And then I knew her and I marveled that I had not understood at once. This—this would be no other than Miss Constance Wortley, the botanical lady herself. And in the same instant to quicken my assurance Dudley Manners, laughing deliciously, called softly to her:—
“Constance—Constance. It’s all right. Lisa and Eric are bound to be married to-day and I fancy you’ll have to take me to Europe alone!”
Ah, such a moment of tender, abashed laughter and open rejoicing. And of course Pelleas and I opened our hearts and told them where the lovers were, and who had doubtless answered the telephone at the lodge. And forthwith we invited them to drive with us to the wedding, and to have tea in the garden. And so it was settled, and away we went down the golden road dipping between deep, deep green, and boldly past the tower of Chynmere Hall and through the gracious land of afternoon back to Little Rosemont lodge, bearing the glad tidings to usher in the glad event. Tea or cream sherbet, what a world this is always turning out to be.
“We will go in and explain,” I cried—how I love to explain when best things are true—“and then, Pelleas, you must hurry over in the phaeton for Mr. Didbin, and bring him back with you, no matter what. And then we will be married—in the drawing-room or the rose arbour or the garden at large.”
I love to recall the pleasure of that alighting at the lodge gates, of going within, of looking across the roses for the two whom we were to surprise. I caught a flutter of white in the arbour and, palpitating, I led the way past the pool and the fountain and the trickling outlet where a scarlet wing flashed into flight and past the Hundred-leaved rose, to the turn in the path that led to the arbour.
Then without warning, outside the arbour entrance there seemed to rise from the gravel the amazing figure of Nichola—Nichola in her best black gown and embroidered white apron and an unmistakable manner of threatening us with folded arms. She stood squarely before us, looking at Pelleas and me with all the disapproval of those little, deep-set, quick-lidded eyes.
“Now, then,” she said grimly, “go back. The weddin’s on.”
In the same instant, through the low-arched doorway of the arbour, I saw Lisa and Eric and the questioning, distressed face of the Reverend Arthur Didbin.
Nichola followed my glance.
“It’s none o’ his doin’,” she explained shrilly. “It’s my doin’. We knew who was on the telephone, well enough. She answered it herself,” she explained, with a jerk of her shoulders toward the arbour, “an’ near fainted in my arms. She knew him. An’ we knew what was like to happen when he got here. I went quickly, quickly for the minister an’ here he is. You must not interfere. It is not holy!”