a bare minute s walk to the caravan. 
 Among the trees by the pond there shone the 
 ruddy light of Mr. Jones s fire of sticks. She saw 
 the smoke curling up, and the unruffled surface 
 of the pond gleamed redly as she drew near. 
 
 There was music, too. More than once this last 
 week from the window of her bedroom, looking 
 out before she got into bed, she had heard faint
 
 The Caravan Man 207 
 
 music coming from the caravan, and to-night the 
 caravan man was evidently whiling away the time 
 of waiting for her by playing whatever instrument 
 it was he claimed the mastery of. 
 
 She came upon him quietly, and unnoticed. He 
 was sitting on the platform of the caravan, leaning 
 against the open door. Evidently he had done 
 grace to her promised visit. His hair was, for once, 
 neatly parted, he had on an immaculately white 
 pair of flannel trousers, and over his sweater a very 
 loose and rather "loud" checked coat, with big 
 pockets. It was so seldom that he appeared to pay 
 any attention to his appearance that Rose felt a 
 little thrill of feminine gratification at the sight of 
 his attempt at personal preparation. He was 
 evoking his melody by way of an instrument not 
 quite strange to Rose, and yet she could not recall 
 its name. She saw it was some variety of organ; 
 that is to say it had a key-board at each end and a 
 bellows in the middle, and it had to be alternately 
 pulled out and squeezed up. Mr. Jones was play 
 ing it with some dexterity; the air he evoked was 
 pretty, catchy reminiscent, so Rose thought, of 
 one of the older operas, and with nothing of hu 
 mour about it. Yet she had to laugh, and as she 
 did so, wondering why, she saw on the instant it 
 was because the only other time she had seen such 
 an instrument played it had been by a wandering 
 Italian boy, who had ventured into the Priory
 
 208 The Caravan Man 
 
 garden, and after the merest pretence of a perform 
 ance had sent forward a monkey on a long chain 
 to solicit alms. 
 
 Bamfield suddenly caught sight of her and 
 stopped his harmonies with a crash as he jumped up 
 and came down the steps. Rose touched her fore 
 head with her finger. 
 
 "Please, sir," she asked him, "do you want a 
 monkey?" 
 
 He stared a moment, then answered her gravely: 
 "So far I have acted as my own monkey, but I 
 might be prepared to entertain a reasonable propo 
 sition. Tell me, little girl, why do you ask? Have 
 you a monkey for sale?" 
 
 "No, sir, please, sir" Rose had never spoken 
 to him in this way before, and she felt at once that 
 here was a new thing this wonderful night was 
 bringing out in her "but I thought perhaps I 
 might suit." 
 
 "You ! and why do you wish to be a monkey ? " 
 
 "Because I have so longed to travel," she as 
 sured him. 
 
 He perpended a moment. "You understand," 
 he told her thoughtfully, "that your dress would 
 consist largely of a little jacket, probably cut 
 down from the one I m wearing when IVe done 
 with it, and a red fez with a tassel. Do you think 
 you could wear such a dress with the necessary 
 grace?"
 
 The Caravan Man 209 
 
 "Well," said Rose, "I should like to get the 
 alterations done by my own dressmaker." 
 
 "That," said Bamfield, "might be conceded. 
 Your suggestion begins to appeal to me very 
 favourably. Very favourably. There are points 
 about it for instance, when the dogs bark at you 
 you would have to run to me and jump inside my 
 coat, left open for the purpose, and snuggle there. 
 Do you think you could do that?" 
 
 Rose blushed. "I should want time to think. I 
 have n t really considered my own idea very far," 
 she admitted, "and I should have to think it over 
 too." 
 
 "Take your time, take your time," said Bam 
 field heartily. " I think your scheme a good one, 
 and we must n t let little difficulties stand in the 
 way. Mind you, I m not going to promise, off 
 hand, to add a monkey to my establishment. For 
 one thing, he, or she, would have to be properly 
 apprenticed. Then there arises the question of the 
 premium." 
 
 "What s a premium?" 
 
 "A premium is a sum of money which the ap 
 prentice s guardian or parent pays down when the 
 apprentice is bound to his master. Generally, it s 
 paid back in wages during the next seven years." 
 
 "I don t think," said Rose, "that they d pay a 
 premium with me." 
 
 "It could be discussed," said Bamfield. "Some-
 
 2 1 o The Caravan Man 
 
 times, in the case of a special apprentice, there 
 is n t any premium." 
 
 "Then I suppose there are n t any wages?" 
 
 "The head she has!" said Bamfield admiringly. 
 " Shrewd, practical, yet imaginative." He sur 
 veyed Rose with enthusiasm "I 11 accept a 
 monkey," he suddenly decided. "I ll waive the 
 premium, cancel the wages, and offer a good home. 
 To a really earnest and persevering monkey, anxious 
 to improve his, or her, position, I would undertake to 
 give every advantage. In time she would be able 
 to take other monkeys as her own apprentices." 
 
 "I had no idea," said Rose, "that I d opened 
 out such a tremendous field of enterprise. I think 
 the scheme s rather running away with us." 
 
 "I ve developed it a bit, that s all. The idea 
 was yours. We won t come to a decision to-night, 
 though, will we?" 
 
 "No," said Rose; "we ll sleep on it." 
 
 "Quite so," he agreed; "but if, say, to-morrow 
 morning, you are of the same mind as now, come 
 and see me, bringing with you your birth certifi 
 cate, a medical report of fitness for the arduous 
 duties of the post, and a magisterial license. I on 
 my part will communicate with the Society for the 
 Supervision of Performing Animals. We could then 
 discuss terms." 
 
 "Could n t you give me an idea now of what you 
 will pay me?"
 
 The Caravan Man 211 
 
 "Um-um," he considered. "I m horribly poor, 
 you know. The wandering musician earns but 
 scanty guerdon. But with a really nice monkey I 
 would share what I had." 
 
 "Well," said Rose candidly, "I don t know 
 what that amounts to if you re so horribly poor. 
 But you re going to share with me to-night, are n t 
 you? Then don t mislead me by giving me a tre 
 mendous feast and making me think I m always 
 going to have a sumptuous time." 
 
 "I won t mislead you," answered the caravan 
 man. "Pay no attention to what I set before you 
 to-night. Black bread and goat s milk is all it runs 
 to as a rule. That s honest, is n t it?" he de 
 manded. 
 
 It was jolly, Rose felt, talking like this. How 
 Aunt Anne would frown if she heard it! Her 
 thoughts were back at the Priory. "You did n t 
 come to our house this evening," she said. 
 
 "Your people didn t expect me, did they?" 
 asked Bamfield. 
 
 "I think Granny had half an idea you might 
 look in." 
 
 "She said something about it after tea," said 
 Bamfield, "but naturally I would n t let anything 
 interfere with our arrangement. Do they know 
 you ve come?" 
 
 "No," said Rose. "I did n t tell them anything. 
 I let them think I had gone to my room after din-
 
 212 The Caravan Man 
 
 ner. I had to sit through dinner and pretend to 
 eat. I suppose it was my guilty conscience made 
 me feel as if they kept looking at me." 
 
 "But you are really prepared to eat supper, 
 are n t you?" asked Bamfield. 
 
 "Rather! I m depending on it." She was 
 standing by the steps of the caravan, and "Mr. 
 Jones" was inside. She waited till he came out 
 with a Chinese lantern, its candle lit, and hung it 
 to a branch of the tree. It made a centre to their 
 little world. Till now there had perhaps been a 
 faint timidity alive in Rose, but in the presence of 
 the red lantern s gleam, this died down. 
 
 Bamfield moved about, in and out of the caravan 
 busy with preparations for the meal, while Rose 
 stood filled with delight. At what? She hardly 
 knew; only, about them both there seemed to float 
 a sense of intimacy that belonged to just the circle 
 the Chinese lantern illuminated. Within its dim 
 influence, she felt, were comradeship, adventure, 
 security, and a happy seclusion from to-morrow or 
 yesterday. The time and the place comprehended 
 everything. 
 
 "Sit down," said Bamfield, "while I bustle 
 about. Are you glad you came ? " 
 
 She thrilled as she replied: "Rather! Picnics are 
 jolly, and this sort of moonlight picnic What 
 are you going to give me to eat?" 
 
 It was n t that she really cared very much what
 
 The Caravan Man 213 
 
 she ate, but the meal was to be part of this tremen 
 dous and exhilarating adventure. Something about 
 it seemed to link it up with long-past days, in the 
 old studio at Primrose Hill, when, perhaps, in the 
 evening, some artist friend of her father s would 
 drop in unexpectedly, and there would be pipes 
 going and chat what about she had forgotten 
 now, but she recalled the happiness. It had been 
 just this sort of happiness. 
 
 As she questioned him, Bamfield looked up at 
 her as he knelt by the fire of sticks, fresh blazing, 
 and crackling bravely. 
 
 "Ever read Pickwick ?" 
 
 "I did once." 
 
 "Remember Mrs. Bardell?" 
 
 "I know! Chops and tomato sauce !" 
 
 " Chops and fried tomatoes, in this case. Most 
 chastely simple. I have ambitions as a cook, you 
 know, but I dared not risk failure, with you here. 
 But when you Ve eaten the chops and tomatoes I 
 shall give you, you shall lay your hand on your 
 heart and tell me if ever the most burning poet in 
 his finest flights could melt his way into your 
 bosom s inmost core as my chops and my tomatoes 
 will do." 
 
 She laughed. "Mind!" she warned him. "I m 
 fond of poetry." 
 
 "Poetry!" he sneered. "Wait till you ve tasted 
 my chops and tomatoes!"
 
 214 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Touch wood!" cried Rose. 
 
 He scorned her. "If I m wrong I ll eat the 
 frying-pan. And another thing I m going to 
 give you some claret, and when I say some claret, 
 I don t mean any sort of claret, but just that par 
 ticular claret which alone may presume to uncork 
 within hail of these chops as cooked by me." 
 
 "Oh, dear!" said Rose. "Don t think me rude, 
 but but " She hesitated. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Well, claret it s going rather a long way, 
 is n t it? You ought to let me pay half." 
 
 "Gawd bless you for them kind words, lidy," he 
 answered. "Don t you see, this is my treat? One 
 of these days, if ever we meet again, you shall treat 
 
 me." 
 
 "If ever we meet again!" said Rose. Somehow 
 there was melancholy at the back of the thought. 
 "And if I ve got any money." 
 
 "Have n t you?" asked Bamfield. 
 
 Rose felt how pleasant it was of him to ask her 
 just bluntly like that. She shook her head. 
 
 "My face is my fortune," she replied. 
 
 Bamfield stared up at her. She was sitting on the 
 tree-root, leaning toward him and the fire. She 
 wore a white dress, her hat and gloves lay by her 
 side, her elbows were on her knees, and the red 
 flame of the fire set her shining hair aglow. Her 
 lips were parted, her eyes bright; she was drinking
 
 The Caravan Man 215 
 
 in every moment of this wonderful hour. Bamfield 
 looked her over and drew a deep breath. 
 
 "Your face is your fortune!" he said. "Ah!" 
 
 He had brought out the simple necessaries for 
 their feasting plates, knives, and forks and 
 while the chops sputtered their protest at the 
 frying-pan s fiery ordeal, he cut up some tomatoes. 
 
 "I say, can t I do something?" asked Rose. She 
 thought she must offer to help, but she felt per 
 fectly happy looking on. She wondered if it were 
 quite right to feel so happy. 
 
 "Just sit still and admire me," answered Bam 
 field, slithering the sliced tomatoes into the frying- 
 pan. 
 
 " I do admire you -^- for the splendid way you 
 got on with my aunt and Granny this afternoon." 
 
 He looked up at her with a suppressed grin. 
 "Miraculous, was n t it?" 
 
 "The way Granny melted!" said Rose. "Do 
 you know, when she met you coming across the 
 lawn, I really thought for a moment she was going 
 to kiss you. I think," she went on meditatively, 
 "I think you must have reminded her of some one 
 she had known, perhaps loved, years and years 
 ago, when she was a girl." 
 
 Bamfield laughed. "I suppose girls did love in 
 crinoline days?" he said. "Why haven t I got 
 pegtop trousers and long side-whiskers? I might 
 win her love to life again. Look here," he said, eye-
 
 2 1 6 The Caravan Man 
 
 ing her closely, "I suppose you really dorft know 
 why it was I got on so well with your people?" 
 
 "No. Why was it?" 
 
 "You re sure they did n t mention anything?" 
 
 She had already told him, and as she sat there 
 looking straight at him with eyes of utter frank 
 ness, he felt a pang of shame at the repetition of 
 his question. But a jumbled excuse seemed to 
 blurt itself out within him. " If she s as true as I m 
 certain she s true, it s such a joy that I must make 
 sure she s true," was how his thought ran. 
 
 "No," said Rose. "Why was it? Was there any 
 particular reason? Is there some secret? Do tell 
 
 me." 
 
 "No, I won t. I was puzzled at first as to why 
 your Aunt Anne, in particular, turned so civil all 
 at once, and then I remembered something a friend 
 of mine told me might happen and I saw it had. 
 It s quite amusing." 
 
 Rose wrinkled her brows, and looked hard at 
 him. "You worry me," she said. 
 
 Bamfield laughed. "Don t worry. It s nothing. 
 You tell me you don t know anything about it, so 
 I m sure you don t. We had a jolly time, did n t 
 we?" 
 
 "It was wonderful such a happy afternoon. 
 You are wonderful, you know." 
 
 "Ami? How?" 
 
 "I can t say just wonderful. The things you
 
 The Caravan Man 217 
 
 do and say." She looked at him with the frankest 
 admiration. 
 
 "You wonderful, wonderful thing!" thought 
 Bamfield in return almost said it, in fact, but 
 checked himself in time. 
 
 " I m really a magician, you know, by trade," he 
 answered gravely, "but I preferred photography. 
 Now, then, supper s nearly ready. Plates hot. Sit 
 nearer. Are you quite comfortable?" 
 
 "Yes, thanks," she assured him. "This is just 
 
 nice." 
 
 "Are you warm enough," he went on, "or shall I 
 get a rug?" 
 
 "I m lovely, thanks," she answered. He re 
 garded her consideringly for a second. "I know 
 you re lovely," he said, "but what I asked was, 
 are you warm enough?" 
 
 It was venturesome. For a second Rose felt a 
 little uncertain of her own mood. "Really, Mr. 
 Jones," she protested, "you speak to me as if I 
 were a little girl." 
 
 Instantly he was apologetic. " Don t be offended. 
 But, you know, at times you do rather remind me 
 of a a certain little girl I Ve a sort of acquaint 
 ance with." He stopped, musing for a second, and 
 again his eye with a gleam of laughter in it rested 
 on her, and she felt the sense of some knowledge in 
 him that concerned her. Her lips parted in a query, 
 but he struck in, " I 11 tell you all about her, one of
 
 2 1 8 The Caravan Man 
 
 these days. Now," changing the subject, "let s 
 look at the potatoes." He dropped to his knees by 
 the fire and commenced to rake among the fringes 
 of its glowing embers with a stick. "Don t you," 
 he asked her as he raked, "don t you love potatoes 
 baked in wood ashes, in their jackets, and roasted 
 absolutely to perfection?" 
 
 Rose, who was honestly hungry, felt a little in 
 ward stir of primitive feeling glow warm within 
 her as she answered, "Yes." 
 
 He had raked out what he sought from the ashes 
 of the fire and was staring at what he now held in 
 his hands. He turned a blank face to her. 
 
 "Not like some fellows would do them, eh? All 
 black, and burnt up to cinders." 
 
 "No." 
 
 He rose with a little sigh, walked a pace or two 
 away towards the pond, and methodically tossed 
 into its shiny blackness four small objects, each 
 falling with a "plomp" one after the other into the 
 water. 
 
 "All right," he said solemnly. "Then then 
 I d better put some more on." He looked at her 
 tragically. 
 
 She clapped her hands delightedly. " I told you 
 to touch wood," she said. "Now, what about the 
 frying-pan?" 
 
 "What about it?" 
 
 "Are n t you going to eat it?"
 
 The Caravan Man 219 
 
 He clasped his hands imploringly. "Let me off! 
 The fact is, I m frightfully nervous. I did so want 
 to do everything in first-rate style and somehow 
 I ve been feeling nervous about it ever since you 
 promised to come. Never mind; I ll soon have 
 some more going. I 11 scrub them up. And have 
 a glass of claret " He began to pour out a glass 
 from the bottle. 
 
 "Let me scrub them," said Rose. 
 
 "No, no," he protested. "I ll do it. But wish 
 me luck." He handed her a glass filled with the 
 wine. "Here s luck to my next lot of baked 
 potatoes." 
 
 Rose took a sip at the wine and put her glass 
 down. Somehow the accident to his cooking had 
 quite smoothed away the faint sense of strangeness 
 that had prevented her feeling quite at her ease. 
 Here was a domestic matter in which she could 
 speak with authority. She was now in that world 
 of tolerance of man s incapacity in which every 
 woman is a queen in right of her sex. She took 
 charge with easy confidence. "If you really mean 
 me to have potatoes to-night, it won t do to bake 
 them; there is n t time." 
 
 "You really intend being home by nine?" 
 
 "Yes, really. Let s put them on to boil. Get 
 
 some water." 
 
 She was brisk, businesslike. Bamfield took his 
 orders at once. He dived into the caravan, came
 
 2 2 o The Caravan Man 
 
 out with a saucepan, flew over to the pond and 
 came back with it nearly full. Then he pulled out 
 a plaited rush basket with quite a lot of potatoes 
 in; Rose selected four, Bamfield got two knives, 
 one for her and one for himself, and they both com 
 menced to peel potatoes. 
 
 "Don t peel them so thickly," Rose admonished 
 him. "That s wasteful." Her knife was flying 
 dextrously as she gave him his directions. " Sorry," 
 he said, and honestly laboured to profit by her re 
 proof. She saw him making an effort, and felt 
 pleased. He was frankly conceding her the com 
 mand of things. It was pleasant to realize that 
 she was in charge of matters. Usually he seemed 
 rather a masterful sort of man, but there was 
 no question now of whose was the hand on the 
 reins. 
 
 Suddenly she looked up enquiringly. "Yes?" 
 said Bamfield. She sniffed. "I thought " 
 
 Bamfield sniffed too. "No," he said. "I 
 thought " said Rose and with one simultane 
 ous sniff both flung down their knives, dropped the 
 potatoes and leapt to the fire. Bamfield whipped 
 the smoking frying-pan off the flames . . . 
 
 " I m sorry," was all he could say for a minute. 
 
 Nothing but the ruddy light of the fire, leaping 
 as if in wild enjoyment of the mischief it had 
 wrought, obscured the fiery flush of confessed in 
 eptitude that mantled over Bamfield s cheeks.
 
 The Caravan Man 221 
 
 "Oh, Lord ! done for ! " He prodded the smok 
 ing mass in the pan disparagingly. 
 
 Rose looked at him, restraining magnificently 
 the blaze of conscious superiority, almost flaring 
 up into insolent sex arrogance, that flamed within 
 her. She eyed him steadily. "If ever you want a 
 place as chef," she could not for the life of her re 
 frain from saying, "refer people to me, will you?" 
 
 Even under the blaze of the fire something of 
 Bamfield s blush betrayed itself. 
 
 " I hardly know how to look you in the face." 
 It was true. His eye wandered undecidedly into the 
 surrounding night as if in search of succour; the 
 frying-pan wavered unsteadily in his nerveless 
 grip. 
 
 "My supper!" she said inexorably. It was lovely 
 to look at him, unsmilingly, almost grimly, and 
 watch his faltering gaze. 
 
 Suddenly he pulled himself together like a man. 
 "You shall have it." He buttoned up his coat and 
 put the frying-pan down. 
 
 "Where are you going?" asked Rose. 
 
 He dived for his bicycle, lying under the caravan. 
 "I m going into the village. Five minutes there, 
 five minutes back " 
 
 "It s half-past eight the shops are shut." 
 
 "I ll knock one of them up. I 11 manage it. You 
 think I m a fool, and I am a fool, but I m not such 
 a fool as not to be able to get you something to
 
 222 The Caravan Man 
 
 eat. Do forgive me. Sit by the fire, and in posi 
 tively less than a quarter of an hour " 
 
 He was mounted, wavering away. She stopped 
 him. 
 
 "Stop!" 
 
 He stopped, balancing. 
 
 "Don t go!" . 
 
 He put a foot to the ground. "But I must " 
 
 "No, you must n t. It won t be the least fun to 
 me to stay here alone. Let s sit and chat. I mean 
 it." He saw she meant it, and with a last gesture 
 of apology, dismounted, and came over to her. She 
 sat again on the tree-root. He produced his ciga 
 rette-case. "You don t smoke, do you ? " She shook 
 her head. He lit one for himself. Her eyes were 
 dancing with merriment. Spite of his mortification 
 he could not help laughing. "I hardly know how 
 to look you in the face. There s the cruet 1 
 don t think there s any mustard in it, but there s 
 some salt and a little pepper perhaps. And 
 there s some bread and the claret " His eye 
 looked past her, and a fresh spasm of embarrass 
 ment wavered across it. He struck his thigh with 
 real anger. " I m blest if I have n t knocked the 
 bottle over!" He stooped and picked it up. It 
 was true. The wine had gone. He pitched the 
 bottle, as he had done the potatoes, into the pond. 
 It gave a sniggering "plop!" as it struck the water. 
 
 He had always appeared so cool and confident
 
 The Caravan Man 223 
 
 and easy, that Rose began to feel uncomfortable 
 herself. Trying to turn the edge of his discom 
 fiture, "Is n t this a case for magic?" she asked. 
 
 "Magic?" said Bamfield. 
 
 "You said you were a magician," she reminded 
 him. "Well, if you really are, here s just the chance 
 to show me what you can do. Have you got your 
 wand handy or do you usually rub a lamp?" 
 
 Bamfield felt grateful to her for her trifling. 
 
 "My magic s a bit rusty," he told her, "but if 
 you like we ll give it a chance. Shall I order, or 
 will you? What would you like? chops and 
 tomatoes?" 
 
 "No, thank you." She was decided. "There s 
 something unlucky about chops and tomatoes to 
 night. If you don t mind, we 11 try something else." 
 
 "Anything you like," said Bamfield spaciously. 
 
 "Then, I think I d like some some ham, deli 
 cately cut " 
 
 "Cold, I suppose?" 
 
 "Yes, cold; cut thin." 
 
 " Some ham for the lady, cold, cut thin," Bam 
 field threw over his shoulder, apparently to an 
 invisible but no doubt attentive genie. 
 
 "A nice roll," continued Rose. 
 
 "Roll, superior quality," said Bamfield. "Do I 
 share your roll, or am I left out of this supper?" 
 
 "You may order two rolls," she conceded. "I 
 am ordering for you as well as for myself."
 
 224 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Two rolls." Bamfield passed the order on. 
 "And some butter, I presume?" 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 "Pray don t mention it. And to drink?" 
 
 " Some claret, please." 
 
 "Oh, no, no, not claret. Come; to please me, let 
 yourself go a bit. Why not champagne?" 
 
 "The expense," she objected. 
 
 "Dismiss the thought. To my attendant sprite 
 cost is a negligible factor. Champagne, then. Now, 
 is that all ? Ham, rolls, butter, and a bottle no, 
 let s be lavish suppose we say, a couple of 
 bottles, of champagne? Right?" She nodded. 
 "Have you got a ring? Yes, that one on your 
 finger." 
 
 "It s my mother s." 
 
 "Then there s magic in it. Kindly rub it." She 
 rubbed it as he directed. " Slave of the ring," he 
 continued in a deep bass voice, "you hear the lady? 
 Appear, with the articles enumerated . . ." 
 
 He did not fall over, he merely sat still as a stone, 
 after one little gasp; but Rose, leaning forward, 
 with a start, clutched at his arm. 
 
 From the gloom of the tree under which they 
 sat came a movement, the approach of a human 
 figure, moving carefully, bearing more than one 
 small burden. Moving a trifle unsteadily out of the 
 shadows, the form of Mr. Jarge Gubbins material 
 ized before their eyes.
 
 The Caravan Man 225 
 
 In his present attire Mr. Gubbins had struck 
 and struck extremely loudly that note of gaiety 
 which throughout the ages has been acclaimed by 
 the great mass of human opinion as the correct 
 one for an occasion such as that in which he had 
 that morning borne a principal part. A white and 
 glossily ironed waistcoat, a blue-and-yellow tie, a 
 coat and trousers of a grey ground over which was 
 drawn with firm and uncompromising hand a cross- 
 pattern of black-lined squares; light-brown boots, 
 a soft grey hat carve him in stone and tint him, 
 and you had for all time an embodiment of the soul 
 of man walking hand in hand with merriment. And 
 if his gait hinted at a pretty waywardness, if his 
 speech struck you less in its clarity of diction than 
 in its hearty good-nature, why, there are times and 
 seasons, look you, and there are other times and 
 seasons. The austerities of human conduct may 
 with propriety relax on occasion, within reason; 
 nay, there are moments when a rigid adherence to 
 the rule of every day may be said to smack of 
 actual impropriety. The morning trappings of woe 
 were for the most part disposed under his arm in a 
 bundle. The hat that had so malignantly mocked 
 in its ironic proclamation of grief the inward hilarity 
 of its wearer was now borne, crape band and all, 
 by the rim, in his hand, plainly a despised and 
 rejected thing. 
 
 Happy, hospitable, beaming, he came forward
 
 226 The Caravan Man 
 
 with a wide-footed stride to where Rose and Barn- 
 field, sitting motionless on the tree-roots, waited 
 the unfolding of his mission. In his right hand he 
 bore two dinner plates, their concave surfaces 
 opposed to each other; one might reasonably con 
 ceive that they bore between them a delectable 
 edible. 
 
 He wagged his head at Bamfield. "You did n t 
 coom down this arternoon, mister," he said. "We 
 wus expeckin you." He caught sight of Rose and 
 touched the brim of his hat with the brim of the 
 crape-bound topper he carried. "Oh, good-evenin , 
 Miss Nieugente. I w s sayin to this young feller, 
 e did n t coom as we expected. Dolly, my new 
 missis, she ses to me not arf an hour ago, 1 1 expect 
 e J s shy-like, this bein our weddin night. * E 
 don t seem to want narthin to dew wi our am, I 
 ses, but arst im I did, and ave it e shall, so I 
 cuts im off is share, and up I pops." 
 
 Rose saw Bamfield s lips faintly moving, caught 
 a reference to "Jarge, my preserver," and what 
 sounded like a quotation regarding Providence, 
 and drunken men, and fools. 
 
 Mr. Gubbins had removed the top one of the 
 two plates in his right hand. As if interested in 
 the proceedings, a merry little flame curled up from 
 the fire and had a look. There was displayed a 
 generous quantity of thin slices of a ham that at 
 a glance you could tell touched the pinnacle of
 
 The Caravan Man 227 
 
 ham s possibilities of achievement. He knelt down 
 before the other two and deposited his offering on 
 the grass. More was to come. One by one Mr. 
 Gubbins took from under his arm other gifts. 
 
 " Ere," said he, unwrapping some tissue paper, 
 " ere s some rolls, an some butter as Dolly made 
 erself for rolls, fancy bread, an butter you 
 won t meet Dolly s equal in a long day s march. 
 And well I dunno ow you fancies this sort 
 of stuff, but there s a couple o bottles, Dolly and 
 me ain t got no use for it good old ale for ever, 
 I ses, but Dolly s uncle in Lunnon, e sent us 
 down a dozen bottles you may as well ave a go 
 at it, and if you likes it there s the rest when you 
 wants it." 
 
 Still the two on the tree-root sat almost motion 
 less while Mr. Gubbins displayed on the grass 
 before their eyes, in the bright light of the inquisi 
 tive flame, the ham, the rolls, the butter, and 
 finally two bottles, sloping-shouldered, wrapped 
 delicately round the throat with silver paper, below 
 which one spied a white label, on which was written 
 a title in a delicate copper-plate hand 
 
 "There!" said Mr. Gubbins, in conclusion, rest 
 ing on one knee. 
 
 Bamfield roused to motion. He stood up, and 
 with the gesture of a king doing honour to some 
 returned victorious general, he raised Mr. Gubbins 
 from his kneeling posture.
 
 228 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Jarge," he said with feeling, "I have no 
 words." He shook Mr. Gubbins by the hand. 
 
 Rose also stood up. She was a little breathless. 
 She had really felt a little frightened on Mr. Gub- 
 bins s first entry. Do not smile superior at her. 
 Rub a ring, as she did, make a request to unknown 
 forces and agencies, and get on that instant an 
 answer amply, generously acquiescing, and are 
 your nerves so steady as to be beyond all tremor? 
 
 "We re very much obliged to you, Mr. Gub 
 bins," said Rose. 
 
 The owner of the watercreese beds bowed with 
 manly grace, keeping his feet well apart as he did 
 so. "Welcome, Miss Rose." He meant it in his 
 country fashion. 
 
 The plain man in Bamfield instantly responded. 
 "Jarge, you must stay and have supper with us. 
 Must n t he, Miss Rose?" 
 
 "Nunno,"said Gubbins archly; "two s company. 
 Good-night, master; good-night, Miss Nieugente." 
 
 "Well, good-night, Jarge," said Bamfield. "I 
 said it before, and I say it again my preserver." 
 
 "We re very, very much obliged, Mr. Gubbins," 
 said Rose. 
 
 Gubbins beamed kindly. "Lord love ee, miss, 
 ye re welcome . . . Shall I sing ye a song afore 
 I go?" 
 
 Rose looked at Bamfield. Bamfield, spite of a 
 real gratitude, was quite willing to see the back of
 
 The Caravan Man 229 
 
 Gubbins, but, all things considered, thought it best 
 to humour him. 
 
 "Go on, Jarge. What was the one you sang all 
 the way home from the Pink and Lily?" 
 
 " Dadder and is ladder ?" suggested Mr. 
 Gubbins. 
 
 "That s it." 
 
 Mr. Gubbins smiled broadly, cleared his throat, 
 and commenced his song : 
 
 "My ol dadder, e coom acrass the medder, 
 An he brart along a ladder, as andy as could be. 
 O the fruit won t get no redder, an I ll be all the gladder 
 When I picks a prarper basket from my gert apple-tree." 
 
 Bamfield had strolled over to the caravan, and 
 from the driver s seat had picked up his concer 
 tina. He felt for a chord or two, found the key, and 
 by the end of the verse was putting in a harmony. 
 
 "The blind cow coom" went on Mr. Gubbins "as quiet 
 
 as a shadder, 
 
 Jest as fancy led er, so ladylike an free. 
 Nothin could be sadder w en her harns caught in the ladder, 
 And dadder took a header down his gert apple-tree." 
 
 Full accompaniment this time. Mr. Gubbins 
 appreciated it, and let his voice ring nobly out: 
 
 "Then dadder e got madder than an adder, yes, an badder, 
 At the ladder in the shadder an the cow that could n t see. 
 An parson who was passin left us word that dadder had a 
 
 bad a- 
 Ttack of somethin narsty round his gert apple-tree."
 
 230 The Caravan Man 
 
 That last verse went in great style and at its 
 finish Mr. Gubbins did quite an excellent toe- 
 dance, a most surprising and unexpected perform 
 ance, staggery at the finish, but successfully con 
 cluded. 
 
 Rose clapped; so did Bamfield; and Gubbins, 
 skilful to retire with all the wonder of success wav 
 ing about him, took a resolute leave. "Now I must 
 be off, and ome to bed s soon s I ve a done with 
 these ol blacks o mine." 
 
 "What are you goin to do with them, Jarge?" 
 asked Bamfield, really curious. 
 
 Jarge shook his head, cunningly. "Nunno, don t 
 arsk me. I m going to ave a lark with em never 
 you mind what. You ll see. Coom down to the 
 farm to-morrer and you ll see what I done with 
 em. I m goin to ave my own back." He grinned 
 heartily at his own joke. "Good-night, Miss 
 Nieugente. I must be off. It s early yet, but what 
 I say is, if a man won t go ome early on is weddin* 
 night, w y, w en will e go ome?" 
 
 Propounding this riddle, he moved away, a little 
 unsteadily, and vanished into the night, turning 
 once to wave the crape-bound top-hat to the two 
 by the fire. One might note that his left foot was 
 not sure as to the way he wanted to go. His right 
 foot, however, was quite sure and quite wrong . . . 
 
 "Well!" said Rose, drawing a long breath. 
 
 Bamfield began to examine the two bottles.
 
 The Caravan Man 231 
 
 "The least we can do now is to drink Mr. Gub- 
 bins s very good health, Miss Rose. I have n t 
 champagne glasses, but from this label I anticipate 
 something that will excuse the glass." He filled 
 the two claret glasses, and Rose felt she could do 
 no less than drink the toast heartily "Gubbins 
 God bless him!" 
 
 But she was really hungry now. "Supper, 
 quick!" she commanded. 
 
 Bamfield dropped on his knees beside her. "My 
 word! there s enough ham for three " 
 
 "Quick, then," said Rose; "you know you ve 
 been starving me." 
 
 He handed her a plate with some ham on, helped 
 himself, passed her the crust, the rolls, the butter 
 
 What wonder in that meal! At times Rose found 
 herself in doubt whether all this delightful hour 
 were not a piece of magic, witchcraft, a dream 
 which a cunning necromancy had informed with 
 a realism that must, however, suddenly dissolve 
 and leave her dismally awake and disappointed. 
 
 But there she looked round was the cara 
 van, lights gleaming prettily through its little win 
 dows, its half-opened door; there was the fire, the 
 trees seen shadowily, the vague blackness of the 
 lake behind the reeds, the caravan man himself, 
 crouched near her, eating ham, buttering his roll 
 It was all true. No dream, this. 
 
 He looked up at her, held her eye for a minute.
 
 232 The Caravan Man 
 
 Perhaps he read something of her delight, for he 
 smiled very pleasantly. 
 
 "Well, what do you think of my ham?" he asked. 
 
 "Yours!" She stared at him coldly. "You may 
 thank Gubbins for saving you from a most humili 
 ating situation." 
 
 He put his knife and fork down. "I like that! 
 Here s gratitude! At your request I perform under 
 your nose an elaborate and exhausting miracle, 
 and well, really, after this " He took up his 
 knife and fork again, and attacked his supper 
 with an air of having, from this moment, aban 
 doned her to her unreason. 
 
 She giggled. "It s delicious ham. Mr. Jones, is 
 it as nice as I think, or is it just having it like this 
 you know, out here by your fire?" 
 
 "I think," he answered, "the ham is a very fair 
 ham, but, candidly, the super-excellence you 
 detect is probably due to your having it with me, 
 I expect. Agreeable company means so much when 
 one s eating." 
 
 Rose looked at him with compressed lips. "Your 
 fault, Mr. Jones, if you have a fault I say, if you 
 have a fault is over-modesty. Try to think a 
 little more of yourself. Cultivate self-esteem." 
 
 He lifted a deprecating hand. "Don t urge me 
 to. It is so foreign to my nature. Is n t this but 
 ter wonderful?" 
 
 "Top hole. And the rolls, scrumptious."
 
 The Caravan Man 233 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha! Go on; I like to hear you use 
 slang." 
 
 She felt rebuked. " It seems to go with the ham 
 and the fire and your jolly old caravan, and 
 talking like this. I m a little blackguard, are n t 
 I, talking with my mouth full?" 
 
 Bamfield laughed. "Ha, ha, ha!" 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Rose in return. "Oh, 
 don t make me laugh!" She leaned back a little. 
 "What are we laughing at?" 
 
 Bamfield could only laugh again. It was fun 
 and she was so was so Impossible to pick 
 the right word for her. 
 
 She went on: "Doesn t a fire in the open at 
 night make you feel " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I don t know." She looked around. "What 
 ever do people live in houses for, like plants in a 
 pot? This is jolly. I do like being here. You said 
 this afternoon, you d have something to show me 
 to-night. What is it?" 
 
 Bamfield put his plate aside and rose. "This 
 is n t quite the light to see it in," he remarked. 
 
 He went into the caravan and brought out a 
 painted canvas and handed it to her. She looked 
 at it eagerly. She was puzzled. Was it a tremen 
 dously clever thing? No, she decided. It was so 
 simple the pond, painted from the other side, 
 with the old tree and the red-wheeled caravan half
 
 234 The Caravan Man 
 
 hidden in its shade; a piece of broad work, mas 
 terly simple, with the gigantic confidence that 
 Bamfield had found within himself only since he 
 had resigned his studio life and widened the scope 
 of his effort. 
 
 Its very simplicity daunted Rose. Yet it caught 
 her too. 
 
 "It s wonderful," she said. "That is to say, 
 it s quite good. The pond yes When did 
 you do it?" 
 
 " * Early one morning, just as the sun was ris 
 ing " lilted Bamfield. 
 
 " * I heard a maid sing " she went on with 
 the song. "Oh, if you could only finish it." 
 
 Bamfield moved nearer, leaning against the 
 tree trunk, and looking down at his own work as 
 she held it. 
 
 "Finish it?" he said. 
 
 "Of course," said Rose firmly. "It wants 
 smoothing up." Bamfield s tremendous brushwork 
 was something a little beyond her. 
 
 "Wants smoothing up! Oh, does it?" 
 
 "Certainly. You ought to work this up." She 
 regarded it again at arm s length. It certainly was 
 promising, most promising. "If you like," she 
 went on, " I 11 show you how to go on with this." 
 
 "You are good," replied Bamfield gratefully. 
 "You you know a lot about painting, I sup 
 pose?"
 
 The Caravan Man 235 
 
 Rose looked up at him with modest pride. "I 
 have two South Kensington certificates," she re 
 plied. 
 
 The tone was lovely. Bamfield hugged himself 
 with sheer joy. She was not boasting; she was 
 merely stating, with modest reserve, a fact that 
 had an important bearing on their relations and 
 his possible future. 
 
 "Two!" said Bamfield, with never a flicker of 
 a smile. "Two certificates! Oh, I say!" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Is that quite fair? two certificates, when so 
 many, perhaps thousands, of people have n t got 
 even one? I say, you did n t cheat, did you?" 
 
 She reassured him earnestly, flushing a little. 
 "Of course not I would n t." 
 
 "Of course, I ought to have known. Still, you 
 must be frightfully clever." 
 
 "Oh, no, I m not. Don t you think that for an 
 instant. But I worked hard. You see, I had two 
 hours painting twice a week for nearly two years." 
 
 "Really?" said Bamfield, and appeared lost in 
 thought. "Do you think, if I worked hard, that I 
 could get into your style?" 
 
 "Why not?" she answered encouragingly, and 
 scrutinized the picture at arm s length again. 
 "Really, this is quite promising. Do you like 
 painting?" 
 
 "Yes."
 
 236 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Then why don t you learn?" 
 
 Bamfield looked at her yearningly. "Do you 
 really think I could?" 
 
 ("I m a rotten cad," he said to himself, "but 
 I can t help it. She s she s oh, she s simply 
 the sweetest!") 
 
 Rose considered him gravely. "I feel sure you 
 could. You must have tried before, have n t you ?" 
 
 "Once or twice," admitted Bamfield. 
 
 "Then why not keep on with it? How pleasant 
 it would be for you on dark evenings, when you 
 don t know what to do with yourself." Bamfield 
 laughed. "What is it?" asked Rose anxiously. 
 
 Bamfield checked his chuckle. "Oh, I was 
 thinking what a fool I ve been not to think of it 
 before art as a harmless hobby for dark eve 
 nings. It would well, it would keep me out of 
 the pubs, don t you think?" 
 
 She looked distressed. "Don t speak like that. 
 I can t believe that of you. Of course, it means a 
 lot of study a lot of study. But you would per 
 severe. You might be able to paint up some of 
 your photos." 
 
 "Great!" responded Bamfield, with eager in 
 terest. " So I might. Genuine hand-coloured, five 
 shillings a dozen extra." 
 
 "Or even more," said Rose earnestly. "Don t 
 think me rude, but when I think of you, all alone 
 in a caravan, I do so feel that you ought to be
 
 The Caravan Man 237 
 
 making something of a position for yourself. And, 
 you see, you might make quite a name." 
 
 "And get a shop?" 
 
 "Yes. Oh, you re laughing at me!" For the 
 life of him Bamfield could not quite smother the 
 ghost of a grin. "Very well, then. I was silly to 
 speak about it." She felt hurt. 
 
 "Not a bit," said Bamfield. "Come, let s drink 
 to the success of the lessons you re going to give 
 me. Now, look here. Tell me, would you seri 
 ously advise me to drop photography and try to 
 learn to paint?" 
 
 Rose hesitated. "Well" 
 
 "Come, now," said Bamfield firmly. "I want 
 your advice. Shall I?" 
 
 Rose felt her position keenly. Her enthusiasm 
 had carried her away. She had been urging him 
 on perhaps too irresponsibly, and here she was con 
 fronted with the fact that apparently his future 
 was to depend on her advice. It was a thrilling 
 thought, but a terrifying. 
 
 "You make me frightened," she confessed. "I 
 know it s a difficult thing to throw up one 
 career and take up another. You see, you ve 
 got well, a living at least in your photography, 
 have n t you?" 
 
 "That s it that s just what I m thinking," 
 said Bamfield. 
 
 "And suppose you threw that away and did n t
 
 238 The Caravan Man 
 
 really succeed at painting? How much do you 
 earn?" 
 
 "It varies. Sometimes it s as much as two 
 pounds, even two pounds ten, in a week. Another 
 week it may be only a sovereign." 
 
 "H m! That s not so very much, is it?" 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "Not for a photographer," she said judiciously. 
 "But I dare say it would be rather a lot for an 
 artist. But then an artist can paint all the year 
 round, while I don t suppose you do much pho 
 tography in the winter." 
 
 He shuddered. "The winter the winter s a 
 terrible time. Don t talk about the cruel winter." 
 
 He did it very well, but even Rose had to look 
 hard at him. 
 
 "I wish," she said, "that this fire were a little 
 brighter." 
 
 He poked the fire. "There you are, then. Why? 
 
 "I thought, perhaps, if I looked at you in a bet 
 ter light, I might tell if you re talking seriously." 
 
 "Do you doubt me?" 
 
 "Sometimes. That s rude, isn t it? But 
 you know I can t help feeling how queer 
 You re only a photographer, jogging about in a 
 caravan and afraid of hardships in winter. Afraid 
 you! You don t look as if you would be afraid 
 of anything not easily. And yet you ask me if 
 I would advise you to go in for painting. Do you
 
 The Caravan Man 239 
 
 know, I feel as if I could say, Yes, go in for any 
 thing. Don t be afraid. Dare it! Dare it! Oh, 
 you would succeed ! I know I feel it in me 
 you would ! You can t have tried Why do you 
 look at me like that? Am I silly?" 
 
 Bamfield drew a deep breath. "You re No, 
 never mind." 
 
 She had been leaning forward as she spoke, her 
 eagerness and interest in him displaying them 
 selves unchecked, in her face and her eyes a spark 
 of that divine fire that, leaping from the feminine 
 to the receptive male, has set the world aflame 
 before now. 
 
 She retreated within her own borders again, 
 shyly. "-And if you make a great success, and grow 
 rich as rich, give me your old caravan." 
 
 "What do you want it for?" 
 
 "I wish I had it now. Wouldn t I wander!" 
 She stood up. "I d fly about" 
 
 "Oh, no, you would n t," interrupted Bamfield, 
 lighting a cigarette. " Seen my mare ? Her flying 
 days are done." 
 
 "I d coax her. I d go all over England, up to 
 high mountain tops " 
 
 "My poor Egeria! If you knew how she suffers 
 from nerves." 
 
 " She need n t come right up." 
 
 "She would n t." 
 
 "Would she wait for me at the bottom?"
 
 240 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Ah, now you have it! You ve guessed her 
 secret! Waiting for you motionless for hours 
 still as a marble horse faithful Egeria, that s 
 her great stunt!" 
 
 " I d bathe in lonely lakes and rivers." 
 
 "Forty shillings and costs every time," said 
 Bamfield. 
 
 "I don t care. I d wander.- on seashores, over 
 moors. I d let the winds blow about me. I d go 
 through France, Italy, Spain, Egypt " 
 
 " Egeria s going to have a wonderful old age. 
 The grand tour to wind up with." 
 
 "I d wander for ever and ever. In a hundred 
 years, travellers would report that somewhere 
 in the Sahara or on Siberian steppes, they d 
 passed a wrinkled old woman, with her knees to 
 her nose and her nose to her chin, driving along in 
 a creaking old caravan " 
 
 "Some creak!" 
 
 "With an attenuated mare " 
 
 "And some attentuation!" 
 
 "And she d sent home word to her granny not 
 to worry, and she was coming home when she was 
 tired of it. Oh, Mr. Jones " She pulled up 
 hastily in her rhapsody. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Am I talking too much?" 
 
 "Not a bit. Why?" 
 
 "A dreadful thought s just struck me. You
 
 The Caravan Man 241 
 
 know, I m not used to champagne." She sat 
 down, with a gleam of apprehension usurping in 
 her face the glow of a few seconds before. "Am 
 I is it possible ?" 
 
 "Not unless you want to get up and dance," 
 Bamneld reassured her gravely. 
 
 "But I do! Let me see." She looked round 
 doubtfully. "One caravan, one fire - and there s 
 you." She started. "Two plates, though! Yes, 
 there are two. It s all right. Now I promise to 
 talk sensibly." 
 
 Bamneld laughed. Rose joined in. Their merri 
 ment rang pleasantly together under the tree. 
 The fire flickered. Bamneld threw some more 
 sticks on. It leapt up, making the darkness about 
 them more solid. The red Chinese lantern swayed 
 in a light breeze. Rose sat smiling down at Barn- 
 field, who smiled up in return. Both were thrilling. 
 
 "You re not afraid of being romantic, are you ? " 
 he said. 
 
 "No," she responded. "I suppose it s my 
 father s blood in me. Talking to you about paint 
 ing has made me think of our old studio at Prim 
 rose Hill. I wonder who lives there now, and if 
 he s scrubbed my picture off the wall." 
 
 "He has n t." Bamfield rapped that out before 
 he could check himself. 
 
 "How do you know?" she asked in some aston 
 ishment.
 
 242 The Caravan Man 
 
 "It s obvious he wouldn t. Do you think you 
 could go back to live in a studio?" ("Now, why 
 do I ask that? Steady, Bamfield, my lad!") 
 
 "I d love to!" Rose answered, clasping her 
 hands. " It was such a queer, lovely life, so scrapy 
 for money, but so so different from any other 
 except, perhaps your caravan. I m a bohemian. 
 It s the spirit of the caravan getting hold of me. 
 I feel like a gipsy as if I could crawl into a little 
 tent of sticks and skins and sleep till morning, and 
 get up, and and gather bulrushes, and take 
 them into the towns to sell them." 
 
 "Good," said Bamfield. "And I ll come with 
 you and steal chickens." 
 
 "No, no," she objected. "We d be honest gip 
 sies, if we starved for it." 
 
 "We should, if we were honest gipsies. They all 
 starved long ago." 
 
 "Well, then, I d turn cart-wheels for pennies." 
 
 "Heavens, no!" he objected. "I d rather work, 
 bitter though it might be to my proud gipsy na 
 ture. Or I tell you what you should tell for 
 tunes. * Shall I tell your fortune, my pretty gen 
 tleman? Ah, it s the wicked eye you ve got!" 
 
 "Oh, yes; they always say that. Why do men 
 like to be told they ve got wicked eyes?" 
 
 "The best men don t. I don t. But you could 
 tell fortunes." 
 
 "Could I?"
 
 The Caravan Man 243 
 
 "Of course. Tell mine." 
 
 "Shall I?" She hesitated, blushing a little, but 
 he shifted nearer and put his hand into hers, and 
 she took up the role of fortune-teller, leaning for 
 ward to peer at the lines in his hand. "What s 
 this line? Life, of course." She perpended a mo 
 ment. Then, "You ll live to be a hundred and 
 forty," she announced. 
 
 "A hundred and forty! One of the real old lads 
 of the village!" 
 
 She went on more confidently: "You will 
 
 marry." 
 
 "Only once?" 
 
 "Four times." 
 
 He protested. "But I ve given away my beau 
 tiful carpet-sweeper! Is n t there some mistake?" 
 
 "No," she answered, a superb decision having 
 by now been adopted as the proper professional 
 pose. "See that line? That s Providence." 
 
 "Huh!" he ejaculated scornfully. "Why don t 
 you learn your job properly? That came off the 
 handle of the frying-pan." 
 
 She swept his objection aside. "I don t care. 
 There s the line. You and Providence and the 
 frying-pan can argue it out among you. You ll 
 see a lot of trouble." 
 
 "A lot of trouble four times married. No 
 inconsistency so far, I admit." 
 
 "You will have let me see one, two, three, 
 four, five children."
 
 244 The Caravan Man 
 
 He tried to pull his hand away. "Don t be ab 
 surd ! Think of the price of boots." 
 
 She held his hand firmly. "Don t be a coward. 
 Besides, children are lovely. The first four will 
 be boys." 
 
 "Will they wash their necks?" 
 
 She could not check the gleam of fun that for a 
 moment peeped out of her eyes and spoiled the 
 priestess-like gravity of countenance she had as 
 sumed as part of her professional make-up. 
 
 "Boys, I said." 
 
 Bamfield accepted it. "All right," he said, toss 
 ing his cigarette end away, and shifting closer. 
 "What s the other?" 
 
 "The other the other s I ll let you guess." 
 
 He looked away, thought hard, then, with a 
 gleam of happy discovery, "A girl?" he ventured 
 confidently. 
 
 "Right. Right, first time!" She approved his 
 cleverness. "And she ll be such a beautiful little 
 girl, twelve years old." 
 
 "When will she be twelve years old?" 
 
 She examined his hand again with close atten 
 tion. "Just before her thirteenth year." 
 
 "Are n t you clever!" he returned her, warmly. 
 "Shall I be rich?" 
 
 "Frightfully." 
 
 "When do I many?" 
 
 "Soon."
 
 The Caravan Man 245 
 
 "What s her name?" 
 
 "I don t know." 
 
 Bamfield was on his knees before her. She 
 leaned back from him and dropped his hand. 
 Something of tension came into the atmosphere. 
 Bamfield sensed it first, made an effort to keep 
 the conversation on the lines of sheer jesting 
 and failed. 
 
 "You re not much of a gipsy," he said. "Tell 
 me, does anybody love me?" 
 
 "I don t know " 
 
 "My good girl, you don t appear to have served 
 a proper apprenticeship to your trade. You must 
 n t keep on saying 4 1 don t know. You must have 
 a stock of plausible lies at hand." 
 
 "Oh, no, please!" She flushed even at the jest 
 of such a thing. 
 
 "Well, then, I m afraid we must surrender this 
 idea of fortune-telling and fall back on Catherine- 
 wheels, unless" with a touch of bitter resigna 
 tion " unless you really intend to compel me 
 to work, after all?" 
 
 "Come, be fair," she said. "I think I did pretty 
 well" 
 
 "Yes, until it came to the part that mattered." 
 
 "How did it matter?" She ought not to have 
 said that, she felt, and grew nervous. 
 
 "Don t you think I want to know?" 
 
 "Then, ask her No, don t ask her."
 
 246 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Shan t I?" Bamfield was breathing fast now. 
 Somehow their hands were joined again, but it 
 was hers in his this time. 
 
 "No." She stood up so did Bamfield. 1 "Oh, 
 don t!" She got her hand free and moved away, a 
 little nervous. "What a lovely night it is!" She 
 turned to him. "Listen," she said, holding up her 
 hand. "What is it in the air to-night? This 
 is enchantment. Hark to the music don t 
 you hear?" Her face was rapt, startled. 
 
 "I hear," said Bamfield gravely. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "to dance, to music, here 
 now " 
 
 "Dance," said Bamfield. "Go on." 
 
 She put her hand to her heart. "If I dared " 
 She was strangely moved, panting. 
 
 "You do dance, don t you? You can?" Some 
 thing about her as she stood there in the shadows, 
 her white dress gleaming, seemed to assure him of 
 that. 
 
 She answered him, quick-breathing, eager. "Mr. 
 Jones, I can dance. My mother was a dancer. 
 She ran away from here to be a dancer. Father 
 told me she was the most wonderful thing. Dan 
 cing was born in me. I love it. I used to dance to 
 my father in the old studio when I was a little girl. 
 He loved to watch me. But when he died and 
 they brought me here they told me I must n t 
 do it."
 
 The Caravan Man 247 
 
 Bamfield had stooped and picked up his con 
 certina from the grass. He slipped his hands into 
 the end-straps, got his fingers on the keys, urged 
 the bellows. Grotesque, harsh, yet in their bizar- 
 rerie somehow in key with the gaunt light from the 
 fire, the harsh, uncompromising shadows that 
 shut them in, a chord or two moved quietly about 
 them. "Dance," he said. 
 
 "I must n t," she said reluctantly. "But, oh, I 
 want to. Sometimes my heart aches to dance. 
 I have n t danced for seven years now." 
 
 He knew by now something at least of his in 
 fluence over her. He used it. 
 
 "Dance," he said compellingly: "just a little 
 to show me. Go on no one will know. Listen." 
 
 The vagrant chords began to move in rhythm, 
 the tune took shape, catchy, lilting, not loud, but 
 alluring. She felt the melody embracing her, catch 
 ing at her feet. She began to sway, her feet almost 
 against her will began a figuring on the short crisp 
 turf, the power of the rhythm and the melody 
 took her and she danced. 
 
 He gave her room as her light body swung and 
 swept across the grass under the trees. The fire 
 leapt up to watch, as, her hesitation vanishing in 
 the pleasure of the ordered movement, her deft 
 feet took her balancing body to and fro. Nothing 
 impetuous, nothing of exertion, but in the easy 
 occasional lift of hands and arms, swaying of torso,
 
 248 The Caravan Man 
 
 bending of waist, turn of head, she exhibited a 
 thousand moving graces. Her thin dress flowed 
 about her like water, rippling, swirling, floating 
 and in the multitudinous play of its folds the 
 ceaselessly changing loveliness of her light limbs, 
 now almost lost, now flashing out in firm outline, 
 offered acceptance and accentuation to the rhythm 
 of the music. 
 
 To Bamfield the dance itself meant little, but 
 within his breast that exultation in beauty which 
 lay at the basis of his five senses began to burn like 
 a fire. She was exquisite. It was beauty itself 
 that fluttered shadowily before him, moving with 
 utter spontaneity, yet observant of the time his 
 fingers measured out. . . . She was tiring, her 
 breath coming fast. He wound up with a bar or two 
 of finale, and she stopped. Unsteady, breathless, 
 she swayed near him, and put out her hand to bal 
 ance herself. It caught his arm and rested there 
 for a second. 
 
 At that touch he suddenly lost all control. He 
 caught her to him, slid his arm round her shoul 
 ders, drew her back a little, and as her face lifted 
 in question, he kissed her. 
 
 For a second she submitted, unresisting, her lips, 
 half parted a little, turned up to his, her hands 
 raised in what was as much acquiescence as as 
 tonishment; then he felt her body tighten, and 
 she pushed him away and stepped from him.
 
 The Caravan Man 249 
 
 "That was n t fair," she panted. "You were n t 
 fair. I did n t know where I was." 
 
 The man of thirty-three was himself again, after 
 that one instant of abandonment. He put the 
 concertina down and frowned gloomily. "No," he 
 said quietly; "it was n t fair. I m ashamed. I ask 
 your pardon." 
 
 She looked at him rather pitifully, and opened 
 her lips as if to speak, but remained silent. 
 
 He came over to her. "I had to do it you 
 were so lovely, dancing." 
 
 She shrank away. He leaned toward her, put 
 ting himself in bonds and at the same instant 
 straining to break them. " You need n t fear me. 
 You re beautiful, are n t you ? Yes, yes, don t pre 
 tend," as she glanced at him for a second with a 
 deprecating gesture. "Every beautiful woman 
 knows she s beautiful. You ve looked in your 
 glass a thousand times and known yourself lovely. 
 But you don t know how beautiful you are. You 
 can t. But I know. I know what beauty is in a 
 woman. If you want to know how lovely you are 
 not in words, but if I could paint you then 
 you d know." 
 
 She was rosy-faced now. "And that was all?" 
 she asked. "That was just why you kissed me? " 
 
 "What else?" he answered. 
 
 "I thought perhaps you might care a 
 little."
 
 250 The Caravan Man 
 
 Bamfield took a second or so before he made 
 reply. Then he put one foot on the big root by 
 which she stood, reluctant to stay, unwilling to 
 go, afraid of what he might say, anxious to hear 
 him speak. He looked consideringly up at her. 
 Dimly she felt that somehow the moment had 
 gone. Bamfield spoke. 
 
 "Care? How long have I known you? A week? 
 Can a man learn really to care for a woman in that 
 time? I mean, in the way that matters. I d like 
 to answer you, but I must give you nothing but 
 the truth, and I hardly know. If I were ten years 
 younger, I d tell you, yes, I love you for yourself. 
 But I m doubtful of myself because I know how 
 beauty like yours gets hold of me and confuses me." 
 
 She was chilled, and yet in his speech, stumbling 
 and halting in its delivery, she felt the sincerity 
 of his feelings, confused as they were. 
 
 "You might try to think how your answer hu 
 miliates me." She had to make that much of pro 
 test. 
 
 Bamfield was a little more himself. "You re 
 hurt," he said rapidly. "Don t be. Seeing you 
 here, in this light, I m carried away by feelings I 
 can t sort out. Let me see you again, often, till 
 all sense of your mere beauty goes and all I know 
 is you. When I have forgotten whether you are 
 beautiful or not, I shall know whether what s in 
 my heart is truly love or not."
 
 The Caravan Man 251 
 
 Poor Rose ! She told herself that he was apolo 
 gizing very properly for his unpardonable rude 
 ness, and yet how sadly it was ending! 
 
 "Let me go," she said. You will note that he 
 was not detaining her in anyway; her hands were 
 free his on his hips, yet she said, "Let me go." 
 
 At that he took her hand again. "I think so 
 much of you that I dare n t risk a mistake. I 11 
 tell you this much no other woman on earth 
 claims that much " he snapped his fingers 
 "of me. There s no other woman I d turn my 
 head to look at. I swear that." He looked ear 
 nestly up at her face, and the frown of his gaze 
 compelled her for an instant to look into his eyes. 
 "You believe me, don t you?" 
 
 All she could say was, again, " Let me go, please ! " 
 In her heaving breast her heart told her, " It s true 
 it s true. There s no other woman." 
 
 "I don t think I shall let you go," he told her. 
 "I think I shall keep you. You think I ve be 
 haved unpardonably, and yet, if only I could keep 
 you here, perhaps the words would come to me to 
 show you how easily you might forgive me." She 
 felt the genuineness of his words, and a fresh flood 
 of content swept through her. "Won t you stay?" 
 she heard him go on and then, in the queerest 
 fashion, a change, startlingly abrupt, came into 
 his voice. "Oh, I forgot no of course I must 
 n t keep you. I ll see you to the Priory."
 
 252 The Caravan Man 
 
 At that change she froze. " Pray don t trouble." 
 
 "Of course I shall," said Bamfield, politely in 
 sistent. 
 
 She was ice. " I d rather you did n t. I prefer 
 to go home by myself. It is n t three minutes. I 
 mean it. Good-night." She was off. 
 
 "Oh, I say " 
 
 "Good-night." She was inexorable. 
 
 "What about the picture ? I meant it for you " 
 
 She permitted herself one flash of open resent 
 ment. "Keep your picture," she tossed him over 
 her shoulder and was gone. Her face was burn 
 ing. She tingled with shame from head to foot. 
 Thank God, she was too angry to let the tears 
 come but oh, it was intolerable! he had 
 kissed her, and then dismissed her. 
 
 Bamfield was sick at heart. He could not know 
 that she was hurt, but her anger was evident. And 
 yet what could he do? As he had held her hand, 
 detaining her under the impulse of a fresh insur- 
 gence of tenderness, his eye had fallen on his 
 wrist watch and he had noted the time nearly 
 half-past nine. It was not that he had promised 
 Rose should be home by nine -those promises, 
 thank God, lovers make only to break inevitably 
 but the girl from the post-office was to be here 
 at half-past nine, and with the touch of Rose s lips 
 still on his, he could not bear the idea of the two 
 girls meeting.
 
 The Caravan Man 253 
 
 And now Rose was gone, head up, her " Keep 
 your picture" flung contemptuously at him as she 
 went. He stood dejected, the despised picture 
 hanging loose in his grasp, a great melancholy 
 possessing him. Rose s figure faintly seen in its 
 white dress glimmered away into the shadows. 
 
 "Let me have the picture," remarked a voice 
 in his ear, so very close that he jumped. 
 
 A hand reached out from behind him, took the 
 picture from his hand he wheeled round abruptly. 
 
 There, holding the picture with both hands, smil 
 ing a deprecating smile, stood a gentleman of most 
 evidently Oriental extraction: a neat little man, 
 with a very large nose dominating his clean-shaven 
 face, and a dapper dress, which engaged your 
 attention the instant you looked at him, because 
 its very correctness, its black morning coat, fawn 
 waistcoat with a white slip at the neck opening, 
 shepherd s-plaid trousers, boots with white gaiter- 
 tops and pearl buttons, Trilby hat to match the 
 waistcoat in hue, made him seem so absurdly in 
 congruous in that place, where but a few minutes 
 before Rose, like a creature of the woods, had 
 danced. At sight of him a passion of wrath sud 
 denly flamed up in Bamfield s countenance. He 
 took one furious stride towards the intruder, who 
 immediately skipped nimbly backwards, still fac 
 ing him, his face, his whole attitude invested with 
 an air of deprecating friendliness.
 
 254 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Iffelstein!" burst from Bamfield. "And where 
 have you come from ? Have you been here long ? " 
 He took another hasty step forward, and again 
 his visitor skipped nimbly away from him. 
 
 "Good-evening, Mr. Bamfield," he replied. 
 "Only half an hour or so. I did n t want to in 
 trude, so I waited behind the tree" he waved 
 the picture at the tree under which the vagabond 
 supper had taken place " till the young lady 
 went. You won t mind me, Mr. Bamfield?" 
 Bamfield, hands gripped, moved dreadfully to 
 wards him. He moved away in response, always 
 keeping out of arm s length, always keeping his 
 front elevation opposed to Bamfield s face or 
 shall we say, his rear elevation guarded from Bam 
 field s foot? At the same time he spoke rapidly. 
 "I want this picture Oh, do wait a minute. I 
 want a lot of pictures; I want all your pictures. 
 Come, Mr. Bamfield," he continued persuasively, 
 
 here, as he backed, his heel caught in a finger 
 of the tree-roots, and only a very dextrous back 
 ward spring kept him from sprawling on his 
 back. "Come I m your old friend. I ll give 
 you fifty for this, and fifty each for as many more 
 as you can let me have." 
 
 Bamfield edged him up to the fire, leapt at him 
 
 he was over the fire like a flash, but the pic 
 ture was in Bamfield s hands. He put it down on 
 the ground against the tree-trunk, and began to
 
 The Caravan Man 255 
 
 stride more swiftly than ever after Mr. Iffelstein, 
 who, however, continued to gyrate in front of him 
 and just out of his reach. 
 
 "You take me for Bamfield the artist, don t 
 you?" 
 
 "Why, Mr. Bamfield, of course you re Barn- 
 field the artist, and I want " 
 
 Bamfield cut him short. "Well, I m not. My 
 name is Jones understand? Jones, photog 
 rapher." 
 
 "Anything you like, Mr. Bamfield Jones, I 
 mean so long as we can do a bit of business 
 together." 
 
 "Business, you blighter!" Bamfield had fairly 
 lost his temper. To his resentment at this man s 
 intrusion on his parting with Rose was now piled 
 the long-pent-up detestation accumulated through 
 years of what on Iffelstein s side were undoubt 
 edly "bits of business together." He leapt forward 
 and this time caught his man, caught him by the 
 lapels of his coat, and held him tight, shaking him 
 vigorously as he endeavoured to wriggle away. 
 
 "You sucked my blood," hissed Bamfield, the 
 painful state of alarm depicted on Mr. Iffelstein s 
 face somehow calling him to an essay in melodra- 
 matics. "You vampire, you sweater you finish 
 here!" Mr. Iffelstein, with a desperate effort, 
 swung himself round, without, however, loosening 
 Bamfield s grip on his coat. Bamfield sensed the
 
 256 The Caravan Man 
 
 proximity of the pond. The feet of the two men 
 slipped on its crumbling edge. He pulled Iffel- 
 stein towards it, despite his frantic struggles. 
 "I ll drown you. In you go. There s forty feet 
 of water here!" 
 
 "Oh, don t say that, Mr. Bamfield!" 
 "Well, forty inches," said Bamfield. " Come on ! " 
 Mr. Iffelstein made one last and immense effort 
 to save himself, but the memories of many a pic 
 ture sold for little more than the cost of studio 
 rent and canvas nerved Bamfield s arms. The two 
 men tottered on the brink of the pond, just above 
 the reed-bed. They swayed, leant over towards 
 the black water one savage wrench, and Bam 
 field had freed himself from the despairing clutch 
 and with a mighty flop the figure of Mr. Iffelstein 
 went walloping into the depths. 
 
 A cry, most dismal, rent the air, a bubbling 
 cry, cut short by a dreadful gurgle as the pale lips 
 that uttered it were immersed in the inky flood. 
 On the reed-edged bank the caravan man stood 
 exulting and merciless, glaring with fiendish mal 
 ice at the vague shape of the unhappy wretch 
 beneath; then, callous, unpitying, he turned and 
 sped away to where he still hoped to catch a final 
 glimpse, perhaps a final word with Rose, on her 
 swift homeward way. 
 
 Not thirty seconds later the tall figure of Miss 
 Bertha Babbage entered the circle of the Chinese
 
 The Caravan Man 257 
 
 lantern s influence. She wore no hat; she carried 
 a large bag, a cross between a Gladstone and a 
 portmanteau; and a long evening cloak enveloped 
 her. As usual, she was smiling, and on this occa 
 sion panting a little. She had been hurrying; her 
 mass of fair hair was a little disarranged, and 
 through her perfect parted lips her beautiful teeth 
 flashed. She hesitated, looked about her, put her 
 bag down on the steps of the caravan, and ap 
 proached the fire. 
 
 She started. From the darkness near by there 
 came a piteous moaning, the sound as of a crea 
 ture in distress. In the hollow of gloom, where the 
 depths of the pond showed faintly, the reeds were 
 agitated, something moved, large, indistinct, dis 
 tressed, with bubbles and gurgles and wet, floppy 
 gesticulations, and sounds vaguely shaping them 
 selves into incoherent but human appeals for help. 
 
 Bertha Babbage had decision in her. She ran 
 to the pond. "Who is it ? what is it? are you 
 in there ? " she demanded. 
 
 The question was perhaps a little tactless. 
 There was a pardonable touch of fresh resentment 
 in the answer that reached her. "Of course, I m 
 in here. Where else do you think I am? Help me 
 out!" said a faint voice. 
 
 "You can get out, can t you? It isn t very 
 deep and I don t want to spoil my dress," re 
 sponded Bertha.
 
 258 The Caravan Man 
 
 Out of the blackness, and through the reeds, 
 the struggling thing began to take shape. The 
 flicker of the fire revealed the head and torso of 
 a man, shockingly muddy and wet, hair plastered 
 down, coat bulging with air-bubbles imprisoned 
 under saturated cloth. It tore at the reeds, and 
 broke off handfuls, but Bertha s presence seemed 
 to inspire it to effort. It persisted, floppily. With 
 occasional slips back it gradually heaved itself 
 upwards onto dry ground, on hands and knees, 
 and crawled towards Bertha, who, clutching her 
 skirts round her, retreated from it. 
 
 "Who are you?" she demanded. "And what 
 are you doing here? Did somebody push you 
 in?" 
 
 The thing got unsteadily to its feet, a bitter 
 spasm of ironic humour convulsing its muddied 
 countenance. "No, I just went in, to see if the 
 water was wet." It grasped its unshapely huddle 
 of garments and heaved itself convulsively. From 
 inside and outside gouts of fluid ejected them 
 selves onto the grass. Iffelstein s wet hands 
 scooped off his shoulders some of the green mass 
 of duckweed thickly plastered over him. From 
 down one leg of his trousers something snakelike 
 and gleaming descended, and wriggled itself has 
 tily and noiselessly back into its native pond. 
 
 "Well," said Bertha, "you do look a sight! 
 Had n t you better get off and have a bath?"
 
 The Caravan Man 259 
 
 That last word seemed to strike home. Over the 
 face of the wretched object before her a spasm of 
 malice swept. "A bath!" it said, vitriol in every 
 word. "Have a ba Oh, don t be a silly fool! 
 what have I just had?" 
 
 It stooped, snatched up from the ground its 
 hat, which had fortunately tumbled off before its 
 owner entered the pond, and was therefore the 
 one dry item of clothing available, clapped it in 
 dignantly on its head, gave a final hitch to its 
 coat-collar, a heave and wrench to its trousers, and 
 Mr. Iffelstein, invested with something of the dig 
 nity which overwhelming misfortune can lend to 
 a sufferer, stalked away into the darkness. 
 
 Bertha felt on the whole relieved at the gentle 
 man s exit. She went over to the fire again. 
 
 As she looked at the evidences of the simple sup 
 per, her lips widened to an amiable grin, her eyes 
 sparkled. She glanced over the plates, the glasses. 
 Something caught her eye near the tree-root. She 
 stooped, picked it up, looked at it, gave a knowing 
 and pleasant little chuckle, and hid it, whatever 
 it was, under her cloak. She was still smiling when 
 Bamfield returned. 
 
 "Hullo!" he said. "You re here. Hope I have 
 n t kept you waiting." 
 
 "I m a bit late myself," said Bertha. "I found 
 a horrible man in the pond " 
 
 "I know about him," said Bamfield.
 
 260 The Caravan Man 
 
 Bertha raised her eyebrows. "Did you push 
 him in?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Whatever for?" 
 
 "He annoyed me," answered Bamfield, with a 
 touch of impatience; "but it does n t matter now." 
 
 "Good gracious!" ejaculated Bertha. She 
 looked Bamfield over a trifle doubtfully. "I hope 
 I shan t annoy you." 
 
 "I hope so too ... All alone?" 
 
 "Yes. My friend could n t come. But I don t 
 mind, if you don t. Isn t the fire jolly? You ve 
 been having a good time, I should think," she went 
 on, looking slyly at him. " I did n t think you 
 went in for that sort of thing." 
 
 " Oh, a friend, you know," returned Bamfield 
 awkwardly. Inwardly he anathematized Bertha. 
 If only she had n t been coming or if only he 
 had cleared things away 
 
 You did n t say anything about my coming, 
 did you ? " inquired Bertha anxiously. 
 
 "No, no," Bamfield assured her. "I did n t tell 
 him anything and and of course he s gone now." 
 
 Bertha surveyed him gravely. "Well, that s all 
 right. I knew you would n t give me away. But if 
 your friend should ask you to-morrow if he d left 
 his hatpin here, you can give it to him." She 
 handed it to Bamfield, a broad smile on her hand 
 some face. "I just picked it up," she explained.
 
 The Caravan Man 261 
 
 "Oh, thanks/* Bamfield almost blushed. 
 
 Bertha chuckled. "I say, what a lark! Who was 
 it? Any one I know?" 
 
 "No," very short, from Bamfield. 
 
 "I m curious." 
 
 Bamfield pulled himself together and took mat 
 ters in hand. He was n t going to be made to 
 blush like a schoolboy in a position of this kind. 
 
 " I m curious, too," he answered, looking at her 
 very straight, " as to what sort of -a photograph 
 two clever people like you and me can turn out be 
 tween us providing we don t trouble our heads 
 about anything else." 
 
 That was plain enough. Bertha took it with 
 easy grace. 
 
 "All right. Not another word." 
 
 "Let s make a start," said Bamfield, piling the 
 plates together. He took a handful of things to 
 ward the caravan, and there stopped. "What s 
 this?" He indicated the bag. 
 
 "That s my bag," explained Bertha. "It s got 
 the dress in it." 
 
 "The dress! What? Have n t you got it on? I 
 thought you were going to change before you 
 came." 
 
 " So I was, but my friend did n t come till nearly 
 a quarter past nine, and I waited and waited, and 
 I was so vexed I thought she was n t coming at 
 all. But at last she came, and I just snatched the
 
 262 The Caravan Man 
 
 bag and ran. I did n t know whether you d go off 
 somewhere or go to bed if I did n t turn up to 
 time." 
 
 "Well, it s all right." Bamfield reflected a bit. 
 It was all right, of course, only there was just the 
 possibility of awkwardness in the position of 
 affairs. "You can pop into my caravan and 
 change. It is n t quite dressed for company, but 
 you won t mind." 
 
 "It s awfully good of you. You must think me 
 a nuisance." 
 
 "Not a bit," returned Bamfield in great good- 
 humour. "We re fighting for a great principle, 
 you and I." 
 
 "Are we?" 
 
 "Yes. The grim and silent struggle has been 
 raging down the ages between the girl who knows 
 what s due to her self-respect and the the fast 
 thing that goes goes" he waved a hand in a 
 gesture broadly indicative of fastness in things 
 "flaunting about in tights. Victory inclines now 
 to one side, now to the other, and who can say 
 oh, who what the end will be? But we, who 
 champion the right, are we downhearted ? " 
 
 "No!" interjected Bertha loudly. 
 
 "No!" repeated Bamfield. "Most certainly 
 not. We bag just the right kind of frock, the frock 
 that goes just so far and no farther " 
 
 Bertha broke in a trifle anxiously: "Well, really,
 
 The Caravan Man 263 
 
 I m almost afraid this frock is just a little a 
 little, you know you won t mind? And, of 
 course, I could pin it over a little if you thought 
 
 it too " 
 
 "We ll see when it s on," said Bamfield. "Be 
 sides, with so much at stake, some latitude must 
 be allowed. Now, let me put some of these things 
 away and then you can go in." With Bertha s help 
 in collecting, he cleared away the traces of the 
 supper and stowed them in the caravan and 
 brought out his stand camera and some slides. 
 "Now, young lady " 
 
 Bertha took off the cloak and pitched it onto 
 the steps. She did not notice that it slipped down 
 into the darkness beside them. Under it she wore 
 her ordinary business attire. She went into the 
 caravan, pulled the door to, and busied herself 
 with changing. Bamfield arranged his camera, 
 measured the paces between it and the caravan 
 steps, the tree, the reeds by the pond, to assist him 
 in focusing, and then, lighting a cigarette, waited 
 patiently for Bertha to emerge in her finery. The 
 caravan door opened. He looked up. 
 
 At the top of the steps, radiant, smiling, stood 
 Bertha, and the image that leapt to the mind was 
 that of a young lady hastily summoned from bed 
 by a cry of, say, "Fire!" She had the dress on 
 as far, or nearly as far, as it could be said to be on. 
 It ascended from her feet to somewhere in the
 
 264 The Caravan Man 
 
 region of her bosom, and there it abruptly termi 
 nated. Not even a shoulder-strap was conceded. 
 Since the ladies of the court of our great Charles 
 the Second sat for those immortal paintings by 
 Lely I doubt if anything more frankly confidential 
 in the way of a frock has ever been worn by a 
 woman of unblemished reputation. " Confidential " 
 is indeed the word; it suggests unbosoming and 
 this appeared to be the frock s chief function, 
 though on closer inspection it could be seen that a 
 half-contemptuous deference to convention was 
 flung at the last second, as it were, to silence the 
 critical. In fact, in its upper part it was not so 
 much a dress as a barely sufficient opportunity for 
 its wearer to contend that she was dressed. The 
 point became arguable just. 
 
 For the rest, the dress was white, intensely well- 
 cut, close-fitting and sufficient. As far as it 
 went, it fitted Bertha; it clothed her magnificence 
 of shape and at the same time called attention to 
 it, with a cunning that was appalling. And above 
 this frock, above the line of contention, Bertha s 
 face, smiling, flushed, almost, for once, embar 
 rassed, looked down appealingly at Bamfield as 
 she confessed to a difficulty a difficulty already 
 suggested by the fact that she was holding the 
 dress about her with both hands. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Jones, excuse me, but I quite forgot 
 one thing. Will you hook me up at the back?"
 
 The Caravan Man 265 
 
 "With pleasure," answered Bamfield, tossing 
 his cigarette away. "Come down." 
 
 " But I want my shoes on first. Will you do 
 you mind " She held a pair of black shoes, 
 high-heeled, out toward him. 
 
 Bamfield took them and stood beside the steps 
 to put them on. She boldly drew her skirt aside 
 and up, out of his way. Her ankles, and more, 
 thus revealed, were as perfect as the rest of her. 
 He put her shoes on, holding each foot in turn, 
 and helping her to wriggle her heels in. 
 
 "Shoes and all?" he said. 
 
 "Yes and corsets as well. The whole kit. 
 That s why I can t stoop," she went on with 
 enthusiasm. "It s just lovely to have a dress like 
 this on, complete, stockings and shoes as well. 
 You don t know how lovely it feels to have lovely 
 things on, all the way, you know. I shan t ever 
 have one on like it again and it fits me. Really, 
 you d think it was made for me." 
 
 Bamfield finished the operation of getting the 
 shoes on, and stepped back. Her skirts drooped 
 decorously. 
 
 "There you are. Now what about the hooks?" 
 
 "If you would " said Bertha, coming down 
 the steps, still holding her meagre defence about 
 her with both hands. 
 
 Bamfield, at the back of her, began to search 
 for the little hooks and eyes, his gaze almost as
 
 266 The Caravan Man 
 
 much taken up with the marvellous skin of her 
 shapely shoulders. It was no easy job, but he 
 managed it, while Bertha talked away her own 
 embarrassment. 
 
 "It s awfully kind of you. What you must 
 think of me I don t know. But you look so kind 
 and I thought, if I told you what it was for " 
 
 Bamfield finished the task pleasant enough, 
 he thought and turned her round to survey her. 
 
 "Don t you worry about that. I m on your side. 
 Virtue for ever even if it wants to wear a dress" 
 he paused and looked her over "that s a 
 little, just a little " 
 
 Bertha caught at once the suggestion of reproof. 
 "Do you think so?" anxiously, her hands on her 
 bosom. , 
 
 "No, it s all right. Don t touch it! Stand over 
 here and wait while I look at you." He put her by 
 the tree and, stepping back, looked her over 
 gravely. 
 
 He took his time. She was worth looking at. 
 Never in all his experience while painting figure 
 had he encountered such an embodiment of all that 
 pertains to feminine beauty so richly, lavishly 
 compiled as here in this girl. Arresting at all times, 
 her beauty in this daring frock compelled atten 
 tion. Her wonderful neck, large, white, matchless 
 in shape; the gracious shoulders, sweeping superbly 
 to her long arms; the twin triumphs of her bosom,
 
 IT S AWFULLY KIND OF YOU
 
 The Caravan Man 267 
 
 firm, white, wide apart; the majestic lines of hip 
 and thigh; the poise, careless, strong, inevitably 
 graceful ; the handsome face, glowing, happy, with 
 large, brightly flashing eyes only the nose per 
 haps a little less queenly than one could wish for; 
 and the great plaited wreath of hair massed on her 
 brow all the artist in Bamfield exulted as he 
 looked. v 
 
 "What s landscape, after all?" he thought. 
 "Jove! I ll get back to Primrose Hill and paint 
 figure again! This girl " 
 
 Bertha watched him closely, feeling instinctively 
 that a criticism far keener than the ordinary had 
 her in scrutiny. 
 
 "Will I do?" she challenged. 
 
 Back came Bamfield from his musings. "I 
 should think so! I tell you what, we re going to 
 make a great success of this." 
 
 "Are we?" laughed Bertha, delighted. 
 
 "Great. That poor lunatic that lost you will be 
 looking six ways for Sunday when he sees the 
 photograph we re going to turn out between us." 
 
 She beamed. What wit, she felt. 
 
 "You do go on!" she murmured. 
 
 "Now," said Bamfield, the artist and the busi 
 ness man alert in him, " stand here. You d like a 
 full-length, of course. Turn sideways." She turned 
 obediently. Figure and face, Bamfield noted, were 
 just as fine in profile. "You look fine like that.
 
 268 The Caravan Man 
 
 Now, turn your head over your shoulder. Look at 
 me more chin up. Good! Let me try to 
 focus. It s difficult in this light. I ll pace it." 
 
 He paced the yards, adjusted the rack of his 
 camera, peered into the ground-glass of the 
 focusing-screen. 
 
 "It s impossible to focus in this light," he had to 
 explain. " I can barely see you on the screen. I 11 
 have to guess at it, more or less. Still, twelve feet, 
 I think, is pretty right." 
 
 He made ready the tiny apparatus with its 
 powder for flash-lighting, and got Bertha posed 
 again. 
 
 "As you were just now not so high. Your 
 chin more like that. That s it! Hand so." He 
 adjusted her hand on her hip. "Look dignified. 
 No, don t smile more like an offended queen. 
 Now, now, you re laughing! Mind, I m waiting. 
 Steady steady!" 
 
 Whiff! The flashlight blazed and was gone. 
 
 "My goodness!" said Bertha, relaxing. "Is it 
 all right?" 
 
 "Fine," Bamfield assured her. "Now we ll have 
 another." 
 
 Bertha had to settle something. They were get 
 ting on splendidly, but the instinctive defences of 
 a woman were at work and urged her to prudence. 
 Those who, aware of man s unscrupulousness and 
 cogitating on the wayward venturesomeness of
 
 The Caravan Man 269 
 
 girls, marvel how any of them come safely through 
 those perilous years that lie between eighteen and 
 three-and-twenty, should recognize that circulat 
 ing through the feminine mental make-up are cer 
 tain vague but insistent wisdoms that, asleep 
 though they seem, can rouse into instant action 
 like faithful watch-dogs. One of these stirred 
 gently even in Bertha Babbage s confident bosom. 
 If it were worded, it would probably have run, 
 "Don t owe money to a man." Nothing more 
 personal than that, vague, unpointed, but a dim 
 counsellor not to be despised. 
 
 "I say," said Bertha, "I ought to know what 
 it s going to cost." 
 
 "Are you very anxious about the price ?" re 
 joined Bamfield, as he took out the double dark- 
 slide and turned it. 
 
 "Well," she said, "I know I shall have to pay 
 you a bit extra, making you work overtime like 
 this" 
 
 "Quite right," he assured her, "in the ordinary 
 way, but this is n t a bit of trade. It s my bit to 
 wards towards winning the struggle. I like your 
 pluck." 
 
 "Oh!" she interjected, not unpleased, for the 
 several shillings, at least, which she knew this 
 ought to cost were no negligible matter, while his 
 offering to waive the charge was, she knew, a 
 tribute to herself. "Oh, but I could n t think "
 
 270 The Caravan Man 
 
 "You shall pay me," he reassured her. "You 
 shall sit for me. I 11 take a photograph of you spe 
 cially for myself that s all. You won t mind?" 
 
 "It s awfully good of you, but I know I am 
 worth photoing, are n t I?" 
 
 It was impossible to help laughing. She was as 
 ingenuous as a child displaying its new sash or its 
 first attempt to write. 
 
 "You are," Bamfield laughed. "Now, what do 
 you say if we have you with your foot on the 
 caravan step?" 
 
 He led her over. She posed as he directed and 
 again the artist in him exulted to see the fine and 
 massive frame displayed in a fresh arrangement of 
 grace and strength. 
 
 "Draw your dress round you." 
 
 She gathered her skirt in one hand and drew it 
 behind her. Then she glanced down at herself. 
 
 "I say," she hesitated, "I must look a bit a 
 bit shapy, don t I?" 
 
 "Yes," said Bamfield bluntly. "Don t you 
 want to?" 
 
 She was as blunt as he. "Yes, I do. I ll show 
 her pooh ! Her and her tights ! I ve got a figure, 
 have n t I ? And I know it shows in this dress, 
 especially if I hold it round me like this. You 
 know," she went on, dropping her voice to the 
 proper confidential level, "you know, I ve got 
 positively nothing on underneath."
 
 The Caravan Man 271 
 
 "There s not much to write home about on top, 
 is there?" returned Bamfield amusedly. 
 
 " I know," she confessed, with another downward 
 glance. " But if Lady Baddeley-Boulger can wear 
 it, why can t I? Half the fashions are made by 
 frumps for frumps. Why should n t a girl be 
 pleased with herself?" 
 
 "Certainly," agreed Bamfield. "Don t think 
 you ve got to explain to me. You re splendid. 
 You ve length, you Ve strength. You re not merely 
 graceful. Now, still as you are." He had caught 
 her in a magnificent pose. "Ready!" 
 
 Whiff! again, and the photograph was taken. 
 He took nearly a dozen, altogether. The girl was 
 full of intelligence, full of unfeigned appreciation 
 of herself and the possibilities of picture-making 
 she presented. She assented to Bamfield s authori 
 tative manner, obeyed him implicitly, offered no 
 suggestions, carried out his instructions, and Bam 
 field, luxuriating in the excellence of his subject, 
 found in each pose a pleasure as keen as, perhaps 
 keener than, Bertha s. 
 
 She grew tired, and he stopped to let her rest a 
 minute or two. 
 
 "Mind you," he warned her, as she sat on the 
 caravan steps, lips parted in a smile, teeth flashing, 
 "you re a very fine young lady, but you ve got to 
 watch one thing." 
 
 "I know," she answered. "I might get fat.
 
 272 The Caravan Man 
 
 Girls like me do grow fat if they re not careful. 
 But I won t if I can help it. Still, which would you 
 rather have me do get too fat, like my mother 
 used to be, or be like some girls, like a shilling 
 rabbit?" 
 
 "Well, don t be like a shilling rabbit," chuckled 
 Bamfield. "I should n t admire you half so much. 
 Still, watch the other profunditundity, voluptu- 
 bubulositude, I might even say." Bertha grinned 
 at the expressiveness of the hastily-coined words. 
 "And don t tight-lace, and don t pinch your toes. 
 Those shoes, you know they re too pointy at the 
 toe." 
 
 "No, really!" she protested. 
 
 "Don t tell fibs," Bamfield reproved her sternly. 
 "They are. You think it does n t matter, but it 
 does. A foot s a wonderful thing, and yet most 
 women turn them into well, horrors. Women 
 don t deserve to have feet." 
 
 "I say," Bertha replied primly, "you know a 
 bit too much." 
 
 "It s my it used to be my trade," he said. 
 "Now, let s have the photo I m to have for my 
 trouble." He surveyed her consideringly. "Head 
 and shoulders, I think. You ve a splendid neck." 
 
 "Isn t it too thick?" asked Bertha, holding it 
 with both hands. She knew it was n t. 
 
 "No, the shape s so good. Sit here." He placed 
 her sitting on the tree-root, where the light from
 
 The Caravan Man 273 
 
 the Chinese lantern, useless for photography, gave 
 him an opportunity of focusing and of surveying 
 her image on the camera screen. "You re fine." 
 
 She luxuriated in the praise. "I say, you do 
 really mean that? You re not just kidding me?" 
 
 "Of course I m not. Now, sit still." He took 
 the photograph. "If you were an artist, you d 
 know what a pleasure it s been to have you posing 
 here. I should n t talk like this to you if I thought 
 you were as big a fool as most girls, but I believe 
 you Ve got your head screwed on the right way." 
 
 His frankness, as abrupt and unstudied as her 
 own, delighted Bertha. 
 
 "I dare say I m clever enough," she admitted. 
 "A girl s got to be, nowadays." She moved away 
 and back again. "I can walk, can t I?" she en 
 quired, still requiring praise. 
 
 "You re a delight to watch," he gave her. 
 "You ve the knack of moving. You get a pose, a 
 paintable pose, every time, without trying, and 
 all your lines are good. You ve been a treat." 
 
 She felt she could ask no more from him. "It ll 
 cost money soon to talk to me," she chuckled. 
 
 "Well, now," said Bamfield, getting his dark- 
 slides together. "I ll knock off. What shall we 
 do? Would you like a cigarette? Shall I make you 
 some coffee ? Or what time do they put you to 
 by-bye?" 
 
 "What s the time, please?"
 
 274 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Ten past ten." 
 
 She started. "Goodness! I must fly! * 
 
 "Run in and change, and I ll walk home with 
 you." 
 
 "If you don t mind," she. said, "I won t stop to 
 change now. I shall just run back with my things 
 in the bag. No one will see under my cloak. Where 
 is my cloak?" She looked around. "I thought I 
 put it down " 
 
 "I expect it s inside." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" She ran up the steps and into the 
 caravan. In a minute she called out to him, "I 
 don t see my cloak." 
 
 Bamfield approached the caravan, carrying all 
 his photographic apparatus under his arms. 
 
 "It s there, all right," he answered her. "Look 
 about." 
 
 A second s delay, and then Bertha again called 
 out: "I think it must be out there." 
 
 " Wait a minute," he answered. " I expect you re 
 standing on it. May I come in?" 
 
 He walked up the steps, pushed the door open 
 and went into the caravan. The door swung to. 
 
 Rose walked home to the Priory in a whirl of 
 emotions all distressing. She felt outraged. 
 She could not remember that she had ever been 
 so angry as this in all her life. To be kissed, un 
 expectedly, caught hold of, all unaware, held by
 
 The Caravan Man 275 
 
 the shoulders, her lips pressed by this man s ! In 
 tolerable, she told herself, refusing for one instant 
 to consider the question as to whether the inci 
 dent had not seemed, at the time, more startling, 
 agitating, than outrageous. Then, his apology 
 no, he had not apologized; he had merely explained 
 offered a coarse compliment to her looks, which 
 he had dared to put forward as his excuse. Really, he 
 had almost seemed to suggest that she was to blame! 
 
 Yet yet it had all seemed so genuine 
 the offence in the first place, his stammering, ner 
 vous explanation, his pleading with her not to be 
 angry. But no doubt he was adept at that sort of 
 thing a practised hand, skilled in the treatment 
 of fools such as she. And then the idiotic way In 
 which she had permitted herself to remain there, 
 to listen to him, to be detained, as it were, in the 
 mesh of his words and then to be dismissed 
 abruptly! She went hot and cold at the thought. 
 Of course she would never see him again that 
 she was determined on. 
 
 She made an effort to exhibit some sort of self 
 control as she entered the Priory, but the flush 
 in her cheeks was still high as she went into the 
 room where her grandmother and her aunt were 
 sitting. It was not yet ten o clock. They both 
 looked up at her. They seemed to be surveying 
 her with special and inquisitive glances. That 
 was just her guilty conscience, she told herself.
 
 276 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Where have you come from?" asked Granny 
 pleasantly. "Have you been out? You re very 
 late in." 
 
 "Am I?" she answered. "I just strolled across 
 the common," and she turned to leave the room. 
 
 Neither of the others said anything more to her, 
 and her hand was on the door, when, furiously red, 
 she turned again to them. 
 
 "Granny," she said, "I did walk on the com 
 mon, but I went to the caravan, and had sup 
 per there with Mr. Jones." 
 
 "Supper!" said Granny. "Whatanidea! Whose 
 idea was it?" 
 
 "His mine his, I mean that is, Mr. 
 Jones asked me if I d dare to, like to, and I said 
 I would. So I went there. He gave me some ham 
 and some champagne, and I drank it. I did n t 
 mean to be so late, but we got talking." 
 
 What, exactly, she had expected from the two 
 elder women in return for this confession she could 
 not have said, but certainly she was staggered at 
 the calm way in which her thunderbolt was al 
 lowed to to drop on the hearthrug, so to speak, 
 and fizzle out quietly. 
 
 "Dear me!" said Granny, "what a venturesome 
 thing to do ! Supper, indeed ! Out-of-doors at this 
 time of night! I think, Rose, that Mr. Jones 
 should have asked permission before he invited 
 you."
 
 The Caravan Man 277 
 
 "If Mr. Jones suggests such a thing again, 
 Rose," said Aunt Anne, "you must tell him to see 
 us first." 
 
 " I would n t go again," she answered. 
 
 Her cheeks were burning. She felt for an in 
 stant that she would burst out with the whole 
 terrible tale of the outrage, but something tied her 
 tongue. She turned and went out of the room and 
 up to her own. 
 
 The window was wide open. She tossed her hat 
 on the bed; she had not put it on, but had carried 
 it in her hand from the caravan. The blind had 
 not been drawn. She stood by the window and 
 looked out. The night, breathless, silent; the 
 starry skies, deeply violet; the vague landscape, 
 spaced weirdly out, all worked in a little while 
 their effect upon her. 
 
 At first, as she stood there, she was half fright 
 ened by the rush of strange feelings that surged 
 through her. Something tremendous seemed to 
 have happened and indeed this was no delu 
 sion of hers, for, in very truth, in that brief mo 
 ment of Bamfield s attack, there had burst for 
 ever within her the dam behind which a great res 
 ervoir of unknown emotions had silently gathered 
 since the dawn of her shy womanhood. 
 
 Shame she felt, indignation, anger all at a 
 pitch of intensity of which she had never dreamed 
 herself capable. But, after these, gathering strength
 
 2 7 8 The Caravan Man 
 
 each second as she stood looking out into the night, 
 came another new and terrifying sensation that 
 was neither shame nor anger that seemed, in 
 fact, to sweep all these aside as quite childish 
 things; that brought her memory to bear on all 
 that had passed and kept her mind lingering over 
 just those aspects of the evening which she had 
 determined to ignore. He had kissed her seized 
 her and kissed her unfairly, unexpectedly 
 Here the strange, new impulse in her mind made 
 her pause. Unexpectedly? She flushed in the 
 dark. Somehow, she confessed, when that gay 
 attempt at fortune-telling had flickered away, a 
 vague warning had seemed to come to her, not of 
 a kiss that she could honestly say she had not 
 dreamed of but that a climax of some kind was 
 bound to come. Then, she had protested but 
 she had lingered; and it was not merely his de 
 taining attitude and words that had kept her there. 
 She had wanted to stop, had wanted to go, too, 
 but something that sprang as much from her as 
 from him had played its part in keeping her there, 
 listening to each word of his listening, even at 
 the last, for more. Then she had walked away, 
 but supposing he had run after her? Supposing he 
 had caught her up, had put his hand on her arm, 
 had said, "Rose, wait!" What then? 
 
 She drew a chair to the window, put her arms 
 on the ledge, and looked to where, just by the cor-
 
 The Caravan Man 279 
 
 ner of the house, the air gave some faint reflection 
 of Bamfield s fire. He was there, the offender, 
 snubbed, scorned, his offering, his picture, con 
 temned. No doubt he was sitting by the fire, prop 
 erly belittled in his own mind. She had behaved 
 so properly, her conduct had been in such correct 
 contrast to his, that he must be feeling very much 
 ashamed indeed, if he had any decent feeling, and 
 this she was willing to concede him. 
 
 Why had he done it? She blushed as she re 
 called his excuse "You were so beautiful." 
 How coarse! And yet, doubtless, recognizing his 
 mistake, he had been in too nervous a state to 
 pick his words. And in a way, it had not been un 
 pleasant to hear; in fact, she did not see quite how, 
 if any excuse were possible, a better one could have 
 been offered her. 
 
 And at that, in a flash, the strange something 
 now guiding her thoughts whispered, "He meant 
 it." Suddenly she became quite sure that he had 
 meant it. She knew her beauty. Bamfield had 
 spoken rightly "You ve looked in your glass a 
 thousand times and known yourself lovely." Of 
 course she had. She blushed at herself to recall 
 it, and, recalling it, made excuses for herself and 
 for Bamfield. 
 
 In a flash there had come to her, not, perhaps, 
 full knowledge, but some comprehension of what 
 a woman s beauty means to a man like Bamfield.
 
 2 8 o The Caravan Man 
 
 All the strange exaltation of the vagabond meal 
 
 the laughter, the idle, free, wandering chatter 
 
 was explained to her. There had been a magic 
 in the air in the moonlight, in the firelight, in 
 the Chinese lantern swinging on the tree, in the 
 silence, the shadows; and right in the very core 
 of it all had been she herself. All the charm of 
 hour and place had received its last touch of in 
 tensity from her beauty. It had been her face, 
 her presence, that had crowned all these influences, 
 her voice that had set vibrating the wondrous 
 chord of harmony that had struck into Bamfield, 
 set him thrilling, and brought him to her, first as 
 the man masterful, seizing her, claiming her lips 
 without even preliminary demand, and then, as 
 the suppliant, excusing, faltering. 
 
 She rose; she smiled in the darkness; she drew 
 a deep breath ; she felt herself transfigured. Power 
 and the consciousness of power had come to her. 
 The strange, interesting, wayward man, to whom 
 she now recognized that she had been drawn with 
 a sense of submission, had suddenly succumbed 
 to her. In that second in which, as a brute of 
 greater strength, he had most freely lorded it over 
 her, her power had struck him down, and that 
 power she now held in leash, to let slip at him 
 again, if and when she wished. 
 
 If? She laughed to herself. When? The moon 
 had risen by now; the night was still; the faint
 
 The Caravan Man 281 
 
 reflection of his fire showed out there; romance 
 was still there, the magic, the unknown, compell 
 ing thing that hovered round the caravan; and 
 in herself lay the queendom of it all, to take there 
 with her if she chose to go now, while the moon 
 light baffled his eyes and the night air lapped his 
 senses round. 
 
 And while she hesitated, her lips thrilled again, 
 as if to the touch of his lips; she half raised her 
 hands as if his hands again held her by the shoul 
 ders; and oblivious to the full force of the spell, 
 joying only in her knowledge, new-sprung, of the 
 power it gave her, and ignorant of the faintest 
 suspicion of her own subjection to Its influence, 
 she went downstairs, passed across the lawn, 
 opened the gate onto the common, and stole to 
 ward the caravan. 
 
 Downstairs, Granny and Aunt Anne had said 
 little. They were too full for utterance. A tre 
 mendous thing hovered on their mental horizons, 
 so tremendous that both felt breathless and afraid 
 to speak too pointedly. 
 
 "She s lovely," said Granny, "and he s a nice- 
 looking fellow." 
 
 "It s a queer life for a peer of the realm to 
 choose," said Aunt Anne. 
 
 "Rose is just the sort of girl to enjoy a life of 
 that sort." 
 
 "It s not my idea," said Aunt Anne, "of the
 
 282 The Caravan Man 
 
 life a peer of the realm and his wife ought to 
 lead." 
 
 The two ladies went up to their respective 
 rooms. 
 
 Granny was too excited to go to bed. She stood 
 by her window, wide open to the warm air. It was 
 on the opposite side of the Priory to that in Rose s 
 room, and she could clearly see the glow of Bam- 
 field s fire among the trees. And of course there 
 were the moon and the violet sky, the stars, the 
 wistful, unreal lights and shadows, the red, misty 
 halo round the Chinese lanterns all operating 
 in the still young, the eternally young, bosom of 
 this skinny old lady. She watched; she dreamed; 
 she smiled. All unaware, the gates of her heart 
 swung open; the spirit of romance swept in. 
 
 At that instant, whiff! a sudden blaze of 
 light shot up among the trees, cutting clearly out 
 against the blackness of the night the shape of the 
 caravan. Whatever was it? Momentarily she 
 expected the appalling roar of the explosion which 
 must follow but all was quiet. But but it 
 must mean something. It was an unearthly, 
 blinding rush of light; it must mean well, what 
 could it possibly mean? She ought to enquire, 
 she ought to know, she must know 
 
 She looked around, found a fleecy white shawl, 
 wrapped it around her dear old head, stole down 
 stairs, passed across the lawn through the gate
 
 The Caravan Man 283 
 
 onto the common, and stole toward Bamfield s 
 caravan. 
 
 Rose, a hundred yards ahead, was passing across 
 the tree-roots. She saw the despised picture lean 
 ing against the tree-trunk; she picked it up and ap 
 proached the caravan. She had just missed seeing 
 Bamfield go in, but she felt sure he was there. 
 
 "Mr. Jones," she called out shyly. 
 
 "Funny," came "Mr. Jones s" voice from in 
 side the caravan. " It must be here." 
 
 Somebody in there with him! Rose stopped. 
 
 A voice a woman s voice came clear and 
 confident: "It can t be." 
 
 Bamfield s voice: "Do you know, I expect we re 
 staring straight at it all the time and don t see it. 
 Dash it all, is n t it queer " 
 
 The woman s voice: "I can t go home without 
 it." 
 
 " If it is n t inside, then it must be outside 
 that s all." 
 
 The caravan door was opening. Rose shrank 
 behind the tree-trunk, peering around. Bamfield 
 appeared, came down the steps, struck a match. 
 
 At that, in the dim light of the lantern that 
 illuminated the interior of the caravan and now 
 streamed out through the open door, appeared 
 Bertha Babbage. To Rose she appeared as a 
 stranger, a tall, queenly woman, bare-shouldered 
 not even properly oh, yes, she was dressed,
 
 284 The Caravan Man 
 
 if one might call that thing a dress with bur 
 nished fair hair. She stooped forward, coming 
 down the steps, Bamfield helping her with ex 
 tended hand 
 
 Rose could scarcely breathe. They came to 
 wards her, looking about them as they wandered 
 about, scanning the ground. She shrank back 
 farther. 
 
 Poor Rose, how short her empiry! A few short 
 minutes ago she had crowned herself woman and 
 conqueror, rejoicing in the flood of crowding emo 
 tions all touched with triumph that filled her 
 bosom; and now, right on the scene of her first 
 victory, a poison dart had struck her. 
 
 She had to put her hand against the tree-trunk 
 to steady herself. What was this new, this terrible 
 sensation? It checked her breathing, it set her 
 heart beating rapidly, it made her knees trem 
 ble. She knew it at once it was jealousy. She 
 watched, and as she watched she felt suffocating. 
 She was being robbed. She was being deceived. 
 This man, This Man, hers, fairly won, with no 
 conscious effort, yet beyond all question captive 
 of her bow and spear, was being reft from her, 
 stolen, by That Woman ! 
 
 Have no fear for Rose s dignity. Even as her 
 indignation rose hot within her all her instincts 
 joined to silence it. Not by word or deed would 
 she reveal her thoughts; nay, it would have been
 
 The Caravan Man 285 
 
 agonizing to allow her presence to be discovered. 
 To be secret, to be silent, to suffer and give no 
 sign with no conscious choice she took these for 
 her conduct. But, oh, with what wide-open eyes 
 she watched. Were these the sweet and friendly 
 eyes that charmed, looking out from the face on 
 the wall of the Primrose Hill studio ? 
 
 Suddenly: "My goodness!" said the Woman. 
 "Here s some one coming." She turned, swept 
 her skirts about her and fled up the steps, back 
 again Into the caravan. There was guilt for you! 
 Rose saw Bamfield peer into the darkness, foot 
 steps rustled there, something was coming across 
 the grass, it drew nearer, it emerged into the fire 
 light- 
 It was Mr. Gubbins again! 
 Mr. Gubbins s condition was lightly touched 
 upon on the occasion of his last appearance, an 
 hour or so previously. That condition, regarded 
 as, from some points of view, lower in plane than 
 the elect would commend, had now distinctly 
 deteriorated further. Probably after reaching 
 Watercreese Farm some further libation had ap 
 pealed as permissible; possibly on his errand of 
 benevolence to the supper-party the cargo he 
 bore within the coffer of his ribs had not yet got 
 fully to work. At any rate, he was now, to be 
 plain, very drunk. 
 
 As on his earlier appearance, he bore a bundle
 
 286 The Caravan Man 
 
 of clothes, but not, this time, the funeral suit. 
 It was a bit difficult to say what it was, but shape 
 less as was the parcel it made, one might gather 
 a hint of something in the nature of a fawn article, 
 probably a waistcoat, a pair of shepherd s-plaid 
 trousers, a black tail-coat, in short, the principal 
 items of a man s apparelling, with nothing distinc 
 tively funereal about them. 
 
 And they were all Wringing Wet. 
 
 They looked, even in the firelight, soggy. They 
 dripped. They stuck together damply. Mr. Gub- 
 bins carried them well away from his own person, 
 with extended hands. Pearly drops escaped from 
 their dangling ends. 
 
 Bamfield stood to greet him. He greeted Bam- 
 field. He "ucked" erratically as he spoke. 
 
 " IIHo, mester it wash n t you, then?" 
 
 "What was n t me?" 
 
 " Shap widout wirrout wizzhout erry 
 uck closhe?" 
 
 "Without what?" 
 
 "Erry uck clo uck closhe you 
 know w at uck closhe is, dontcher uck ? " 
 
 "What have you got there?" asked Bamfield. 
 
 " Closhe I gorris uck closhe," replied 
 Mr. Gubbins. 
 
 "Whose clothes?" 
 
 Mr. Gubbins held his straggly bundle up, shook 
 a few lingering drops from it. "I durro. Burri-
 
 The Caravan Man 287 
 
 gorem." He surveyed Bamfield solemnly, swaying 
 slightly as he did so. Then he offered further news, 
 in a whisper. "Lorsh my gol wash." 
 
 "Your what?" 
 
 "Wash you know warra wash is, dontcher 
 uck? Gol wash gamfer s gol wash." He 
 grinned as if, after all, he saw a certain amount of 
 fun in a man s losing a presumably valuable heir 
 loom. 
 
 "How came you to lose it?" 
 
 "I durro, but I lorsht it. On a scarecrow." 
 
 "Do you mean you put your watch on a scare 
 crow ? What for ? " 
 
 "I durro. Oos fault? No* mine." He assever 
 ated this with a solemn shake of the head. "No, 
 but Dorry ll brame me. Why re they wet, zheshe 
 closhe?" He watched Bamfield carefully as he put 
 the question in the manner of a cross-examining 
 attorney. "Washer man doin goin about my 
 fiel s inner dark uck aw wet wringing wet 
 shopp n wet?" 
 
 Bamfield felt tired. "I don t know. You d 
 better go home, Jarge." 
 
 "Lemmerclock uck er night, runn n about 
 my fiel s wizzout ny closhe. Catch is dether col . 
 Serve im right. God my gol wash. Brasted thief, 
 eh? Ain t it uck?" 
 
 "Well," Bamfield advised him soothingly, "you 
 run after him, Jarge, and catch him."
 
 288 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Catch him! * said Mr. Gubbins, with sudden 
 vivacity. "I caught im one wizher shtick uck! 
 Robbing my scarecrow. Fine thing man can t put 
 J is own uck funeral closhe on is own scare 
 crow but anuzzer man comes along an* shteals em. 
 An* my gamfer s gol wash inner bresh pock 
 uck it" 
 
 Bamfield saw, behind Gubbin s back, the face of 
 Bertha appear at the caravan door. So did Rose. 
 
 "Do get him away!" whispered and signalled 
 Bertha. "I must get home." 
 
 Bamfield spoke firmly. "Look here, Jarge, clear 
 off, will you?" 
 
 Mr. Gubbins stiffened. " Ooo you callin Jarge? 
 Oo reyou?" 
 
 "Now, now, Jarge " 
 
 "Zhish your common? Shtop ere if I like." 
 
 Bamfield glanced at the pond. No, no; this 
 obnoxious person was the saviour of the situation 
 an hour ago. Perish the thought. He took another 
 course. He shook hands heartily with Mr. Gubbins. 
 "Well, good-night, Mr. Gubbins. See you to 
 morrow, perhaps. I m going to bed." 
 
 He went up the caravan steps, entered his cara 
 van, shut the door. 
 
 "Goo night," called out Mr. Gubbins heartily. 
 He wandered over towards the fire. By its light he 
 proceeded to examine what pockets he could find 
 as he turned the bundle of clothes about.
 
 The Caravan Man 289 
 
 "Wunner if Vsh gorrer wash? Leshee. Feel 
 in s pock uck its. Pockets . . . Ullo! Wash 
 thish? Wash, wash innis poggit?" He had the flat 
 of his hand on the fawn waistcoat, and now in 
 great haste he endeavoured to find, and succeeded 
 at last in finding, the entrance to a pocket, into 
 which he plunged unsteady fingers. "Ow!" He 
 was startled. He had withdrawn something which 
 he dropped hastily. "Fog!" he said. "Innis pogg 
 prog innis fog in frock in prog uck !" 
 He gave it up. The something, whatever it was, 
 progressed from obscurity into oblivion in three 
 sprightly hops. "Wash thish?" He was busy 
 again with the saturated garments. "Shea n 
 tickit Bedford Park er Bon Sheet, shreet 
 IfFelshine Shea n tiggit in froggit, in prog 
 frog I durro lorsht my gol wash!" He 
 looked about him dismally. Perhaps with the 
 intention of eliciting further advice from Bamfield, 
 he stepped trippingly towards the caravan. Ar 
 rived at the steps, he pulled up short. 
 
 " Urro! Wash zhish?" He stooped, and from 
 behind the steps he picked up the missing evening 
 cloak. He examined it wonderingly. Then an arch 
 smile began to spread over his features. "La d sh 
 frock!" 
 
 He stared about him. 
 
 "Were sh er lady?" He looked at the silent 
 caravan. "Inside, I eshpeck." He surveyed the
 
 290 The Caravan Man 
 
 lighted, speechless windows with disapproval. A 
 sense of duty took him. He went, precariously, up 
 the steps. He smacked with the flat of his hand on 
 the door, and gave voice to the just indignation and 
 legitimate enquiry that moved him to investigate. 
 
 " Oo yer gorrin there, eh?" No answer. He 
 hammered again. " Ere, coom out. Coom our- 
 rofit." Still silence. He peeped through the key 
 hole, and apparently dissatisfied with the extent 
 of the view, endeavoured to get a look past the 
 red blinds over the window. 
 
 "You re a shandle, a sandle, a scanlous man! 
 You re a " He was back again at the keyhole. 
 Suddenly, but quite noiselessly the right-hand win 
 dow above him opened; Bamfield s head appeared, 
 then his right arm and hand, armed with a cane, 
 came out as well. He lifted the arm and with a 
 vicious little singing snarl the cane smote Mr. 
 Gubbins where he least expected anything of 
 the kind. Bamfield s head, arm, and cane then 
 swiftly and noiselessly withdrew and the red blind 
 fell into place. 
 
 Mr. Gubbins dropped the cloak and the bundle 
 of clothes and fell down the steps with the greatest 
 promptitude, his face convulsed with emotion 
 which again embodied both indignation and legiti 
 mate enquiry, yet of a distinctly different quality 
 from those previously animating it. He stared 
 everywhere but at the caravan. He got up, and
 
 The Caravan Man 291 
 
 stole stealthily round the caravan, rushed swiftly 
 round it in reverse direction, looked underneath 
 it 
 
 He gave it up. It was all part of the evening s 
 enigma: the disappearance of his watch, the man 
 "wizzout closhe" clearly prudence counselled 
 retreat to familiar surroundings. Mr. Gubbins, 
 silent now, went off home to bed. 
 
 Five seconds passed. Rose still watched from 
 behind the tree. The door opened, and Bamfield 
 came out, looking cautiously about. No doubt he 
 looked for Gubbins, but his eye lit almost immedi 
 ately on the cloak. 
 
 "Here we are!" he cried. 
 
 Once again Rose saw Bertha come from the 
 caravan and down the steps. Miss Babbage, for 
 all her size, was in a state of nerves. With the suc 
 cessful accomplishment of the scheme she had 
 evolved, something of the sense of her audacity 
 had reached her. Gubbins s visit had increased 
 the pace of the reaction. She was in a state which 
 could collapse into panic at a touch. 
 
 "Thank you," she said nervously. "Do you 
 know, I m quite shaking. Don t think me silly, 
 but I ve never done anything like this before." 
 
 "Pooh!" said Bamfield reassuringly; "it s noth 
 ing. You 11 be all right." 
 
 "Let s get back. Do you think old Gubbins 
 guessed it was me in your caravan?"
 
 292 The Caravan Man 
 
 "I tell you it s all right. Gubbins had n t the 
 least idea who you are, and no one need know 
 anything whatever about it unless you let it out." 
 
 Bertha put her kitbag, in which she had now 
 packed her everyday things, down on the top step. 
 
 "That s all very well," she rejoined, only half 
 heartened, "but you don t know how people talk 
 about here. If any one else turns up I shall I 
 shall run." 
 
 A footstep behind Rose. She turned. It was 
 Granny, coming towards the caravan, her eyes 
 fixed on the group of two. Rose stepped back 
 farther behind the tree-trunk. Granny passed on. 
 
 Bertha had the large bag in her hand again. She 
 turned to let Bamfield put the cloak around her, 
 but looked back at him over her shoulder. At that 
 instant, the white-clad, shawled form of old Mrs. 
 Grampette stepped suddenly into the gleam of the 
 lantern shining from the caravan s interior. Bertha 
 gave a scream, dropped the bag, and ran. Bamfield, 
 startled at the scream, looked round, jumped in 
 surprise at the white, motionless figure at his elbow, 
 turned, dropped the cloak, and dashed after Bertha. 
 
 Rose stepped out from behind the tree, put the 
 picture down, and turned wearily away. All the 
 life and colour had gone from her face. 
 
 There came a scream from Bertha a shout 
 from Bamfield. The old lady hurried up the steps 
 of the caravan and looked eagerly after them.
 
 The Caravan Man 293 
 
 "They re in the pond!" she cried to the night, as 
 if in triumph. "Ah-ha!" 
 
 She came down the steps with marvellous agil 
 ity, paused, looked around, let her eye leap swiftly 
 from the cloak to the bag, the bag to the bundle of 
 wet clothes, pounced on the two former, and, gig 
 gling with unfeigned delight, bore her two prizes 
 off with her. 
 
 Rose was already entering the Priory gate.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 ANOTHER perfect day broke on the common. 
 When the world was properly aired, the air 
 warmed, the dew drunk from the grass by the hot 
 sun, Bamfield stirred in the caravan, dressed, got 
 his breakfast, shaved, and surveyed the pair of flan 
 nels he had worn the evening before. They were in 
 a terrible state, with black, soft pond mud halfway 
 up the thighs, together with a plaster of pond weed. 
 Bamfield grinned as he looked at them. If his 
 things were like this, what state was Bertha s frock 
 in? her borrowed frock, that joyous creation, 
 that airy fabric of light and loveliness, costing 
 goodness knows how much, meant to queen it at 
 some high social function, doomed instead to the 
 muddy ordeal of the black-ooze-bottomed pond. 
 Exactly what the young lady would do about it he 
 could not well divine. He brought his thoughts 
 back to the question of his white flannel trousers. 
 He decided that perhaps it would be a good thing 
 to let the mud dry on, then beat it off with a cane 
 and send them to be cleaned. He had a vague idea 
 that if he tried to wash the stuff off, it would only 
 work into the fabric and never allow them to be 
 anything better than a dingy white at the best. 
 So he rigged up a string between the front and hind
 
 The Caravan Man 295 
 
 wheels of his caravan and spread the garment out 
 to dry. By their side he disposed Mr. Iffelstein s 
 things. He had had little difficulty in gathering 
 the facts that underlay the dishevelled statements 
 made by Mr. Gubbins the night before. Just what 
 course of conduct Iffelstein had adopted under the 
 distressing circumstances that had undoubtedly 
 engulfed him Bamfield could not guess. The future 
 would no doubt disclose the secret of the past. So 
 very fairly and good-naturedly he gave Mr. Iffel 
 stein s clothes a swish or two in the pond, and then 
 a chance to dry on the line. 
 
 He had completed this operation when, coming 
 back to the caravan steps, he discovered Bertha 
 Babbage seated on the turf close by. He stared at 
 her, aghast. And well he might. For plainly it 
 had been "a night out" with poor Bertha. Her 
 hair had evidently not been arranged that morning 
 a wisp or two of hay stuck out of it here and 
 there; and she still wore the dress of the previous 
 evening. It had been just permissible the night 
 before, but now, in broad daylight, with an intense 
 sunlight playing over her, she presented a stagger 
 ing spectacle in it. She knew it. Like Bamfield s 
 trousers, almost to the waist it was clogged with 
 black mud and duckweed, half dried on. Her hands 
 were clasped on her breast in a pathetic attempt to 
 manufacture a little more cover for herself; she was 
 stooping, drawing her shoulders forward, all her
 
 296 The Caravan Man 
 
 torso shrinking into as small a compass as it could 
 manage, and a piteously appealing mixture of 
 smile and blush mantled her face. 
 
 "Hullo! What s this?" gasped Bamfield. 
 
 "Don t look at me! What do I look like?" came 
 from Bertha. "My hair Oh, don t laugh! I 
 have had a night!" 
 
 Bamfield, with an effort, composed the lines of 
 his face into those of sympathetic interest. 
 
 "Poor girl! But I got you out of the pond, and 
 took you nearly as far as your door. Whatever 
 happened?" 
 
 "Lots of things happened," answered Bertha. 
 "Let me sit down." She sat down on the caravan 
 steps. "What s the time?" she asked. 
 
 Bamfield glanced at his watch. "Ten past nine." 
 
 " I shall get the sack from the post-office. Can t 
 be helped," resignedly. "You know I made you 
 say good-night at the end of my road. I went on 
 to my house it s only a hundred yards or so up 
 the road and then, when I went to let myself in 
 at the front door, I suddenly remembered that I 
 had n t got my door- key." 
 
 "Forgotten it?" 
 
 "Yes. That is, I d brought it here with me all 
 right, but of course it was in the pocket of my 
 other dress, and that was in the bag, and that I d 
 left behind here, when we ran away." 
 
 "You ran away, you mean."
 
 The Caravan Man 297 
 
 "So did you." ,. 
 
 "I only ran after you." 
 
 "Well, anyhow, there was the key and there 
 was I. My landlady s stone-deaf, so I went round 
 to the back and tried to see if I could manage to 
 get the scullery window open. Fancy me, in this 
 get-up, climbing in through a scullery window at 
 that hour of the night!" 
 
 Bamfield laughed. So did Bertha, but she went 
 on ruefully: 
 
 " It was bolted, and I got a bit of stick and tried 
 to push the bolt back, when just then I heard a 
 voice from the top window next door say, * Good 
 ness, Jenny, come and have a look at this!" 
 
 "You were this ?" 
 
 " Yes. It was young Stangers, the coach-builder. 
 I hate him and I hate his wife, and I was n t going 
 to be looked at by them while I was that this 
 sight. So, like a fool, I ran away again. What was 
 I to do?" 
 
 "You could have come up here." 
 
 "Oh, I could n t. You know I could n t. Well, 
 I had to do something, so I walked across the fields 
 to a hay-barn in a meadow, and there I pulled 
 down some of the hay, made a sort of bed in it, 
 took off my wet shoes and stockings I dare n t 
 take off my frock, of course, but it was wet 
 and covered myself up with some of the hay." 
 
 "What fun!"
 
 298 The Caravan Man 
 
 " It was n t as funny as you seem to think. I 
 meant to wake up early and get up here, and I knew 
 you d let me dress." 
 
 "Oh, but wait a minute. I must tell you " 
 
 "Let me tell you first. It s been a night! I 
 had n t been there two minutes when a man came 
 into the barn a fat, lumbersome sort of man. 
 I m not timid, you know, but really Well, I 
 did begin to feel queer. But I thought it best to 
 pretend to be asleep. He came over to me, and 
 said Never mind." 
 
 "Oh, what was it?" 
 
 "Never mind. It was to himself, but I heard 
 him" she smiled "and then he went away. 
 I lay still as a mouse all the time." 
 
 "Just as well you ve got some nerve." 
 
 "Thinks I, * Bertha, no sleep for you to-night, 
 old thing/ But, bless you, I simply could n t keep 
 awake. Off I went, and slept like a top, and when I 
 woke it was broad daylight. So out I came and 
 there was the man, lying fast asleep against the 
 door-post." 
 
 "Any one you know?" 
 
 "No; but he was a decent sort, was n t he? You 
 know, he was just taking care of me. He d thought 
 I was asleep, I suppose, so he just waited there to 
 see that nothing happened to me, and he d tumbled 
 asleep like I did. That was nice of him. I like him. 
 I d like to see him again. ^Well, here I am, none
 
 The Caravan Man 299 
 
 the worse, but, oh, I do feel so undressed ! You 11 
 let me change, won t you? Where s my bag?" 
 
 "I m sorry," said Bamfield. "It s gone." 
 
 Bertha stood thunderstruck. "Gone! You don t 
 mean it!" 
 
 "I do," said Bamfield. " When I got back, it 
 had vanished, and so had the cloak. Whoever it 
 was that came collared them both. What donkeys 
 we were to run!" 
 
 " I was n t going to be found out. The cloak 
 gone And look at this dress!" 
 
 She sat appalled as she considered the depressing 
 spectacle that once glorious garment now offered. 
 "Lady Boulger will skin me," she said, in tones of 
 heartfelt conviction " skin me and serve me 
 right! I d do it myself to any woman who did a 
 thing like this to a frock of this sort, if it belonged 
 to me. My word, I m in for it!" She sat thinking 
 for a minute, with something like tears coming into 
 her eyes. She forced them back. "This puts the 
 lid on things properly, does n t it? What am I to 
 do ? You know, as a rule I don t care what people 
 say, but well, this get-up does look a bit 
 swift in daylight, does n t it?" 
 
 It did. 
 
 Bamfield reassured her. "Don t worry. I ve 
 got to get you some clothes, that s all. I ll go 
 down and see your landlady. What s her name, 
 and what s the number?"
 
 300 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Mrs. Rogers. Number sixteen." 
 
 "All right. I can tell her, can I, just what hap 
 pened?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. She knows me. She won t think any 
 thing nasty, like that beastly Stanger man and 
 his wife." 
 
 Bamfield was looking curiously at her. "Hullo," 
 he exclaimed, "where did you get that hat from?" 
 
 "Hat?" said Bertha wonderingly. "What hat?" 
 
 "The one you re wearing." 
 
 Bertha put her hand to her head, felt, incredu 
 lously, lifted off the hat, a fawn-coloured Trilby 
 hat of excellent quality which till now had perched 
 rather giddily on her hair. She stared at it in 
 astonishment. 
 
 " I don t know," she said. 
 
 "Don t know! don t know where you got the 
 hat you re wearing?" 
 
 "I don t," she asseverated. "I don t know any 
 thing about it. And what s more, I don t care. 
 What s the good of a hat? Do be quick! I say" 
 she glanced across the pond "here s some 
 body coming! Look at me! Can I go inside?" 
 
 "In you go." 
 
 She whipped her blackened frock around her, 
 fled up the steps, and vanished into the caravan, 
 closing the door behind her. 
 
 Bamfield stared at the approaching figure. It 
 was stout and bald-headed, it bulged suddenly in
 
 The Caravan Man 301 
 
 a violent curve below the waist, and the top button 
 of its trousers and the bottom button of its waist 
 coat were undone. 
 
 "What? Monkey again!" 
 
 Monk laid his bicycle to rest on the grass and 
 sat down. 
 
 "Is it you, then? I am awake? Don t tell me 
 you re part of the dream." 
 
 "No, I m not part of a dream. What s up with 
 you?" 
 
 "Dear lad, let me light up and tell you tell 
 you a lie I made up as I came along." 
 
 He pulled out his pipe, the foulest of all foul 
 pipes, and Bamfield, squatting on the grass in 
 front of him, listened to the following, given off in 
 the rapt manner of a crystal-gazer: 
 
 "You know, after I left you yesterday, I met 
 Iffelstein and got him away. But I got the notion 
 that now I d tumbled across you I wanted to see 
 a bit more of you, so last evening I biked back. I 
 meant to sleep somewhere in Ouseton last night 
 and get up here this morning. I was fairly late in 
 getting to Ouseton, and then, just outside the town, 
 I punctured. I was fiddling about with it you 
 know what a job it is with only a lantern and the 
 moonlight to see by when all of a sudden I 
 looked up, quite by chance, and there, glimmering 
 pale in the shimmering beams of the silvery moon, 
 I saw a ghost."
 
 3 o 2 The Caravan Man 
 
 "This was how long after closing-time?" 
 Bamfield threw in the genial suggestion. 
 
 Monk, with a wave of his pipe, dismissed it in 
 contempt. 
 
 "It glided along the road, stopped at a stile, got 
 
 over " 
 
 Ut 
 
 Ghosts don t get over stiles. They walk 
 through them." 
 
 " It got over, crossed the meadow, and vanished 
 among the wistful shadows." 
 
 "No poetic attempts," interposed Bamfield. 
 "The plain facts, if you please." 
 
 "I went over, too, and found that there was a 
 barn there. I dodged back, got my bicycle, lifted 
 it over the stile, and came back to the barn. There 
 was a brilliant moon last night that lit up even the 
 shadows inside the barn, and in the corner among 
 some hay I saw the most wonderful thing a glo 
 rious girl, fast asleep, in the very latest thing in 
 evening dress. Latest! It was late my word! 
 Only just in time " 
 
 "Don t be sensuous, Monkey," said Bamfield, 
 glancing at the caravan door. It was slightly ajar, 
 v "Of course I saw at once what it was a case 
 of sleep-walking. She was partly covered with hay. 
 I knew it might be dangerous to wake her or at 
 least I ve always understood so in these cases. 
 Besides, even if it had n t been dangerous, she d 
 have been horribly startled, and I should have felt
 
 33 
 
 awkward. At the same time, I could n t very well 
 go away, and leave the girl alone, could I ? I don t 
 think I did wrong. I went in and had a look at 
 her " 
 
 "That will do," said Bamfield coldly. "Pve 
 outgrown the taste for stories of this kind." 
 
 "Oh, don t be a brutal beast!" Monk exploded. 
 " I stood there and looked at her a glorious, 
 lovely thing, sleeping like a little child and I 
 felt like a knight of the middle-ages " 
 
 "A middle-aged knight?" 
 
 "Rot away, you silly ass! I wanted to take off 
 my cloak and lay it over that fair form, to shield 
 it from the night dews, and then, with drawn 
 sword, stand my lonely watch, to guard that 
 saintly thing from harm." 
 
 "You move me deeply," said Bamfield in tones 
 of earnest sympathy. 
 
 The upper half of the caravan door was distinctly 
 ajar, and a nose and a bright eye could be seen 
 peering round its edge. 
 
 Monk went on serenely, a rapt smile playing 
 around his lips as he recalled the memories of the 
 night before. 
 
 "I went out and sat down by the door-post 
 there was n t any door to the barn. I meant to 
 keep awake, but after a time I fell asleep. I must 
 have slept soundly, for I did n t hear a movement, 
 and it was nearly nine when I woke precious*
 
 304 The Caravan Man 
 
 stiff, too, I tell you. I looked in, and she was gone! 
 But there was the place where she d been lying, 
 with the hay all tumbled. It was no dream." He 
 stood up. "A lovely woman, a fashionable woman 
 
 I m a fool, I know, but I 11 stay in this neigh 
 bourhood till I find her, and I ll go down on my 
 knees to her, and if a flame of pure and passionate 
 devotion " 
 
 A voice broke in on his ecstasy Bertha s voice 
 
 from the caravan. 
 
 "What about my clothes, Mr. Jones?" 
 
 Monk whipped round. The top of the door was 
 now wide open, and framed in the opening Bertha s 
 face showed. She had knelt down, and over the 
 lower part of the door her face beamed, rosy, smil 
 ing, thrilling with youth and high spirits. It is 
 given but seldom to a woman to listen unsuspected 
 to such a complete and generous acknowledgment 
 of her personal charms. Monk lost himself for a 
 moment. He blushed like Bertha herself. Then: 
 "You you Then you were are, I mean 
 I mean I am We do " ; 
 
 He turned towards Bamfield. Bamfield was 
 already making his exit on his bicycle. 
 
 "Bammy!" cried Monk. 
 
 "I m off on business," came Bamfield s reply, 
 and the bicycle gathered speed. 
 
 Monk turned again towards the caravan door. 
 The face there nodded in a friendly way.
 
 The Caravan Man 305 
 
 " Good-morning," it said. 
 
 "Oh, good-morning good-morning. It is you, 
 then ! I knew I d see you again." 
 
 "I heard all you said to Mr. Jones," breathed 
 Bertha. 
 
 "Jones? Ah, yes, Jones!" 
 
 "And I was n t asleep when you came into the 
 barn. I only pretended to be. I heard what you 
 said." 
 
 "I did n t know I said anything." 
 
 Monk began to walk up the steps. Bertha 
 stopped him hurriedly. 
 
 "Don t, please, come up here!" 
 
 "Oh, all right," said Monk. He went right up 
 to the caravan by the side of the steps, instead. 
 "What did I say?" 
 
 "Something. You said it to yourself, but I 
 heard. You were nice." 
 t "What was it? Do tell me." 
 
 Bertha popped her head farther out over the 
 edge of the door to look down at him. "You said, 
 * Lovely !" she murmured. 
 
 "Did I?" replied Monk boldly. "Well, then, I 
 meant it. You were you are, you know.", 
 
 "Don t be silly," said Bertha, her eyes dancing 
 with pleasure. "I expect you re wondering what 
 it s all about why I was there and why I m 
 here." > 
 
 "Of course I m wondering, but don t you think
 
 306 The Caravan Man 
 
 I m worrying. When I look at your face I know 
 there s nothing that is n t quite right. Won t you 
 come out and talk?" 
 
 "Oh, no. 1 feel rather awful by daylight. I ve 
 still got that frock on, you know the latest. 
 I m in a horrible fix, and Mr. Jones is going to get 
 me out of it. He s a dear." 
 
 "Well, so am I," said Monk jealously. "Tell 
 me what sort of a fix you re in, and I ll get you 
 out of it. Bam I mean Jones is quite all 
 right, of course, but he s an unbalanced sort of 
 chap, you know, whereas I " 
 
 "I know," broke in Bertha. "You re nice, too. 
 You looked after me last night, did n t you ? And 
 you did me another good turn, too." 
 
 "Did I? What?" 
 
 "You woke me this morning. You you snore 
 a bit.* 
 
 Monk started at the word " snore," took a pace 
 or two away. "Snore!" he said. "I snore, do I? 
 Well, upon my word " 
 
 "What is it?" asked Bertha. 
 
 Monk, with an evident effort, restrained himself. 
 " I m not going to say." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "You won t be offended?" 
 
 "Depends on what you say," said Bertha coldly. 
 
 "Well, then Oh, I can t tell you." 
 
 Bertha looked unsmiling at him. She meant to
 
 The Caravan Man 307 
 
 have an explanation. "Yes, you will. Go on. 
 What is it?" Monk was still silent. "Do you 
 mean to insinuate that / snore?" 
 
 Monk nodded. 
 
 "You story-teller! I m sure I don t." Bertha 
 turned crimson. Honestly, can you wonder? What 
 young and beautiful woman could listen without 
 indignation to an accusation of this kind ? 
 
 Monk felt the necessity of placating her. "Don t 
 let s say anything more about it," he pleaded. 
 
 "Oh, shan t we, though! How dare you! You 
 ought to be ashamed of yourself." 
 
 Monk saw that he had better produce without 
 delay any evidence he had. "Look here, all I ve 
 got to say is that twice I was awakened by the 
 most terrific " The blaze in Bertha s face com 
 pelled him to desist. 
 
 "You dare say such a thing!" Her eyes flamed 
 at him, her nostrils swelled. 
 
 The man in him was bound to respond to her 
 challenge. "It shook the barn," he said stoutly. 
 
 Bertha groped for a possible explanation. 
 "You re dreaming," she suggested. 
 
 "Qnce or twice," said Monk, "I nearly came in 
 to see what was the matter." 
 
 "But but " said poor Bertha, her lip quiv 
 ering at what she felt was cruelly unjust "I 
 don t I m sure I never " Faintly she won 
 dered if she ever.
 
 3 o 8 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Well," reasoned Monk, however unwillingly, 
 "there was n t any one else there, was there?" 
 
 "Wait a minute," said Bertha. She tapped her 
 head. "Where did I get this hat?" 
 
 "I m sure I don t know," replied Monk, mysti 
 fied. 
 
 "There you are!" said Bertha, suddenly re 
 lieved. "It s a man s hat, and I don t know 
 whose. But now I seem just to recollect that 
 when I woke up I found it lying beside me on 
 the hay, and I put it on, half asleep, without 
 thinking " 
 
 "That s it," Monk agreed. "Then some one, 
 some man, stole into the barn and slept there." 
 
 "And snored horribly. Fancy taking away a 
 girl s character like that!" 
 
 "He s a dirty dog," Monk assured her, "and 
 something horrible will happen to him before long, 
 you see. It s all right, then. You don t snore, and 
 I don t snore. I m glad, are n t you ? I ve known 
 marriages absolutely wrecked " 
 
 This was going a little too fast, thought Bertha 
 and at that second came an interruption. She 
 gazed across the pond. Her brow wrinkled, her 
 eyes dilated. 
 
 "Is n t that oh, dear, yes, it is! Here comes a 
 policeman." 
 
 Monk followed her gaze. "Yes, it is. WTiat of 
 it? He does n t want either of us, does he?"
 
 The Caravan Man 309 
 
 "Yes, he does," answered Bertha tragically. 
 "He s after me." 
 
 "After you! Good Heavens, what s he after 
 you for?" 
 
 "It s about my clothes." 
 
 "Your clothes?" 
 
 "Yes. They re not mine. I I got them 
 from some one I don t know Don t let him come 
 in here ! " She closed the door. 
 
 Monk, considerably bewildered, attempted an 
 air of unconcern that merely succeeded in pro 
 claiming at a hundred yards his guilt of any 
 thing you might suspect him of. The policeman 
 drew near and eyed him with official criti 
 cism. 
 
 " Morning," he said, shortly and sternly. 
 
 "Good-morning, inspector," replied Monk 
 affably. 
 
 "Any other caravan about here?" queried the 
 policeman. 
 
 "Not as far as I know." 
 
 "H m." The constable put his hand among his 
 coat-tails and withdrew a notebook. This he 
 opened, moistened a pencil-tip at his lips, and put 
 the question to Monk in his sternest official man 
 ner: "Can you give me any information as to the 
 whereabouts of some missing articles of female 
 wearing apparel?" 
 
 Monk temporized. "My good man, do I look
 
 3 1 o The Caravan Man 
 
 the sort of man to know anything about female 
 wearing apparel?" 
 
 "Well, yes, you do," came the constable s can 
 did answer, after an impartial survey. 
 
 "Then you re no judge and what s more, 
 you re a silly ass!" Monk said sharply. "Any 
 how, I m not going to answer any more of your 
 fat-headed questions." 
 
 "I m doing my dooty, and I must make en 
 quires." 
 
 "Are you making any sort of charge against 
 me?" demanded Monk. 
 
 "No, sir. Lady Baddeley-Boulger, of Green 
 Streets, has called in the aid of the force in the 
 matter of the whereabouts of some missing articles 
 of female wearing apparel." He read out the items : 
 "Cloak, dress, pair of shoes, pair of stockings, 
 pair suspenders, pair corsets, pair the rest of 
 the kit. Have you in your possession any or all of 
 the aforementioned articles?" 
 
 " Search me," returned Monk. 
 
 "Lady Baddeley-Boulger makes no charge as 
 yet. She only wants to get the articles back. We Ve 
 questioned her maid we have n t got to the bot 
 tom of her yet, but we shall, no doubt and from 
 what we got out of her, we decided that we might 
 begin by making enquiries up at this caravan." 
 
 "Well," Monk assured him, "I don t know any 
 thing about them."
 
 The Caravan Man 311 
 
 "No knowledge." The constable, re- wetting his 
 pencil, wrote ponderously in his notebook. He 
 put the book away among the recesses of his coat- 
 tails. "Very well I ll just take a look round 
 inside your caravan." 
 
 This was a" facer. "Here! No, you don t! You 
 just keep out of it!" 
 
 The constable warned him sternly. "Take my 
 advice. Don t interfere with me in the execution 
 of my dooty." 
 
 "Your duty " began Monk, stepping in front 
 of the constable and feeling like Horatius stalking 
 forward to defend the -bridge. The constable 
 advanced stolidly. 
 
 A clash seemed inevitable, when a voice floated 
 lightly from the caravan s interior: 
 
 "Monkey, have you got any brown paper handy?" 
 
 "Who s that?" demanded the constable. 
 
 "A friend of mine," answered Monk. 
 
 "Who s he talking to?" 
 
 "Me." 
 
 The official brow darkened. The official eye 
 lowered gloomily, surveying Monk with distrust 
 and suspicion. 
 
 "What s he calling you a monkey for? I don t 
 like this. I begin to feel there s something funny 
 about this caravan. Perhaps this chap inside can 
 tell me something." 
 
 " I assure you he can t."
 
 312 The Caravan Man 
 
 "We ll ask him." The constable raised his 
 voice. "Just come out of that, young feller." 
 
 "Look here," struck in Monk, "I m not going 
 to have this." 
 
 The knight-errant fit of the evening before was 
 now in full blast through his breast. If he had 
 but had a sword! 
 
 At this moment a diversion occurred. The 
 caravan door opened, and Bertha appeared 
 but not the Bertha of the inadequate frock. This 
 was another Bertha, a cool, a saucy, a quite-at- 
 ease Bertha, dressed in the garb of a man white 
 flannel trousers, neatly creased, white shirt, dark- 
 blue jacket, loose collar, flowing tie, her hair 
 tucked well away under a hat of easy and erratic 
 shape. Her hands were in her trousers that is, 
 the trousers pockets, and under her arm was 
 tucked a bundle of washing some shirts, an 
 under-vest, and well in the middle, had the 
 policeman but known it the articles he was 
 questing for, tightly screwed up. 
 
 Bertha strolled unconcernedly down the steps. 
 She felt that, to top the situation, she should have 
 been lighting a cigarette and have tossed the 
 match away artistically as she descended. But 
 she had not been able to discover any cigarettes, 
 and she knew she would have coughed had she 
 attempted to smoke one. She managed without 
 very well. Monk nearly laughed outright.
 
 The Caravan Man 313 
 
 She addressed Monk. "Monkey, what about 
 some brown paper to do up our washing in?" 
 
 Before Monk could answer, the constable put 
 his poser. "Can you give me any information as 
 to the whereabouts of some missing articles of 
 female wearing apparel?" The pencil and notebook 
 were ready for operation. 
 
 Bertha surveyed him coolly. "How should I 
 know anything about them? All I can say is that 
 I have n t got em on." 
 
 "Declared he had not got them on," noted the 
 pencil, and the book retired again to its modest 
 obscurity. 
 
 "Very well, young man; I ll just have a look 
 round inside." 
 
 Bertha stepped aside; the constable mounted 
 the steps and entered the caravan. 
 
 Bertha spoke rapidly to Monk. "Excuse me 
 calling you Monkey but I didn t know what 
 else your name was. I dashed into these things of 
 Mr. Jones s. I ve got the frock and things here. 
 Can t we do them up, quick? Is there any brown 
 paper and string about ? " 
 
 Before Monk could answer, a maid in a black 
 dress and white apron, with cap and streamers, 
 appeared. She bore over her right arm a blue 
 evening cloak, and in her left hand a large leather 
 bag. She came over to Bertha and Monk and 
 offered these articles, with the remark:
 
 314 The Caravan Man 
 
 "These things for Mr. Jones from the Priory." 
 
 "What name?" asked Monk. 
 
 "No name. I was just to leave em, and say, 
 from the Priory." 
 
 The caravan door was heard opening. Monk 
 grasped the bag, Bertha the cloak. Monk pitched 
 the bag toward the caravan wheel; Bertha made an 
 effort to tuck the cloak up the front of her jacket. 
 Too late! The lynx eye of the constable had taken 
 in something, at least, of the incident. He came 
 heavily, but swiftly down the steps. 
 
 "Hold on there!" A stride brought him to 
 Bertha. He seized her by the arm, turned her 
 round, and pulled out the cloak. "Aha! Where d 
 this come from, young feller?" He held it up in 
 triumph. 
 
 "I don t know," said Bertha unconcernedly. 
 
 "Don t know! What d ye mean, don t know? 
 You know what s inside your jacket, don t you?" 
 
 "Don t be rude," returned Bertha simply. 
 
 "We don t know where it came from," said 
 Monk. "Really, officer. This girl brought it. 
 Perfect stranger to me." 
 
 "I was told to bring it," explained the maid, 
 "from the Priory." 
 
 "Who from?" 
 
 "I was n t to say." 
 
 The constable was all excitement. "I got this," 
 he declared, "but I ain t going to leave here till
 
 The Caravan Man 315 
 
 I get the rest of the things. You two" to 
 Bertha and Monk "you just wait here with 
 me; and you" to the maid "you go and tell 
 whoever it was sent you they d better come here 
 at once. Hop it!" 
 
 Scared out of her young wits, the domestic 
 flitted away. At the same instant Bamfield rode 
 up, dismounted from his bicycle, and approached 
 the group. He bore a square suitcase in his hand. 
 The constable again produced the notebook and 
 pencil. 
 
 " I have to ask you," he flung excitedly at Bam 
 field, "if you have any knowledge of some missing 
 female whereabouts." 
 
 Bamfield dismissed his questioning coldly. "I 
 am not interested in such things." 
 
 "I mean," explained the constable, "I mean the 
 whereabouts of some missing females " 
 
 "Find the missing females," suggested Bamfield, 
 "and you will inevitably clear up any mystery 
 as to their whereabouts." 
 
 "I mean some missing female apparatus 
 apparel, I mean " 
 
 "Why don t you say some women s clothes?" 
 struck in Bertha impatiently. "No, he does n t." 
 
 "What about this cloak?" The constable dan 
 gled Bertha s evening cloak before Bamfield s 
 eyes. "Any knowledge?" 
 
 The limitations of Bamfield s morality proved
 
 3 1 6 The Caravan Man 
 
 too constricted for the situation and demanded a 
 rapid extension. 
 
 "No,"lied Bamfield, without a second s hesitation. 
 
 But the hound was hot on the trail, with the 
 scent breast-high. 
 
 "I ll trouble you for that suitcase." 
 
 Bamfield stepped back, with the case behind 
 him. 
 
 "What next? It s only some things for this 
 this gentleman." He indicated Bertha. 
 
 "I ll trouble you to let me look, all the same." 
 The constable grabbed the case, fumbled with the 
 catch, opened it its contents tumbled on the 
 grass. "Aha!" Light at last the quarry run 
 to earth, or, rather, pulled down in the open. 
 "What s this ? " He turned the items over. " Frock, 
 shoes, stockings, suspenders, cor " 
 
 "Constable," said Bamfield, "I give you my 
 word I Ve never seen these things before." 
 
 "Well, if you ain t the limit!" 
 
 At the moment Monk chose to try to kick 
 farther under the caravan the bag the maid had 
 brought from the Priory. The movement caught 
 the constable s eye. In a second he had pounced 
 on that bag also, opened it, and turned out its 
 contents. The official eye blazed with mingled 
 joy and bewilderment. 
 
 "Hullo!" Well, I m dashed! Frock, shoes, cor 
 sets, suspenders Any knowledge?"
 
 The Caravan Man 317 
 
 "None," answered Monk. "I told you I knew 
 nothing whatever about this bag." 
 
 Bertha, incensed at the constable s rough-and- 
 ready handling of the bag s contents, had stepped 
 forward, and on her in turn, and the bundle under 
 her arm, the official eye now lit. 
 
 "That, too!" came the stern demand. The par 
 cel was unrolled. "What? More of em frock, 
 shoes, suspenders, etsettra And Lor lummy! 
 What s all this?" Bewildered, incredulous, he 
 slowly lifted from Bamfield s extemporized clothes 
 line the pair of ruined "whites" and the still sod 
 den clothes bespoilt by Gubbins the night before 
 from the fugitive Iffelstein. 
 
 The success of the chase was now positively over 
 whelming. The hunter, hovering distractedly over 
 his three bundles of "articles of female wearing 
 apparel," turned appealingly to Monk, Bertha, and 
 Bamfield, in turn. 
 
 "Look here, young gen lemen, what is the game? 
 I m asking, not merely as a policeman, but as a 
 
 man." 
 
 Bamfield was haughty. "We ve no informa 
 tion. You can make a charge if you like; we re 
 not going to run away. Besides, you ve got the 
 things." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I ve got em, but I ve got a lot too 
 many. Which is which, I want to know." 
 
 And now, to this little group at cross-purposes
 
 3 1 8 The Caravan Man 
 
 was joined another. Old Mrs. Grampette ap 
 peared, escorted on the one side by Miss Gram 
 pette, on the other by Rose. Slowly, almost sol 
 emnly, her usual vivacious pace now resolved into 
 a progress of great dignity, the old lady led the 
 others on. Miss Grampette and Rose were down 
 cast. 
 
 "Good-morning, ladies." The constable sa 
 luted. "I understand some of these things" he 
 indicated the various heaps of clothing disposed 
 about the caravan " came from the Priory. Do 
 you know anything about them, mum?" to old 
 Mrs. Grampette. 
 
 "No," answered the Early Victorian, stoutly. 
 
 "Do you, miss?" He turned to Miss Gram 
 pette. 
 
 "No," answered the chairman of the parish 
 council, with a touch of indecision in her usually 
 autocratic voice. 
 
 "Do you, miss?" to Rose. 
 
 "Yes." Rose was nervous, but truthful. It is 
 not necessary to enquire what other members of 
 the party felt the lash of implied reproach. "Yes, " 
 said Rose. "I sent these." She pointed to the 
 heap near the kitbag. 
 
 "And where did you get them, may I ask?" 
 
 "Out of my aunt s room." 
 
 "Oh!" Miss Grampette gave a gasp and 
 dropped her mother s arm.
 
 The Caravan Man 319 
 
 The constable addressed Miss Grampette 
 gravely. " I thought you did n t know anything 
 about them?" 
 
 Anne Grampette blushed. "Perhaps that was 
 n t strictly true," she murmured. 
 
 "And where did you get them, may I ask?" 
 
 " I got them out of my mother s room." 
 
 It was old Mrs. Grampette s turn to look em 
 barrassed now but she declined. Instead, her 
 shrivelled form stiffened perceptibly under her 
 crinoline, and she faced the investigation now 
 pending like a little old lioness, lifting such a look 
 into the constable s inquisitive eye that he blinked. 
 Still, he did his duty like a man and a constable. 
 
 "I thought you didn t know anything about 
 them, mum?" 
 
 "That that was an evasive answer. I 
 do." She brought out the "I do" with an aggres 
 siveness that seemed to say, "By some incredible 
 effort of stupidity you have failed to grasp the 
 obvious facts. I now present them to you in a 
 manner that the dullest brain cannot fail to grasp." 
 
 "May I ask where you got them?" 
 
 "I stole them." Mrs. Grampette was at her 
 most dignified as she gave this simple statement 
 to the assembled company. 
 
 The policeman went on: "When?" 
 
 "Last night." 
 
 Again the notebook was consulted. "Last night
 
 3 2 o The Caravan Man 
 
 that agrees with information previously re 
 ceived. And where?" 
 
 "Here." 
 
 The notebook shut up. "Excuse me, mum, but 
 Lady Baddeley-Boulger says they were in her 
 wardrobe yesterday afternoon." 
 
 "I don t care what Lady Baddeley-Boulger says. 
 All I know is that I found them here last night, 
 and I took them." 
 
 "Might I ask you for a little further informa 
 tion, mum?" 
 
 Granny looked straight in front of her and gave 
 off the facts in a steady stream of short, business 
 like sentences. 
 
 "I came here last night just before bedtime. 
 I wanted to speak to this gentleman." She waved 
 a queenly hand at Bamfield, who bowed. "I saw 
 his fire burning. There was a lady here. I don t 
 know who she was. My word her dress! In 
 my young days never mind. She ran away. So 
 did he. They fell in the pond. They got out again. 
 They were in a mess. Aha!" A pause while she 
 dwelt with evident pleasure on the memory of the 
 emergence of the two fugitives from the pond. " I 
 found the bag and the cloak. I took them. I don t 
 know why. I think it was the caravan or the fire 
 
 or the moonlight perhaps the Chinese lan 
 tern. It they got into my blood. I had to 
 do something so I took them."
 
 The Caravan Man 321 
 
 Anne Grampette took up the moving tale ner 
 vously: 
 
 "My mother told me this morning, when I 
 went into her room of her having appropriated 
 the things, so I took them into mine before break 
 fast, in order to return them." 
 
 Rose s turn now. All turned to her: 
 
 " I saw my aunt take the things out of my grand 
 mother s room and put them into hers, before 
 breakfast. I got them out of hers into mine, after 
 breakfast, and a little while ago I sent them here." 
 
 Well, there were the facts and what was an 
 honest constable to make of them? He pushed 
 back his helmet and scratched his head, very 
 pardonably puzzled. 
 
 "Well, ladies pon my word, it s a bit hard 
 to know what to do." 
 
 "Why don t you take the things back?" sug 
 gested Bamfield. "You ve got em." 
 
 "Got em? I should think I have. Here s a 
 blooming rummage sale." He looked at his cap 
 tures. "Hullo!" He sprang to sudden action. 
 
 However satisfied Miss Bertha Babbage may 
 have been with the success of her hasty robing in 
 Bamfield s clothes, the state of affairs had com 
 pletely changed with the advent of the three 
 other women from the Priory. She had grown 
 restless during the constable s questionings. She 
 whispered to Monk. Monk was all attention;
 
 322 The Caravan Man 
 
 Bertha waited for an answer; Monk nodded; 
 Bertha edged towards the suitcase 
 
 The constable turned just in time to see Miss 
 Babbage, her Sunday clothes hastily and reck 
 lessly huddled into the suitcase she clasped to her 
 waistcoat, taking rapid leave of the caravan. 
 Where exactly Bertha meant to go she had not 
 decided, but away from there was the first inten 
 tion. 
 
 Like a hound at his quarry a rather pon 
 derous and slow-moving hound the constable 
 leapt. "Hi! Stop! Here! Come back, young fel 
 ler!" Bertha broke into a run. 
 
 Monk was ready. As the constable blundered 
 past, Monk s fat hand descended broadly on the 
 officer s helmet. Obedient to the impulse, the offi 
 cial casque suddenly descended over its wearer s 
 eyes and nose. Blinded, he spun round three 
 times, hands extended, grasping vainly. 
 
 "Run!" shouted Monk, and ran himself. 
 Bertha s classic limbs were already fast bearing 
 her away among the gorse. Fatly but stout 
 heartedly, Monk followed. With a painful effort 
 the constable withdrew his visage from the un 
 yielding helmet. He danced after the fugitives, 
 pulled up short, looked at Bamfield, came back, 
 again started in the chase stopped again, looked 
 as helpless as he felt, raised his voice. 
 
 "Stop em!" there was no one to stop em.
 
 The Caravan Man 323 
 
 " Ere, you!" to Bamfield, extending a white 
 cotton-gloved hand in warning. "Don t you at 
 tempt to go away." Three more steps in the 
 direction where the fugitives, now side by side, 
 were making good time, then another pause. "I 
 shall want you." A gleam of inspiration. "Arrest 
 him, ladies." 
 
 "Nonsense, officer," said Anne Grampette. 
 "This is Lord Bamfylde." 
 
 The officer winced, but bore the impact bravely. 
 "Can t help that," he said sturdily. "Keep his 
 lordship for me." Lightly, sprightly, the zest of 
 the chase again speeding his limbs, he set off. Run, 
 Bertha; run, Monk! For here comes Duty, eager, 
 once baulked, fresh fired . . . 
 
 Rose stood wondering. She had heard what 
 her aunt said. She could not understand. Had 
 she mistaken? More was to follow in the same 
 strain. 
 
 Majestically her grandmother swam in Barn- 
 field s direction. "Really, Lord Bamfylde, I 
 apologize for the officer, but if you will persist 
 in going about in this bohemian fashion " She 
 looked arch. 
 
 Rose felt a singing in her ears. A number of 
 things seemed to be explaining themselves. 
 
 Lord Bamfylde! She looked from Bamfield to 
 her grandmother, to Aunt Anne, back to Bamfield. 
 "What does my grandmother mean, Mr. Jones?"
 
 324 The Caravan Man 
 
 Very, very complacently Aunt Anne gave her 
 the Wondrous Fact. 
 
 "This gentleman is Lord Bamfylde, Rose." 
 
 Aunt Anne smiled, Granny smiled, Bamfield 
 looked steadily at Rose. No question of her sur 
 prise. Her eyes opened wide she turned rather 
 white, he thought. She carried a little bag on her 
 wrist, and at this she now fingered, her head droop 
 ing. She came over to him, extended her hand. He 
 offered his. Two half-crowns dropped into his 
 palm. 
 
 "There s your five shillings," said Rose. "I 
 don t want the photographs. Good-morning. 
 Come, Granny." 
 
 Bamfield s knees for a moment almost shook. 
 He was dizzy. If Rose had planned her stroke for 
 effect instead of being merely a nervous girl 
 anxious to be rid of a miserable business she 
 could not have staggered him more effectively. 
 
 "But but " stammered Bamfield. 
 
 "Now, Rose!" said Granny. 
 
 " Rose ! " expostulatory came from Aunt 
 Anne. 
 
 Bamfield, red as fire, found something of speech. 
 
 "Do you mean this? Are you really going to 
 treat me like this?" 
 
 Rose, trembling, flashed at him from under lev 
 elled brows. "Remember last night," she said 
 icily.
 
 The Caravan Man 325 
 
 Bamfield s nerve was steadying. "What? Just 
 because for one moment I lost myself? Oh, come! 
 I asked your pardon." 
 
 "You did," she answered bitterly. "And you 
 told me you did n t care a snap of the fingers for 
 any other woman." 
 
 "I know I did." 
 
 "You would n t turn your head, you said, to 
 look at any one else." 
 
 "And that s true." He stepped towards her as 
 he spoke, and the words came hotly. Love s a 
 queer thing. He loved her passionately at that 
 moment and felt that he could take her and 
 shake her. 
 
 Rose s feelings were rapidly overpowering her. 
 Tears were not far away. 
 
 "Oh, how can you? I may tell you that I came 
 back again last night and I saw you know 
 what I saw," turning disdainfully to Bamfield. 
 
 "What did you see?" he demanded. 
 
 "I saw you bring a girl out of your 
 caravan. I could n t see who she was, but I heard 
 what she said." 
 
 "What did she say?" 
 
 "I m ashamed to repeat it Oh, very well, 
 then ! that she was glad no one could see her, 
 and you said it would be all right no one had, 
 and if she kept quiet, no one would know." 
 
 Bamfield s mind jumped back hastily to that
 
 326 The Caravan Man 
 
 minute of Bertha s departure, flashed over the 
 incident, and saw light. 
 
 "Oh!" he almost laughed, "I can explain that." 
 
 "I dare say, but please don t," said Rose, mis 
 erably indignant. "I m ashamed, I m degraded 
 enough as it is. How can you ! I thought you were 
 so different. If you were just a common man, as 
 you pretend, it would be bad enough, but for a 
 man in your position to go about as you do, just 
 to pick up adventures, I suppose, with with 
 fools like like me and that other girl, I dare 
 say it s despicable!" 
 
 Poor girl. The tears were plain to see. 
 
 Mrs. Grampette intervened. "Rose, come! You 
 must make allowances for a man in his lordship s 
 position." 
 
 Rose flashed out: "I don t care about his posi 
 tion. I think it only makes his conduct worse. I 
 meant to forgive you " she addressed Bamfield 
 again "because because well, I could n t 
 think badly of you. But I thought you were only 
 a photographer." 
 
 "And supposing I m not?" He felt his heart 
 glowing, and moved a little towards her. She gave 
 no ground, but faced him, hostile, relentless. "Miss 
 Rose, let me explain." 
 
 "Let his lordship speak, Rose," put in Granny, 
 a trifle anxious. Rose was making herself a very 
 stupid girl.
 
 The Caravan Man 327 
 
 "I don t want to speak to you at all," said Rose, 
 unhappy, but never flinching. 
 
 He was peremptory. "You must. Come, Rose; 
 let me speak to you. I beg it. Tell me something, 
 and I ll tell you something. Why did you come 
 back to the caravan last night?" 
 
 She went crimson. Her voice was unsteady as 
 she answered. " I expect you know." 
 
 " I 11 give a guess," said Bamfield. All was well, 
 he felt. "And I was just Jones the photographer? 
 Yes? And you don t like the idea of my being 
 LordBamfylde?" 
 
 For the first time she dropped her eyes and spoke 
 to the ground. "I I liked you when you were 
 Mr. Jones." 
 
 He laughed outright. "Well, then, you ve got 
 to listen to me. Yes" as she lifted a shoulder 
 "I insist." 
 
 "That s the way, my lord," said Granny. "Rose 
 needs a master." 
 
 She beamed on the two. Rose held her head 
 high, stubbornness personified, staring past him. 
 
 "Thank you, Mrs. Grampette. You ll listen, 
 too, I hope, and you, too, Miss Grampette." There 
 was n t a doubt of that both the older ladies 
 were all ears. Rose s attitude expressed nothing 
 but high disdain. Bamfield felt that the supreme 
 moment of his life had come. "Listen, Rose 
 I m not Lord Bamfylde."
 
 328 The Caravan Man 
 
 All three ladies started. Rose condescended at 
 last to look at him; Mrs. Grampette and Aunt 
 Anne turned hot and cold. They stared at one 
 another. Aunt Anne s mouth opened, but no voice 
 came through its grim portals. 
 
 Granny found her tongue. " But bu bu - 
 my daughter Emma, at Brighton, says you are." 
 
 "Your daughter Emma, at Brighton, is entirely 
 mistaken," Bamfield assured her gravely. He was 
 looking at Rose, who was staring at him, her 
 breath coming rapidly. 
 
 Aunt Anne was ready now. "But you as good 
 as admitted to me, yesterday afternoon, that your 
 name was Bamfylde and I thought you must 
 be Lord Bamfylde." She glared at him; she 
 grasped her walking-stick tightly so tightly that 
 Bamfield kept half a wary eye on it. Aunt Anne 
 most plainly had a temper, and there was no 
 knowing "Why and you knew I thought so! 
 You deliberately let me think so ! " 
 
 Bamfield admitted it cheerfully. "I really did n t 
 care what you thought, so long as I got a chance 
 of speaking to Miss Rose." 
 
 Aunt Anne let herself go. The man s insolence 
 was unblushing and avowed. "But this is abom 
 inable! You mean to say you came to the Priory 
 under the assumed name of Jones when it was 
 your real name all the time or something just 
 as bad Smith, I should n t wonder" Bamfield
 
 "I I LIKED YOU WHEN YOU WERE 
 MR. JONES"
 
 The Caravan Man 329 
 
 should have withered, but missed his cue and stood 
 there alive and whole " and photoed our Early 
 Norman architecture!" 
 
 Granny took up the moving tale. " I shall write/* 
 she announced Impressively, "I shall write to my 
 daughter Emma, at Brighton, this very day and 
 tell her all about you, you deceitful man and 
 your unblushing profligacy that woman last 
 night and your wretched camera Tcha ! I m 
 glad you both fell in the pond! Aha!" 
 
 Anne took charge in brisk and businesslike style. 
 "We d better put an end to this at once. Rose, get 
 off home. And you I Ve warned you before 
 move your caravan off our common!" 
 
 The angel with the flaming sword could not have 
 seen Adam and Eve off the premises at Eden with 
 more determination than did Aunt Anne pronounce 
 the parting between Rose and Bamfield. Bamfield, 
 delighted with his mastery of the whole situation, 
 as developed so far and still to unfold, could afford, 
 he felt, to be politeness itself. 
 
 "Won t you let me explain?" he asked. 
 
 "I will not. What your game is I don t know, 
 but one can suppose " She paused. At the mo 
 ment she did not suppose anything very clearly. 
 
 "Can suppose?" hinted Bamfield. 
 
 "Tli at you had the very worst of motives. 
 Money, I have no doubt, was what you were 
 after."
 
 3 3 o The Caravan Man 
 
 The shaft glanced from Bamfield s marble front, 
 but Rose broke in indignantly: "Aunt Anne, that s 
 not fair! It was our fault." 
 
 Aunt Anne was lofty. "Hold your tongue, miss! 
 You Ve helped to fool us philandering about in 
 this man s caravan at all hours " 
 
 "I ve done nothing wrong!" Rose expostulated. 
 
 Anne surveyed her coldly and cruelly. "I sup 
 pose we must take your word for that." 
 
 Bamfield flushed darkly; Rose turned white; 
 even Granny had to remonstrate. 
 
 "Anne!" 
 
 Anne refused to retreat, though she had the 
 grace to avoid Bamfield s glance as Rose clasped 
 her hands before her breast. 
 
 "Oh, don t let s be finicking! She s her mother 
 over again!" 
 
 That hit Rose where to pain her was easiest. 
 She spoke with trembling lips: "Let my mother 
 alone!" 
 
 All the intensity of loyalty in her nature surged 
 up in the protest. Bamfield caught its accent and 
 longed to kiss her hands for it. Granny endeav 
 oured to put an end to the scene. 
 
 "Come home, Rose," she said, holding out her 
 hand. 
 
 Rose ignored it. "I m going to speak to Mr. 
 Jones first," she said steadily. It was flat rebellion, 
 she knew, but from the moment Aunt Anne had
 
 The Caravan Man 331 
 
 attacked Bamfield so outrageously, her mind had 
 been made up. She was a rebel. 
 
 "You ll do nothing of the kind," said Granny 
 sternly. 
 
 "I will. I m not a child, Granny. I must I will!" 
 
 But Granny was inexorable. "You can speak 
 to him when he comes out of prison." 
 
 Bamfield burst into laughter, Rose winced, 
 Granny bridled, Aunt Anne gripped her stick. 
 Bamfield, feeling the moment for complete, and, 
 he felt, triumphant, explanation had arrived, 
 sought momentarily for the right words for an 
 effective opening an exasperating delay promptly 
 forestalled him. 
 
 Pumped that is the elegantly descriptive 
 word as never surely were man and woman 
 pumped before, Bertha Babbage and Monk stag 
 gered in among the group, burst through it, stum 
 bled up the steps of the caravan; Bertha entered, 
 Monk followed, bearing bravely the suitcase that 
 Bertha had carried when first their race with the 
 Law commenced; and the two halves of the door 
 slammed to. 
 
 Equally pumped, speechless, perspiring, gasping, 
 the Law followed, ten paces behind. It reached 
 the caravan, swayed, recovered, toiled up the steps, 
 leant heavily against the door. The door held 
 tight. The constable sat down on the narrow front 
 platform, and panted, and panted, and panted
 
 332 The Caravan Man 
 
 The little window to the right of the door opened. 
 Monk thrust his head out, and panted, and panted, 
 and panted. 
 
 The constable heard that laboured breathing. 
 He turned a blurred eye upwards, saw his quarry, 
 escaped, yet held. Faintly he beckoned to Bamfield. 
 
 "My lord," he said, "give us a hand." 
 
 Aunt Anne s voice at its very harshest disclosed 
 the new state of affairs. "Lord Bamfylde!" she 
 snorted, contemptuously. "He s not a lord he s 
 a rank impostor. Constable, lock him up!" 
 
 " Certainly, Miss Grampette, but I dunno J ow, 
 just now. I ve got my hands full. My lord, or 
 young feller, or whatever you are, just you wait 
 here. Ullo, ere s elp!" 
 
 The constable might call it elp, this strange 
 thing that now came forward from among the trees, 
 but at first glance its outward appearance suggested 
 more the need than the loan of assistance. 
 
 It was a little man, with a large nose and an 
 Oriental aspect of face. It was fantastically dressed 
 in a suit of clothes from which all colour was so 
 conspicuously absent that you surmised at once a 
 suit of mourning. This suit was miles too large for 
 it. The trousers crinkled down in most ungracious 
 creases over its boots, its coat hung in elephantine 
 folds about its diminutive torso, and on its head a 
 top-hat, draped with a voluminous scarf of crape, 
 rested firmly down on its ears and eyebrows. A
 
 The Caravan Man 333 
 
 grin lit up Bamfield s face, and from the caravan 
 came a joyous gasp from Monk. 
 
 "God bless my soul! It s old Iffy! Hullo, Iffy!" 
 
 Mr. lifelstein shambled forward. He moved 
 with caution. In addition to the outrageous want 
 of fit in his clothes was the fact that he had no 
 braces. Even Gubbins had had sense enough the 
 previous night to remove the braces from the suit 
 he had decorated his scarecrow with. 
 
 He halted near Bamfield. "Good-morning," he 
 said. 
 
 Bamfield endeavoured to compose his features. 
 "Still alive, then?" he answered politely. 
 
 tffelstein drew a deep breath. "You nearly 
 finished me last night." 
 
 This sounded promising. The policeman got on 
 his feet, felt in the recesses of his coat-tails for his 
 notebook. "You know this man, sir?" 
 
 Iffelstein turned to survey his questioner. " Know 
 him ! Have n t I been chasing after him for the 
 last six months? And last night, when I got him, 
 he tried to drown me." 
 
 A thrill ran through all, or nearly all, there. 
 
 Granny spoke to Iffelstein. The old lady was 
 still vicious. "Oh, you re after him, are you? Is 
 he known to you as Lord Bamfylde?" 
 
 "Certainly not," said Iffelstein, puzzled. 
 
 "Is his name Jones?" asked Aunt Anne. 
 
 "Certainly not, madam."
 
 334 The Caravan Man 
 
 "But you ve got him now," said Granny. "Has 
 he done anything?" 
 
 "Yes, madam but nothing to what we expect 
 him to do before he dies." 
 
 All eyes were on Bamfield. 
 
 Something moved Rose to lean towards him. 
 "What have you done?" she asked in a low voice. 
 
 "Nothing," Bamfield assured her lightly, but 
 impatiently. He wanted this lot of fools out of the 
 way. There was Rose, his Rose he told himself, 
 and all that was necessary now was the chance to 
 speak a dozen words. 
 
 "I can t have any talking to this man Jones," 
 declared the constable. 
 
 "I m not Jones," declared Bamfield, his temper 
 beginning to rise. 
 
 "Why,"said Granny, "you just said you were." 
 
 "It s merely a name I go by." 
 
 "Ah!" (The constable, notebook open.) "Alias 
 Jones, eh?" 
 
 "No, you fathead." 
 
 "What is your name, then?" The question came 
 simultaneously from (i) Mrs. Grampette, (2) Aunt 
 Anne, (3) the constable. 
 
 "Bamfield." 
 
 " But you just said it was n t," expostulated Mrs. 
 Grampette. 
 
 Aunt Anne gave an unpleasant little laugh. "I 
 don t believe he knows what his name is."
 
 The Caravan Man 335 
 
 Bamfield made one more tremendous effort to 
 control the situation. "Kindly allow me to ex 
 plain." 
 
 The constable snapped his book away. "You 
 explain to the magistrate. Ere, come along." 
 
 "What, leaving us so soon?" asked Monk de 
 risively from the window. 
 
 "I ll get elp." From among the constable s 
 breast-buttons his white cotton gloves extracted a 
 whistle, and the next instant a piercing shrilling 
 began to startle the yellowhammers in the gorse. 
 
 At its second shriek another head appeared, lean 
 ing out of the other caravan window, a lady s 
 head . . . 
 
 "Stop that noise," it commanded. 
 
 All stared. Iffelstein was the first to speak. "Ex 
 cuse me, young lady, but have you got my hat?" 
 
 Bertha stared at him. "I don t know you." 
 
 "You don t know this lady, Iffelstein," said 
 Bamfield. 
 
 " Don t I ? Seeing we slept together last night " 
 
 "Oh!" ejaculated Bertha and can you blame 
 her? 
 
 "Don t misunderstand me, miss, but we slept 
 in the barn together " ; 
 
 She divined the truth. She leant a little farther 
 out of the window, and addressed herself to Monk. 
 "The man that snored!" she said. 
 
 "That s the beggar," rejoined Monk.
 
 3 3 6 The Caravan Man 
 
 Plainly there was matter here for relation. Barn- 
 field felt they might as well have it. The atmos 
 phere was turgid, unsettled give it time to fine 
 down. 
 
 "What s all this about, Iffelstein?" he asked. 
 
 And Mr. Iffelstein told them, in a voice of gentle 
 melancholy. 
 
 He was an expressive speaker, given to gesture. 
 Bear in mind his hat, his trousers (unbraced), and 
 the fact that the sleeves of the coat he wore came 
 well down beyond his finger-tips, and you may 
 enjoy something of the humour the others found 
 not only in the matter but the manner of his 
 story-telling. 
 
 "You see, when I left here last night I lost my 
 way, and then I saw a gentleman standing in a 
 field looking at the moon. So I went up to him and 
 I said" Here, unconsciously mimetic, he took 
 off his streamered top-hat in an explanatory ges 
 ture " Can you tell me the way to Ouseton? 
 And when he did n t answer I saw he was a scare 
 crow. So I said" again a wave of the top-hat 
 " I beg your pardon. I thought you were a man/ " 
 
 Bamfield, choking, looked at Rose. Alas! all this 
 was savourless to her. Her eyes fixed mournfully 
 on Bamfield, she heard nothing of Iffelstein. 
 
 "And then," went on that gentleman, "I saw 
 he had on this suit." He extended his arms sud 
 denly. Immediately fortunately beneath his
 
 The Caravan Man 337 
 
 coat his trousers commenced a rapid descent 
 towards his boots. He stopped them with a con 
 vulsive grab, hitched them up, and proceeded, with 
 more of restraint in his illustrative gesticulation. 
 
 "You can laugh" most unmannerly, they 
 were laughing "but at any rate it was dry 
 and that was something. So I undressed, and then 
 a man came running at me, with a stick, when I d 
 got nothing on but my boots and socks and my 
 hat." 
 
 "Did you explain?" asked Granny. 
 
 " I was going to, madam, but he had a stick, so 
 I just grabbed up the things I d got off the scare 
 crow, and ran. He struck me," said Mr. Iffelstein, 
 a tremor at the recollection in his voice, " severely. 
 I cannot get to see the place, but I know there s a 
 shocking bruise." 
 
 The constable began to lick his lips. Why had 
 n t he taken all this down? He got his notebook 
 out again. 
 
 "Well, I got away, but I left my own clothes 
 behind, with my money in. What was I to do? 
 Well, I found a barn full of hay, and I went in, and 
 tucked myself up in the darkest corner, and then 
 this young lady came in" he waved a coat-cuff 
 at Bertha, who looked at Monk. 
 
 "Why didn t you come out?" asked Mrs. 
 Grampette. 
 
 "I could n t."
 
 3 3 8 The Caravan Man 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "I had n t got any clothes on," explained Iff el- 
 stein with simplicity and evident truth. "I did n t 
 want to put this suit on while I was all wet, and I 
 was warm enough in the hay, so I hung the clothes 
 up beside me in the dark, and the young lady took 
 off her shoes and stockings, and she lay down; and 
 then you came in" he waved his other coat- 
 cuff at Monk. 
 
 "I did n t see you," said Monk. 
 
 " I did n t want anybody to see me. Well, I fell 
 asleep, and when I woke the barn was empty. My 
 things were there all right, except my own hat 
 and I thought if that had dropped down in the 
 night it might have rolled somewhere near the 
 young lady, and she might have taken it away " 
 
 "I suppose I did," interrupted Bertha. "I was 
 n t awake properly when I got up." 
 
 "Can I have it miss?" asked Iffelstein anxiously. 
 
 Bertha looked at him viciously. " Can you have 
 it? Just you wait a minute." Both the heads 
 withdrew from the caravan windows, the door 
 opened, and Monk and Bertha came rapidly down 
 the steps. Bertha looked well in her best coat and 
 skirt. 
 
 "Hullo!" said the constable in amazement, 
 "where did you spring from?" 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me," said Mrs. Gram- 
 pette, scandalized, "that you ve been undressing
 
 The Caravan Man 339 
 
 and dressing again in that caravan with that 
 man there? * 
 
 Monk laid his hand to his heart. "I call all 
 here to witness," he said, "that I ve stood with 
 my head out of the window all the while." 
 
 Bertha looked at Granny as much as to say, 
 "There you ve got your answer," and faced Iffel- 
 stein darkly. " So you re the man, are you ? Take 
 your old hat, you nasty, noisy thing!" She threw 
 it at him. He picked it up. 
 
 Monk stalked threateningly over to the little 
 man. "Who the deuce do you think you are, go 
 ing about snoring and snorting all over the first 
 barn you come across as if you owned the earth ! " 
 
 Bertha s indignation when first Monk brought 
 forward the suggestion that she was capable of 
 anything so indecorous as sleeping audibly was 
 nothing to Iffelstein s. A tempest of wrath, in 
 credulity, disdain, swept across his face. "SNORE !" 
 he thundered, in a temendous voice. "SNORE! 
 Me SNORE!" Monk simply dared not repeat 
 the accusation. 
 
 The constable brought everything back onto 
 business lines. He was busy with his notebook 
 and pencil. "Well, sir," he asked Iffelstein, "what s 
 the charge?" 
 
 "Charge? What d you mean, charge?" 
 
 "Ain t you charging any one with anything, 
 sir?"
 
 34-O The Caravan Man 
 
 "Me? Certainly not." 
 
 The constable felt faint. A moment ago visions 
 of Important Cases, more than one, had seemed 
 such certainties. He had heard voices inside his 
 helmet. "In sentencing the prisoner to seven 
 years penal servitude, the Judge said he felt it no 
 more than his duty to draw the attention of the 
 proper authorities to the admirable and highly 
 intelligent way in which the difficult matter of the 
 arrest of the criminal had been carried out by 
 Police Con" 
 
 He jerked himself back to present life and its 
 affairs. Looking round him: "What, ain t no one 
 going to charge nobody with nothing?" 
 
 He gave them ample time, letting his glance 
 travel slowly over the group as searchingly as an 
 auctioneer surveys a crowd of slow bidders, seek 
 ing to elicit, to draw, to extract, to induce Use 
 less. All remained silent. More, they looked him 
 over coldly, hostilely. He felt he had no single 
 friend there. Sadly, slowly, with hand that trem 
 bled, he put his notebook in its place of conceal 
 ment. 
 
 "Can any one tell me," he appealed, "what I m 
 going to do?" 
 
 "Certainly." Bamfield spoke cheerfully and 
 decidedly. "Officer, these are the Missing Fe 
 male Wearing Apparel/ Take the lot down to 
 Lady Boulger s and return them, and take every-
 
 The Caravan Man 341 
 
 body here who had a hand in removing them from 
 her lawful custody." 
 
 "Oh, no!" said Bertha, shrinking. "I don t 
 want to see Lady Boulger." 
 
 "Nonsense, Bertha," said Monk, "let s face 
 it. Hand in hand together, love/ Come along, 
 officer; come on, ladies." 
 
 " I m not going," said Mrs. Grampette, with a 
 touch of timidity. 
 
 "You d better, madam," advised Bamfield. 
 "It s always better to get these things explained 
 and done with." 
 
 "Well, I shan t," said Aunt Anne. 
 
 "Perhaps you had better not," said Bamfield, 
 "since you admit receiving the purloined prop 
 erty." 
 
 Aunt Anne prepared to go immediately. 
 
 "What about you?" queried the constable. 
 
 Bamfield went to his loftiest. "I am prepared 
 to allow the whole case to drop, as far as I am 
 concerned." He managed to convey the idea that 
 he was conceding a good deal in very handsome 
 fashion. 
 
 "You, miss?" The constable turned to Rose. 
 
 "This lady," struck in Bamfield hastily, "who 
 only returned the Missing Apparel, has no inten 
 tion of laying claim to any reward." 
 
 "You sir?" This time to Iffelstein. 
 
 "Nothing to do with me," said Mr. Iffelstein.
 
 342 The Caravan Man 
 
 " I see my clothes here, and I m going to stay and 
 put em on." 
 
 "No, you re not," broke in Bamfield. "I won t 
 have you here. Take him along, officer." 
 
 Once again the constable s spirits soared. " Cer 
 tainly, sir. What s the charge?" 
 
 Bamfield considered. "I leave it to you, con 
 stable." 
 
 Iffelstein suddenly turned nasty. "Well, what s 
 the charge? You want to get rid of me, but I m 
 not going. I ve been disgracefully treated. I ve 
 been shoved into that beastly pond, and left to 
 wallop about in the dark; I ve been chased about 
 the fields with nothing on, and struck with a stick; 
 I Ve had to sleep in a barn all night and got a chill 
 on my lungs; and I ve lost my purse and my sea 
 son ticket. And now you talk about charging me 
 me, mind you ! I d like to see some one charge me." 
 
 He held the cards. L He towered high and 
 toppled. 
 
 "Hold *im!" said a loud voice. Mr. Gubbins 
 shot out from the trees. "That s im." He 
 reached the group. "So, you re the brasted thief 
 that coom and robbed my scarecrow, are ye? 
 W eer s my gold watch eh ? my gamfer s gold 
 watch?" 
 
 He plunged at Iffelstein, who backed round the 
 constable. Gubbins nipped round the other way 
 and caught him; Iffelstein wrestled and resisted,
 
 The Caravan Man 343 
 
 but Gubbins held him firm, swung him over his 
 knee, and plunging his hand at him pulled from 
 out of the breast pocket of the coat a watch the 
 size of a man s fist and a ropey chain. 
 
 Iffelstein burst into tears. "I don t know any 
 thing about it. I did n t know it was there. Offi 
 cer" 
 
 The constable felt on firm ground at last. "You 
 charge him, Jarge Gubbins?" 
 
 "Charge im? Course I charge r im." 
 
 "Then, come on!" Iffelstein felt the police 
 man s hand descend on him, felt himself lost, and 
 prepared to obey orders. The constable motioned 
 to his flock. "Go ahead, Jarge Gubbins. I ave 
 the prisoner. Ladies, this way. You, sir? 
 you re a-coming?" 
 
 "Certainly," said Monk promptly. 
 
 "Then might I arst you to be so good as to 
 carry the Missing Female Wearing Apparel, sir?" 
 
 "With pleasure, officer." Monk grabbed the 
 bedraggled bundle. 
 
 Bertha turned her head from it as if the sight 
 of it brought her qualms unbearable; the group 
 began to resolve itself into a straggling line, at the 
 head of which marched Mr. Jarge Gubbins. 
 
 Granny turned to Rose. "Rose, go straight 
 home, and have nothing to say to this man Jones." 
 
 "No, Granny," Rose answered. 
 
 Anne Grampette took her mother s arm. She
 
 344 The Caravan Man 
 
 caught Bamfield s eye. " Shall I tell you," she asked 
 acidly, "what I think of you?" 
 
 He gave her his politest. "Don t. I m con 
 ceited enough already." 
 
 She opened her mouth, shut it again, and es 
 corted Granny after the others. 
 
 "Now, Rose," said Bamfield. 
 
 She was walking slowly away, but at his voice 
 she stopped, looked at him, then looked away 
 again. It was hard to begin, and all this confusion 
 made it harder. Still, she would do it. 
 
 "I want to tell you," she said at last, in a low 
 voice. "I m an impostor, too." 
 
 "An impostor! Whatever do you mean?" 
 
 She raised her eyes to his. "I ve told you I 
 came back last night. I must tell you why. After 
 I got home, I felt so strange. I was angry, I could 
 n t bear to think of you, yet I did, and after a time 
 I was n t angry any more. I wondered what had 
 happened to me to us both and then I saw 
 it was the night and the caravan and the 
 fire and being together and " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Well, that all those things had made 
 you want me. Was n t it so?" . : 
 
 "Those things yes; and something else," 
 said Bamfield softly. 
 
 "And suddenly I wanted you." She got it out, 
 with burning cheeks.
 
 The Caravan Man 345 
 
 "Did you, you darling?" 
 
 "Don t! Somehow, talking as we did as you 
 did perhaps speaking of the old studio of Prim 
 rose Hill, all the old life seemed to come back. I 
 thought of my father, and men friends of his that 
 used to come in sometimes to see him mostly 
 old, but somehow you seemed to be one of them. 
 And you were going away soon, of course, and 
 and" 
 
 "What was it, dear?" 
 
 "I felt suddenly as if you were a ship sailing 
 away and leaving me all alone on an island, and I 
 could n t bear it, and so I came back again with 
 out any one knowing. I wanted to speak to you 
 again." 
 
 "You wanted me?" 
 
 "Yes. Ah, but wait!" as he took a sudden step 
 towards her, his hands outstretched. She put her 
 hand out to keep him back; he caught it and held 
 it, but she kept him at arm s length. "Wait 
 let me tell you why. I thought, There s magic in 
 the air. He s under the spell he s not sure of 
 himself. It s the night and the strangeness that 
 move him, give me power over him and if I 
 go to him now Oh, can t you see? I was just 
 a common woman, playing a common woman s 
 trick trying to catch a man ! " 
 
 She passed her free hand over her shamed face, 
 then looked at him more boldly, as if, with her
 
 346 The Caravan Man 
 
 pitiful little confession, she had found fresh cour 
 age. Bamfield was too absorbed with the beauty 
 of her to speak. He could only stare. 
 
 "Now you know. I felt at first I could n t tell 
 you, but when Aunt Anne attacked you so, I felt 
 I could never hold up my head again if I did n t 
 confess how mean, how low I was, too." 
 
 That frank "too" was priceless. 
 
 "Do you know how happy you are making me ? " 
 asked Bamfield. He tried to take her other hand. 
 She refused it and withdrew the one he already 
 held. 
 
 "Listen to me," she said solemnly. "I ve been 
 thinking lots of things about you since last night. 
 I hardly slept. This is n t the life for you, unless 
 you bring something into it to make it fine. You 
 can t, you must n t be content with it. I m cer 
 tain you could do things. One feels it. Every one 
 feels it who talks to you. Why don t you ?" 
 
 "What shall I do?" asked Bamfield. 
 
 "Why don t you study painting? That s a great 
 thing. Great men do it. It s a fine work and 
 I Ve been thinking about the picture you showed 
 me last night. I m really a stupid girl. I can t 
 paint, although I Ve tried a little, and I can t judge 
 properly, but I believe that there s more in that 
 picture than I understand. I saw it in my dream 
 last night, and I seemed to see it more really with 
 my sleep eyes than my waking eyes, and it was
 
 The Caravan Man 347 
 
 wonderful. I believe you might be a painter 
 perhaps a great painter." 
 
 "And make money?" 
 
 ("Why the devil do I keep on testing her?" he 
 asked himself, and knew that it was only for the 
 joy of the unending fineness that always re 
 sponded.) 
 
 She drew a sigh. "Oh yes if you wanted 
 to so very much. But just think!" She took a 
 step towards him and laid her hand on his arm. 
 "Supposing you were content not to make a lot 
 of money, but just went wandering about in your 
 caravan, moving from one beautiful place to an 
 other, painting as you went perhaps becom 
 ing a great painter with loveliness all about 
 you ? Can t you see how rare, how full of happi 
 ness your life might be?" 
 
 "I suppose it would," said Bamfield. Should 
 he tell her outright, or should he roll the morsel 
 under his tongue a little longer? 
 
 "Then do it!" said Rose. "Do! The money 
 does n t matter. I know. I remember how happy 
 my father and I were in the old days, and some 
 times there was no money at all. You heard what 
 Aunt Anne said just now that money was what 
 you were after? I don t believe it of you. But you 
 ought not to be so poor. You need n t be. Why 
 don t you try?" 
 
 Bamfield could hold it back no longer. "Very
 
 348 The Caravan Man 
 
 well, then," he answered in as dry and business 
 like a fashion as he could manage. "But what 
 about you if I do ? " 
 
 "What about me?" 
 
 "Are you going to marry me?" 
 
 She drew a sudden, sharp little breath and stood 
 looking at him without answer; she had no words. 
 
 "Oh, yes, * went on Bamfield, with a touch of 
 cynical scorn. "I m to take your advice, throw 
 up my lucrative photographic connection; I m 
 to start a new career; I m to run all the risk, in 
 fact while you sit safely by and watch. If I 
 fail, you look the other way, wash your hands of 
 the whole business; if I win, you just come and 
 say, I told you so/ I suppose you think that 
 fair?" 
 
 She tried to speak, but even now, under this 
 attack, she could find in herself nothing but pro 
 test at his unfairness. 
 
 "Now, come," said Bamfield, with a "posi- 
 tively-the-last-offer" air. "Either you re giving 
 me a piece of advice that costs you nothing 
 which is what anybody can do or you mean 
 what you say. If you do if you mean that you 
 really think I shall make a painter prove it. 
 Marry me. Marry me and I 11 paint!" 
 
 Rose found her voice. "But do you mean it?" 
 she asked. "I mean, do you want me? Do you 
 care for me? I m not afraid but it must be
 
 The Caravan Man 349 
 
 something more than that. Oh, tell me, do you 
 care for me want me ? " 
 
 He caught both her hands this time. She let 
 him. He pulled her close to him; his eyes caught 
 and held hers, and she saw the smile go out of his 
 face, and the look she had seen the night before, 
 when he had kissed her, come over it. His voice, 
 too, was different; nothing of banter in it now, 
 but an earnestness that went with the steady, 
 compelling power of his eyes and the grip of his 
 hands about hers. 
 
 "On my soul, I do!" he said, and she knew it 
 was true, past all doubting. "There s nobody else 
 but you in all the world. And, listen, you wonder 
 ful thing, while I tell you something. You want me 
 to paint. Well, I do paint. I m an artist, a painter 
 some people say I m a great painter. Perhaps 
 it s true, but if it is n t, by God, it s going to be 
 one day! And all you want me to do why, my 
 dear, I do it now. The wonderful life you urge me 
 to it s mine already. I do wander about in this 
 caravan from place to place; I do seek for beauty 
 and loveliness and paint it as I go, not for money, 
 but for the joy of it. It s the very life of me now. 
 And you shall come with me and share it " 
 
 Their lips were almost touching. He had drawn 
 her closer as he spoke, and she had let herself 
 yield to the impulse. 
 
 "Am I really to marry you?" she breathed, rapt.
 
 35 The Caravan Man 
 
 "If you will. Will you?" 
 
 She gave him no answer except what her eyes 
 spoke, and on that he stooped and kissed her lip. 
 He lifted his head. She still looked up at him, and 
 before he could let his lips fall again on hers, she 
 said shyly: 
 
 "Then do you mind telling me your name?" 
 
 He burst out laughing. "Bamfield not Lord 
 Bamfylde, but John Martin Bamfield. And lis 
 ten, Rose. There s not only the caravan. That s for 
 the summer. In the winter we re going to live in 
 my studio at Primrose Hill, a big barn of a place, 
 with whitewashed walls" her eyes began to 
 widen, her lips to part in the dawn of a fresh won 
 der "and on the wall is a painting, a sketch in 
 oils of a girl s head, with long brown hair tumbling 
 over her eyes, and she smiles at you through her 
 hair" 
 
 Tears were in Rose s eyes. "Oh!" she trembled. 
 "Don t play with me! Is it is it really true?" 
 
 "Yes, true." 
 
 "It s magic," she said. "Everything s turned 
 magical." 
 
 "Of course it has," he answered. "And we ve 
 found out how to see the magic. It s been my 
 studio for nearly six years, and the girl whose pic 
 ture is on the wall has been my little unknown 
 sweetheart all the time. And now I ve found her, 
 living and lovely."
 
 The Caravan Man 351 
 
 He kissed her again, and in her lips, as they met 
 his, was a passion of happiness and gratitude for 
 this crowning miracle of the studio. 
 
 "And now," said he, "I m going to tell you 
 about that girl last night in the caravan. And 
 you re going to laugh and so will she. She s a 
 first-rate sort " 
 
 Rose suddenly freed herself. He turned. Un 
 heard, a motor-car had been run across the com 
 mon, and from it a tallish, white-haired gentle 
 man had descended and was approaching them. 
 He had a cane in one hand and over his arm hung 
 Lady Boulger s frock ... It looked worse than 
 ever. 
 
 Bamfield let Rose go, and stood a pace forward 
 to receive whatever was coming. The old gentle 
 man came up to him. 
 
 "Are you the owner of this caravan, may I 
 ask?" he said stiffly. 
 
 "I am," answered Bamfield. 
 
 "Then you are the perpetrator of the the 
 outrage this outrage on one of my wife s 
 dresses?" 
 
 He was in a terrible temper, there was no doubt 
 of that. Bamfield did what greater men have done. 
 He decided to confuse the issue. "One of your 
 wives which wife?" he asked simply. 
 
 "Which wife! My wife, sir." 
 
 "Oh, yours? and where is she?" All this
 
 352 The Caravan Man 
 
 was very weak, but it served its purpose. The old 
 gentleman was compelled from the complanatory 
 to the explanatory. "My name is Baddeley- 
 Boulger, of Green Streets. This dress is a valuable 
 one, never worn, intended as a present " 
 
 "A present to your wife, I presume?" inter 
 jected Bamfield. 
 
 The old gentleman choked, abandoned explana 
 tion and came back to his original demand. "I 
 want to know, I insist upon knowing, if you are 
 responsible for its present outrageous condition? * 
 
 "Well," began Bamfield, "supposing I am, for 
 the sake of argument " 
 
 "I am not here to argue; I am here for facts." 
 
 "Very well, then, the fact is that your wife s 
 dress and my best pair of white trousers and I 
 myself and and a second party were involved 
 in a disastrous affair." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Last evening." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "In the pond here." 
 
 "But how the devil " He stopped, made a 
 terrible effort, collected himself, and apologized 
 to Rose. "Miss Nieugente, I believe? Forgive 
 me; I don t see very well." He pulled out a spec 
 tacle-case, took out his glasses and put them on. 
 "Be good enough to tell me exactly what hap 
 pened, and what you propose to do."
 
 The Caravan Man 353 
 
 "It will be easier for me not to tell you what 
 happened," said Bamfield. "Another person is 
 concerned, and till I have her permission I can t 
 very well give you an explanation. But as for the 
 dress, why it seems to me " He stopped. 
 
 "Well, sir?" 
 
 " It s been very carelessly handled." 
 
 Rose intervened. "It s dreadful to look at, Sir 
 Arthur, but it s stuff that would clean, I m sure." 
 
 "Oh, but, Miss Nieugente cleaning! A lovely 
 fabric, a poetic conception such as this, designed 
 specially for my wife. It was for to-night, the fifth 
 anniversary of our wedding, a surprise; and now " 
 
 "I say!" said Bamfield genuinely. "I am so 
 awfully sorry. It was a lovely dress; I don t know 
 who designed it " 
 
 " I designed it myself, sir." 
 
 "Well, pon my word, I understand how you 
 feel, and I m sure Lady Boulger would have done 
 you credit in it. I m really not so responsible as 
 perhaps you take me to be, but if you ll be good 
 enough to have it cleaned and will tell me where, 
 I ll see, if you ll allow me, that Lady Boulger is 
 not troubled with the bill." 
 
 The old gentleman was certainly mollified. "I 
 am obliged, sir, but it was not for that purpose 
 I came here. I rather wanted " He paused, at 
 a loose end. After all, the idea of the cane, he felt, 
 had been absurd.
 
 354 The Caravan Man 
 
 " Sir Arthur," said Rose, " I know just how you 
 feel, and how Lady Boulger must feel. Let me 
 introduce Mr. Bamfield, Sir Arthur Baddeley- 
 Boulger. Let me have the dress, and I 11 get it 
 cleaned it can be done, I m certain, and though 
 it will mean a little delay, you can still count on 
 seeing Lady Boulger in it, and she ll look lovely." 
 She turned to Bamfield. "You ll meet Lady Boul 
 ger, I hope, and you ll see for yourself." 
 
 "Honk!" 
 
 Beside the first motor a second had pulled up. 
 A lady was walking rapidly towards them. 
 
 "Arthur!" she said to the old gentleman; then 
 "Rose!" To Rose, then, "Is that it? who 
 dared ?" as she caught sight of the dress; then, 
 "And this is the man?" as she stepped up to Bam 
 field . . . 
 
 She looked him over; he looked at her; then, 
 "You!" she said. 
 
 "Me," said Bamfield. 
 
 They stared at one another. She was as blithe, 
 her eyes as fine, her whole demeanour as frankly 
 fascinating as when first he picked up her lucky 
 sixpence in Oxford Street. 
 
 "Are you the man?" she asked. 
 
 "I am," he said. "Is that your dress?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then you re Lady Baddeley-Boulger?" 
 
 "Yes, and Oh, Arthur, Arthur!" She turned
 
 The Caravan Man 355 
 
 in greatest excitement to her husband, took him 
 by the arm, pointed to Bamfield. "This is the 
 man." 
 
 " I know, my dear. He admits it." 
 
 "No, no; that s not what I mean. I mean, this 
 is the man, Bamfield the man you want, Bam 
 field " 
 
 The old gentleman stared, dropped the frock, 
 came over to Bamfield. "Are you Bamfield 
 J.M. Bamfield?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "The painter?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Nudes, I think?" 
 
 "Solely, up to six months ago; since then land 
 scape." 
 
 "Your pictures have been offered through a 
 dealer named Iff " 
 
 .?*" elstein. I kicked him into the pond last 
 night. He is now in the hands of the police, but 
 there s no chance of his remaining there." 
 
 The old gentleman shook his hand heartily. 
 "Let me introduce myself. You know my wife. 
 My name is Baddeley-Boulger of Oh, I think 
 I told you." 
 
 "Pleased to know you." 
 
 "A collector of pictures, and I think, regarded 
 as not only an authority on modern art and artists, 
 but as some one other collectors are inclined to
 
 3 5 6 The Caravan Man 
 
 follow. I will only say that I am delighted, after 
 all, at the mishap to the dress which has enabled 
 me to make your acquaintance. I have been buy 
 ing your pictures. My wife s request induced me 
 to discover where I could find them for sale, and 
 I had no hesitation in recognizing you as a master. 
 Yours is a case, Mr. Bamfield, of a great genius 
 in art stepping easily and early into fame " 
 
 "Easily and early!" said Bamfield bitterly. 
 "Do you know I m thirty-three?" 
 
 "As young as that?" said Sir Arthur. "Mar 
 vellous ! To think of the years of triumph that lie 
 before you. Mr. Bamfield, you must let me touch 
 on the subject my wife has told me something 
 of your affairs your pictures are now fetching 
 from two hundred to five hundred guineas apiece, 
 and I predict a place for you not only among the 
 artists of to-day, but among the great men of all 
 times." 
 
 Bamfield felt a little breathless, but he instinc 
 tively turned to Rose, and put out his hand. 
 
 She caught it in hers. "Will it spoil our cara 
 van?" she whispered. 
 
 "No, by Jove, it shan t," he told her. 
 
 Lady Boulger took Bamfield s arm, gave Rose 
 a glance. "Now you know my name, don t you 
 admire it?" 
 
 " I admire everything about you as I did 
 from the first."
 
 The Caravan Man 357 
 
 She nodded, well pleased. "YouVe taken my 
 advice, then?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "There s only one thing I wanted it to be the 
 little girl in the studio wall." 
 
 "Sheis/ saidBamfield. 
 
 "WHAT?" 
 
 "She is." 
 
 "WHAT! ! !" 
 
 "She is," repeated Bamfield, and told her all 
 about it. 
 
 THE END
 
 Cbe 
 
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