Tony Wild, whose address was The Albany, and who enjoyed an unearned income of two thousand a year, stood on the steps of the Tivoli Music-Hall at half past ten, smoking. His face, which was passably attractive, had temporarily lost its usual good-humor, and he puffed his cigarette slowly as if it was more of a task than a pleasure. This, indeed, it was; for he had consumed seventeen since getting out of bed at ten o'clock that morning, and he smoked more from habit than anything else. He was a young man of twenty-six who pursued happiness, or rather distraction, on the accepted lines: dinners, dances and the stage formed his daily round, but with the zest of youth or cynicism he constantly searched for new thrills. Experience was his god, and it must be confessed that he had had more than a fair share of sensations. He had been jilted, married (luckily it proved a bigamous union; as his "wife," a Covent Garden chorister, had nothing but her prettiness to recommend her; and Tony had been immensely relieved when her husband reappeared after serving seven years at Portland), made a descent in a submarine, gone up in a balloon, and driven a car in the Gordon-Bennett race. He had flown in an aeroplane once for the sake of a new thrill, but subsequently determined that it would be a pity further to risk two thousand a year. These were but a few of his distractions. The only experience he had never tried was work.
On the whole, he had enjoyed himself. There were times, of course, when he felt that life was a little empty, a little dull; but on such unfortunate occasions he made haste to bring himself up to the scratch by searching for a fresh adventure. His most desperate expedient up to date had been to enlist, but the discipline and routine of the barracks made even ennui seem desirable, and he bought himself out after twenty-four hours of agony. This evening he was feeling distinctly dull, for the day had been singularly profitless. A solitary breakfast at eleven had been followed by a perfunctory glance overThe Daily Mail. Even that stimulating sheet had failed to rouse him, and an afternoon swim at the Bath Club had been terminated by sheer boredom. Dinner at his club had failed to produce any congenial spirits, and in desperation he went to the Tivoli.
A few of the turns he enjoyed in a mild and deprecating fashion, but at ten-thirty he found himself on the steps, bitterly reflecting on the defects of modern civilization.
"London!" he thought moodily, "a city of six million people, and not a thing for me to do. Shall I go to bed?"
It seemed a confession of weakness; besides he was not in the least sleepy. So he discarded the unworthy thought, and set out on an aimless ramble through the streets. There is always something to look at in London, something to interest, even though it be but the policeman directing the traffic; and Tony soon found his languor past and good-humor returning. He liked being among a crowd of people, watching, speculating, enjoying. The Strand was one of his favorite haunts, especially at night when the lamps were lit and the theaters discharging their motley audiences. In Piccadilly Circus at eleven o'clock, Shaftesbury Avenue, Aldwych, or the Strand, a man need never feel bored, though he may feel rebellious.
Tony walked slowly on, stopping occasionally to observe the people. He looked at his watch presently and found that it was past eleven. "Early yet," he reflected; "what's the use of going home? Shall I try the club or a longer walk? The Embankment ... a nocturne of lamps and water ... and ... yes! that would be a new game! Forward!"
He turned down to the right and soon found himself by the Thames. Here he proceeded to practise the new game which had just occurred to his active brain. It was simple, if ghoulish, for he merely did his best to imitate a would-be suicide. Turning up his collar and setting his hat a little on the back of his head, he plunged his hands deep into his pockets and assumed an expression of despair. Then he walked slowly along, at times glancing at the river and ostentatiously avoiding the eyes of chance policemen. Presently he stopped, leaned both his elbows on the parapet, and stared gloomily at the Thames. His maneuvers were crowned with success, for a constable soon approached and told him in a kindly tone to move on. Tony replied in a sepulchral voice, and in a few moments was deep in conversation with his preserver. A fictitious tale of cards and drink exercised the powers of his imagination pleasantly enough for ten minutes or so, and when they separated it was with a mutual glow of satisfaction. The policeman thought he had saved a brother, Tony had enjoyed himself for a brief space. It did not occur to him that critics might consider his game morbid or in bad taste. Had he been questioned he would have said, "No doubt you're right, but I was frightfully bored."
After this episode he walked across Waterloo Bridge to enjoy the view, and then returned leisurely to Piccadilly. He was not in the least sleepy, so he determined to extend his walk indefinitely. "The great charm," he reflected, "of being a bachelor with plenty of money is that one can do exactly what one likes without being questioned. If I return at six o'clock in the morning, Pettigrew will admit me without a murmur and ask if I want breakfast. Now, if I had a wife, it is possible that she would take no interest in my midnight ramble.—No! she would take too much interest and fear the worst.... Well, where shall I go? I feel in excellent trim.... Shall I walk to Bolders Green—Whitechapel—the Elephant and Castle? Strange names beckon me.... I remember reading of Hackney Marshes as a little boy ... shall I go and see if there are any marshes? Or shall I make for St. John's Wood and see what Lord's looks like in moonlight, where
A ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,And I look through my tears on a soundless clapping host,As the run-stealers flicker to and fro?
A ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,And I look through my tears on a soundless clapping host,As the run-stealers flicker to and fro?
Yes; let's try Lord's!"
We need not follow Tony in his walk. It is enough to say that at four o'clock he found himself, still wakeful, in Covent Garden, watching the market-men at work. After enjoying the sight he wandered idly up to Oxford Street, and presently the Euston Road. He walked down this till he reached Euston railway station, and here he paused to enjoy the freshness of the morning and the quiet of the streets. "Gad!" he thought, "what a shame to lie in bed till ten o'clock. Why haven't I tried this jape sooner? This is the sort of time when one thinks of the country and hates London. If only there was a train here I'd go away for a day or two and try it." An idea struck him and he smiled. "Well, here is a station. It might be amusing to go and see if there is a train starting for anywhere. I think I will. I'll make a vow to take a ticket by the first train available and get out wherever the country looks interesting. That at any rate will be something new."
He entered Euston station at a quarter to five. A sleepy ticket-clerk told him that the first train went at five-seven, and asked whither he meant to travel. "Oh, give me a ticket that costs five shillings," said Tony: "I don't much care. No, dear fellow, I'm not mad, and I've not been drinking. A five-bob ticket, please."
The clerk complied with an ill-used air. Tony received his ticket and went to find the train. As he laid his hand on the door of a first-class compartment it occurred to him to look at the ticket. It was a third-class. Instead of being annoyed, Tony laughed. "A night of thrills!" he murmured:
"I haven't traveled third for years. Is there any chance of my having fellow travelers? I should doubt it."
There were some ten minutes before the train was due to start, and Tony occupied the time in looking out of the window. There was not much to engage his attention, save a few porters handling newspapers and other parcels, but presently a man appeared making for the train. Tony glanced at him with a languid curiosity. The newcomer was dressed in a correct morning suit and silk hat. He also carried gloves and a stick. But though he looked like a gentleman and carried himself with an air, Tony's eye detected signs of poverty. The coat was shiny, and the hat, though carefully brushed, had little luster. "What the deuce is he doing here at this time, and in such clothes?" thought Tony. Then he burst into a noiseless laugh. "The pot and kettle!" he reflected, chuckling: "I had forgotten that I am still in evening dress!"
He sank back in the seat to laugh at himself more thoroughly, and the man in the silk hat passed by the window. He made his way into the next compartment, and unfortunately there was no corridor. Tony was debating whether or not it was worth while to get out and join the stranger on the off chance of learning something new, when the whistle went. But before the train had begun to move, a face appeared at the opposite window. A man was climbing up the footboard from the line. The next moment the door was opened, the man entered, shut the door behind him and sat down. He was a man of some fifty years, dressed rather oddly. His bowler hat and overcoat were good, but he wore no collar. Tony looked at him contentedly; after all, this walk was producing experiences.
"Good morning," he said mildly: "do you usually enter a train on the off side? I ask merely from vulgar curiosity."
The man laughed, panting a little from his exertions. He did not look like a criminal; indeed he appeared distinctly meek. He seemed happy, too.
"No," he replied. "This is the first time in my life. I am going on a holiday. May I in return ask you if you usually travel in evening dress in the morning?"
Tony smiled.
"No; I too am going on a holiday."
"To Shereling?" asked the man amiably.
"I don't know."
"You don't know."
"No; I was dull. So I took the five-shilling ticket and the first train. I have no notion where I shall get out."
"What a splendid idea!" cried the other enthusiastically, much to Tony's astonishment. "Most of us are so bound by convention that we plot and plan for weeks: often we even go where we don't want to."
"Why?"
The other hesitated.
"Domestic pressure," he said with a smile. "You seem an understanding sort of chap, so I don't mind telling you that. This year—last night, to be candid—I resolved to burst my shackles for a time. Certain ... events ... hastened my decision. I am going to Shereling. I left in rather a hurry—you see I have no collar. I suppose I shall have to wait till we get to Shereling now before I can buy one."
"There's no hosiery department on the train," said Tony: "railway companies are very unimaginative. If there were, I'd buy a decent suit to travel in. Do tell me why you came in in that unconventional way."
"Sorry," said the man, "but I can't do that. It's all right, you know: I have a ticket."
"Of course," agreed Tony politely, and relapsed into musing. Here was a perfect windfall with enormous possibilities. Decidedly he must not lose sight of his new companion; he would get out at Shereling, too. Tony studied him from half-shut eyes: he looked a decent little chap—almost jolly ... rather like a schoolboy off for a holiday, expecting some excellent pleasure and glorying in the prospect. Also, he was mysterious and secretive, though to outward appearance he was a prosperous business man in a small way—a head clerk or under-manager perhaps. There was something in his face, too, an innocent zest, that appealed to the blasé young man. "Yes, old cock," thought Tony, "I must freeze on to you, whether you like it or not."
After a silence the old cock began to crow, and soon there was a brisk conversation in progress. They talked chiefly of trivial things, but held each other's interest nevertheless. Tony's outlook and the newcomer's were wide asunder, as also were their experiences. It was the elder man who asked most of the questions, the younger who was responsible for the answers. But they found a bond of union in a Pepysian interest in the novel and unusual, though each approached it from a different standpoint. Tony was a master of external knowledge and sought for something fresh; the other, a babe, welcomed the stalest facts as discoveries from a new world.
"I wish," he said, and with a sigh, "that we were going to travel together for a while." Tony's heart leaped. "You are an interesting young man ... but no! that is impossible—it would never do."
Tony did not reply. He felt sure that the fish was almost hooked, but he did not wish to spoil things by seeming too eager. But he resolved that ere the journey came to an end he would land his fish and spend a few days in his company. He did not think there would be a slackening of the interest: if there were, why, he could easily go back to town. Meanwhile——
The train pulled up.
"Hallo!" said the elderly man. "This train is billed as a non-stop to Shereling. Why on earth——"
He leaned out of the window and beckoned the guard.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"The strike," the guard answered. "You see, sir, there are ten or fifteen thousand men on strike here just now, and it seems they've got a little out of 'and."
"But what," asked Tony's companion, effectually filling the window,—"what has that to do with the trains? Why——"
"You see, sir," continued the guard with an apologetic air, "they've got a bit out of 'and. I don't know the rights of it—they do say they're underpaid, though the employers say they spend their wages on whippet-racing. Anyway, they're out——"
"But therailway, man. What——"
The guard coughed.
"Some of them's a bit 'asty, sir, likewise uncontrollable. It seems that they broke into the publics about midnight and 'ave been making a night of it, so to speak. They've sent for the soldiers, but they 'aven't arrived yet. And they've tore up some of the track. The breakdown gang is repairing it, but it will be an hour or so before we can get on."
"D'you hear that?"
"Rather," said Tony, getting up. "Let's go and have a look. I've never seen a raging mob."
"Better not, sir," advised the guard. "The town's not safe."
"They may listen to me," said Tony with simple grandeur. He turned to his companion. "Do you feel like playing with fire?"
The little man's eyes sparkled and he breathed quickly. He hesitated a moment with natural caution. Then——
"Yes," he said briefly. "Dash it! I—I feel as if I were beginning to live!"
Tony laughed and opened the door. The guard sighed.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, "don't say I didn't warn you. Anyhow, I'd advise you to leave your money behind and your watches, too."
"The man's a perfect Solon," said Tony, feeling in his trousers pocket. "Here, guard, seven pounds three ... and a watch. If I perish, you may keep them, but remember that the watch needs winding night and morning."
The guard gazed dumbly at the evening dress. Then he turned to the other man, "You anything, sir?"
"N—nothing that matters," was the confused reply. "Come on! let's make a move!"
"Broke!" thought Tony. "But he hasn't tried to touch me yet. What a day out!"
The two men left the station and began to walk sharply toward the town, which was close at hand. The first street they entered was deserted, but evidence of the strike lay open to the shamed sky. Lamps, it is true, still stood erect, but their glass was shattered; missiles and rubbish littered the roadway, shop-windows had not a pane left whole, and here and there makeshift screens of boards replaced or protected the windows. It was a scene of ruin, complete and piteous. The most curious feature was that not a soul was in the street: everything was still and lonely.
In the next street a similar spectacle met them—ruin and solitude. In a third, the same. In a fourth, the same. It was as if a battle had taken place, or rather as if the town had been sacked and cleared by an invading army, which had passed on like a destroying angel, leaving signs of its progress, and signs alone.
"This is deuced odd," was Tony's comment—"deuced odd. The ruin does not surprise, for everything is possible in this age of Socialism. But is the spirit of curiosity dead? If so,thatwill be 'the end of all things.' Surely everybody can not be murdered or afraid to come out. Surely we shall light upon at least one brand from the burning—some pathetic, interesting, interested spectator. If it were but a man drunk in the gutter...."
"Yes, it's rum," agreed his companion. "But listen! I think I hear a noise over there to the right. Shall we go and see?"
Tony stopped, friendliness in his heart.
"I think you're right," he said. "But look here! Judging by what we've seen, these chaps won't stick at trifles. Personally I don't much care what happens, so long as I can get interested; but you're different—you're an older man. Hadn't you better try the station?"
The little man blushed.
"Damn it, sir!" he began, and then stopped. "I beg your pardon—I haven't sworn these twenty years, but I feel somehow different to-day. What I mean is that I'm not a graybeard yet, and if you can be interested, I can. Come on!"
"All right," said Tony, warming to him. "Awfully sorry I said that. I say, youarea sportsman——"
The other blushed again, but this time with pleasure. "Thank you. That is the second time I have been called a sportsman within twenty-four hours. I ... I rather like it, Mr.——. By the way, have you any objection to telling me your name?"
"Not a bit, if you'll tell me yours."
The little man considered a moment, and then——
"My name is Hedderwick," he said frankly. "I feel I can trust you to keep your own counsel."
"Of course. Mine is Tony Wild."
They had been walking quickly in the direction of the noise, which every minute became clearer. At last, guided by their ears, they entered a street where their curiosity was satisfied. At the farther end was a seething crowd of men, a few women, and a rabble of gutter children. They were the strikers, or some of them, all excited and not a few drunk. As the guard had said, they were evidently somewhat out of hand, and the looting of the public-houses had not tended to assuage their wrath. Fired by their alleged grievances, liquor, eloquence and the electricity of a mob, they had spent the last few hours in wrecking the town. The police had done all that was possible to stem the attack and vindicate law and order, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. Reinforcements and soldiers had been telegraphed for, and were even now marching, but for the time being the local forces had retired to talk over the return match and exchange of lint and arnica. The strikers were in possession and thoroughly enjoying themselves.
Tony, whispering to his companion, "Keep close and don't get into arguments: pretend to be a labor leader, if you like!" pushed his way slowly through the crowd. Robert, his heart bumping with fear, interest and excitement, followed him; he was afraid, but not too afraid, and he felt that his holiday was proving a success. When they reached the center of interest, after a tardy but good-humored progress, they were rewarded with a sight neither had hoped for.
The thickest of the crowd was swaying round a large shop. It was termed the emporium, and almost merited the title. The happy anarchs had smashed every atom of the plate-glass, careless of the rate-payers, and then had proceeded to abolish such of the fittings as offended their esthetic sense. In the center of the window-space, standing on a chair, was a cheerful striker, conducting a kind of auction. More strictly, it was a charitable distribution, for no one made any effort to pay for the goods received. The shop was a miniature Whiteley's, embracing everything from a perambulator to a parachute, and it was odd to watch the incongruity of some of the articles distributed. One man, for example, was given a child's feeding-bottle, and accepted it without demur; with a bellow of approval he seized it by the rubber tube and whirled it round, shouting, till the tube broke and the bottle flew off at a tangent. Another received half a pianola—the whole was too much for him to carry, and kindly friends helped him to bisect it with clubs and bars. A third, bemused with beer, staggered off with a dozen volumes ofComparative Religion, murmuring brokenly. "Suthin' f'r the kids to read," and dropping at intervals his burden in the mud. It was a pleasant illustration of good feeling and unselfishness.
A few moments after Tony and Robert had penetrated to the front, ready-made clothing was being distributed with a lavish hand. The auctioneer would seize a suit, or a part of a suit, from the nearest peg, and with humorous or profane comments throw it to one of the crowd. "Who wants a waistcoat?" he was crying presently; "a regular fancy article, double-wove, stamped on every bleeding yard! Just the thing to fetch the girls! Just the thing to wear of a Sunday! and when the bloom's orf you can use it as an 'earth-rug or a tea-cozy! Just the thing—here y'are!" and he flung it to an outstretched hand.
"Now's our chance if we want a change!" whispered Robert. He meant it as a joke, and trembled as he saw Tony's face light up with amusement. "Don't be a fool!" he whispered at once. "These chaps are simply mad——"
"Could you oblige me with a suit?" asked Tony suavely, but in the clearest tones. The crowd turned at the university accent. Hitherto they had been too busy to notice the new arrival, but as they observed the opera hat, the smart broadcloth and starched linen, they recognized the presence of one of the upper classes and looked black. A murmur arose, growing in strength and hostility, and a voice suggested with painful clarity the dissection of his internal organs.
Tony took in the situation: another minute, and grumbling threats might be exchanged for action of an unpleasant kind; there was not a moment to lose. "Let me show you a thing, comrades!" he said brightly; and before the smoldering wrath could burst into flame he took off his hat and smote it. The fabric collapsed with a ridiculousklop, and the crowd, taken by surprise and ready to laugh at the mere trifle, roared. Tony spun it into the air with a careless grace, far over the heads of the throng; and as all eyes were fixed on its trajectory he pushed his way forward. "A moment, please!" he urged, shouldering on toward the shop. "By your leave, sir! Excuse me, friend! Beg pardon, brother!" And behold! he was standing beside the auctioneer.
The latter glared his enmity, refusing to budge, but Tony took no heed. All trace of boredom gone, his eyes aglow with eagerness, he gesticulated for silence. The strikers, not wholly recovered from their surprise, postponed, at least for the time being, the suggested vivisection, and waited for Tony to justify himself. He was a fluent speaker, and lost no time in beginning.
"Comrades!" he cried, "you see me as I am! I am in the unhappy position of being without a hat and in evening dress. Unlooked-for events put me in a train this morning, and it was not until the train had started that I realized my absurd costume. What was I to do? Chance settled the question. Chance brought me here into your delightful neighborhood, and what do I find? A good fairy, as it were, distributing clothes for nothing!" At this point a voice called for "Cheers for the——fairy!" which were heartily given. The fairy, unused to badinage, retired from the rostrum, and Tony was quick to jump up. "You see, comrades, that I got a rise: may you soon get the same—may you get what you are asking for!" A tornado of cheers covered his corollary, "viz., six months hard," uttered in an undertone. Feeling was shifting a little in his favor now, and he swept on. "Here, I thought, is my opportunity! I am an outcast, dressed in the ridiculous garb civilization imposes on her sons—the pampered scions of the aristocracy! You have seen me discard my allegiance to the dukes: the crushing of the hat was symbolical. I hate the petty trammels of the curled and scented darlings of the rich! If you wish—if you will allow me to annex one of the admirable and useful suits of reach-me-downs—nine and elevenpence ha'penny off the peg—I will discard the remnants of an obsolete feudalism. My coat shall go! My waistcoat! Even my——"
A prude cried "Shame!" Tony seized upon the word liked a practised ranter.
"Yes!" he cried warmly, "itisa shame that I should be forced to wear these loathsome garments when self-respect urges me to assume a manlier garb. May I take it that I have your assent? I put it to the meeting that I forthwith st—take what I want." He paused for breath, but they were dumb before this extraordinary creature. He hurried on. "Carried unanimously. Thank you, comrades, for this mark of appreciation and esteem. Behold!" He tore off his coat and waistcoat and trod upon them. "See how I trample the badge of servitude! Observe!" He discarded his nether apparel, knowing that he could not stick at trifles: the crowd's mood might turn if he gave it time. Luckily, his audacity was rewarded, for the audience roared with brutal joy at Tony's remarkable appearance. Without hesitation he snatched a suit from several that hung at hand, selecting the quietest he could see, talking furiously as he put it on. "And what now? See! a transformation! A man clothed in sensible dress! Hurrah for the social revolution! Hurrah for communizing the means of production and distribution—especially distribution! And all the rest of the dear old claptrap," he added sotto voce as he leaped nimbly down.
In the thunderous applause that followed the impassioned harangue Tony slipped his arms through Mr. Hedderwick's, and they were allowed to make good their escape. They walked in silence till they were clear of the crowd, and then Robert paused.
"Mr. Wild, you were simply splendid!" he said in awestruck tones. "You're one of the best chaps I've ever met."
Tony chuckled, tired but pleased.
"Not a bad effort, was it? But, by jove! I was in a funk half the time."
"So was I," confessed Robert. "I began to think I might have to use this." He pulled a revolver out of his pocket and showed it. Tony crowed with pure joy.
"Good lord, man! You've got apistol! How perfectly splendid! What on earth do you carry a pistol for? Do tell me—please!"
Mr. Hedderwick walked on in silence for a minute, evidently weighing some problem. Presently he gave a gulp of decision.
"Mr. Wild," he said, "I haven't known you very long, but I seem to have known you for years. What I've seen has interested me—impressed me, and I like you. You know a little about me, that I'm off for a holiday on unusual lines, but unless you agree to my proposal I shan't tell you any more. You, it appears, are a free agent, young, with nothing to do. I think we might enjoy ourselves much more together than apart. In any case, if we found it didn't suit we could separate. If you feel like adventuring for a few days I think there may be a little fun. I can't promise it, but I think so. If you agree, I'll tell you the rest when we get to The Happy Heart."
"One question," said Tony, "and don't be offended. Do you want any money?"
Mr. Hedderwick thought for a moment and frowned. Then he smiled.
"I have two and eightpence in my pocket," he said frankly. "I came out in a hurry. I could get more if I wanted, but I don't mean to try, for I have no wish to be traced yet. I'm not a cadger or a confidence-trickster. If you care to finance me till we return, so much the better for me. If not, well, I'll do without and rough it somehow. I don't mean to miss my holiday."
Tony smiled. This Hedderwick seemed an admirable fellow.
"What and where is The Happy Heart?" he asked.
"An inn at Shereling where I mean to stay."
"Forward, then, to The Happy Heart. I wish I'd bagged some boots, too. These pumps are simply cruel."
They set out once more toward the station.
The landlord of The Happy Heart stood leaning against his door-post, smoking a churchwarden. He was enjoying his tobacco and the summer morning, and occasionally directing a bovine thought to the identity of the solitary guest at present lying in bed up-stairs. The said guest had arrived two days before with a view to golf, for the Shereling links were well known. The Happy Heart was rarely without a golf enthusiast, since it was the only inn in Shereling, the local squire (at present yachting) owning most of the land in the neighborhood, and refusing to let "his" village become an abiding-place for tourists. Wherefore the neighboring town of Dallingham, six miles distant, reaped a golden harvest, and its hotels were out of all proportion to its population.
The guest up-stairs, to return to the landlord's vaguely moving thoughts, was a man well over seventy, but active for his age. An olive complexion hinted that he was no Briton, but the testimony of the green-keepers went to prove that his English was "floont"; and of the magnitude of his tips the odd-job man of The Happy Heart could not say enough. A man of seventy may be excused for showing reserve or desiring quiet, and the landlord did not think it curious that the visitor divided his time between the links and his bedroom: the man was certainly a gentleman, perhaps an aristocrat, and there was no doubt that his money was good. The only thing that bothered the landlord was—why had he brought no servant? It did not occur to him that solitude to the great may be worth more than the benignities of a valet.
The landlord shaded his eyes with a browned hand and looked down the road. There was nothing to be seen. With an effort that was mental as well as physical he turned himself upon the axis of the door-post and blinked in the other direction. Here the figure of a man rewarded him, walking steadily but without hurry toward the inn. "One of they golfing chaps from the station," was the landlord's first thought; "he must be mortal keen to come so early." His mild surprise changed to blank amazement as the stranger drew near. "Top hat, gloves, et setterer," he muttered. "A swell an' all! What's he doing of here?" He was still ruminating when the stranger halted, surveyed the tavern sign, and entered. The landlord followed him into the parlor.
"A quart of beer, please," said Lionel, sitting down with relish on the nearest bench. The landlord, his surprise in no way lessened by the order, went and drew the beer. He placed it before his customer, and then said, "You're early astir, sir."
"Ten o'clock early?" said Lionel. "I thought that country people called that late."
"Not if you come by train, sir, as I suppose you did. A friend o' mine—Jeggs the farmer—drove by here twenty minutes agone. He said that the first train, the five o'clock, had only just come in, being delayed by the strikers. I suppose you came by that?"
"Yes," said Lionel, "I did."
"And did you see anything of the strike, sir?"
"No," said Lionel; "I stayed in the train—in fact, I slept all the way, being tired."
The landlord, seeing that the other was in no communicative mood, withdrew, after begging him to ring the bell if he wanted further refreshment. Lionel, left to the kindly solitude of the parlor, put up his legs on the bench with a sigh of relief, took a draught of the beer, and lighted a pipe.
He was very tired, in spite of the sleep he had spoken of. With the exception of that brief and disturbed period in the train he had not slept for some twenty-six hours, and in addition, he had been through sundry diverting experiences. The successful burglary had been a strain, and after he and Beatrice had got back to the flat they had spent the next three hours in discussing and planning. They had searched every room, nook and cranny for some trace of Mizzi, some clew as to where she might have flown. Of course it was useless: not a scrap of paper—not a single compromising document rewarded their efforts. Only some blackened ashes in the bedroom grate hinted at possibilities. She had left nearly all her clothes and personal belongings, and her boxes were unlocked as if to invite inspection. She had simply disappeared—gone, like one in a melodrama, "out into the night."
It was of the utmost importance to trace her, but what could be done? It was obvious that detectives should not be employed, for a hint of official interference might mean the death of Lukos. Beatrice and Lionel must do their own detection, and they spent their brains on the problem, apparently so hopeless.
Even the cause of Mizzi's disloyalty was anything but clear. It might be that she was in the pay of the sultan, or it might be that she wished to be revenged. But why revenge? Beatrice, with a twinkle that made Lionel feel qualms of conscience, suggested jealousy; but the suggestion was thrown out in such an airy spirit that he felt she did not really believe in it. He himself preferred to believe, and did believe, that the more sensational hypothesis should be adopted. She must be a spy, who meant to get a good price for the famous papers. But why had she not stolen them before? Perhaps she had been in treaty with the enemy but had failed to get the terms she wanted. It did not seem adequate, but it was the only solution they could suggest.
Assuming, then, that she had stolen the papers to make money, what would be her first step? Beatrice—and Lionel agreed with her—thought that she was too clever to deal with underlings: she would go as near to the fountainhead as she could, to the Turkish ambassador himself, for he was a known adherent of the old régime. She would go as soon as possible, the next morning—i.e., about the present, what time Lionel was drinking beer in The Happy Heart,—but a dim recollection was beating in the brain of Beatrice that she had seen something of importance in the society news of a few days past. They searched the flat for every newspaper, and at last found the sheet they wanted. Hope beating at the doors, they scanned the column that Lionel never read, but that Beatrice studied first. Yes! there it was—the justification of her memory for seeming trivialities. "His excellency the Turkish ambassador has gone for a few days' golf to Shereling." Beatrice threw the paper away in flushed triumph, thought deeply for a few moments, and then said, "You must go there. Mizzi may follow and try to succeed at Shereling. Watch and do the best you can. I shall stay in London in case I am wrong, and keep an eye on the embassy. If she is at Shereling, try to get the treaty. I must leave you to work on your own lines. If I hear anything I shall wire to the local inn. Will you?"
Of course he said, "Yes. Is there anything else?"
"Money. No—do not protest. This is life and death, and both cost money." She ran to a little safe and returned, her hands full. "Here are notes for a hundred pounds or more. You may have to bribe. Do not refuse—it is for Lukos!"
Lionel longed to say, "Madam, my life and fortune are at your disposal. Let there be no mention of money between us." But seeing that his stock of ready cash had dwindled to twopence-halfpenny (he had bought a packet of ten cigarettes the day before, and now cursed the extravagance), he could only say, "As you will."
"Thank you," she said softly, and laid her hand on his head. He thrilled, and she administered a necessary antidote. "It is for Lukos!"
"Oh, hang Lukos!" he groaned in spirit; and then in swift repentance his thoughts mumbled, "No, no! Bless Lukos—dear old Lukos! Poor old chap!"
After this there had been nothing but idle conversation until the hour of his departure approached. Once Beatrice fell into a fit of musing and presently she said, "What a fool I was to tell Mizzi!" A younger man might have said, "Not at all: it was perfectly natural." Lionel, older, more self-reliant, and more honest, replied simply, "We all make mistakes," for he thought her folly almost incredible. She felt this—they were more thansympathiques—and said, "Ah! if you knew! I was very lonely one night ... lonely and sad ... I had to talk to some one, and believed her a true friend. You can imagine my self-reproach." He could, and felt himself more than justified in pressing her hand.
Presently there had been some suspense, for when the time came for him to leave the flat, at half past four, Beatrice had peeped from the window and imagined that she saw a man watching the house. Lionel peeped too, but could see nothing. Nevertheless they had waited another ten minutes, as long as they dared if he was to catch the first train. But at length he resolved to risk a spy, and after a brief, tense, but outwardly calm "good-by" he had left the house. By taking a cab he reached Euston in time, and at last was established in the train. So far as he knew, he had not been followed: the only stranger he had noticed had been a man who was in the train before he was on the platform, so from him there could be nothing to fear.
And now he was in The Happy Heart, resting after a dusty three-mile walk from Shereling station, drinking good English beer, far from all thought of Oriental craft and scheming. He was in Shereling, on the second stage of his fond adventure. What was to be the first step?
In spite of the rest and beer he felt discontented, and glumly wished that Beatrice were at hand. To what end? To advise, direct, console, or soothe? He hardly knew, but darkly suspected that it was for the weaker reason. Idly he allowed himself to remember the touch of her delightful fingers, cool, nervous and alluring: the seduction of her hair, the brilliant command of her eyes. But it was not these only that inspired his grateful remembrance: it was also her lovely personality, her courage, her charm, herself. Of course it could not be love; that was absurd. It was a flame kindled by the sympathy of a comrade—the kind of comrade he had never known. Possibly the fact that he had not enjoyed any extensive woman-friendships during the recent years had made him exaggerate her qualities: she might be rare, but could she be so rare as he thought her? Supposing he met some other delightful woman soon, might not the pleasant image of Beatrice lose something of its luster? He shook himself impatiently; it was a foolish thought. Other women might be delightful, charming, desirable, but there could only be a single Beatrice. How pretty she was! How—and here the figure of Lukos beckoned a grim warning: "It is time you put your shoulder to the wheel, my ...friends!"
"All right, old chap—all right!" said Lionel petulantly to the shade. "Don't be in such a beastly hurry. It's not love ... it's not love, I tell you. Just a superlative esteem for your splendid wife.... Yourwife," he added with a martyr's sigh. And then he raised the tankard, feeling that it ought to hold Tokay. "Here's to her!" he murmured, drinking deep. He put the pewter down, but raised it again. "And to you, old chap!" he added generously. "... Hullo! there's none left. Beg pardon."
As he finished, the door opened and admitted a chubby little clergyman, who sat down with a courteous "Good morning!" Lionel made haste to remove his legs from the bench. The landlord followed close upon the heels of the newcomer. "Morning, sir," said the landlord respectfully. "Will you take anything?"
"Draught cider. Half a pint," said the clergyman briskly. The landlord disappeared, and he turned, smiling. "You should try the cider of The Happy Heart," he said—"that is, if you have not done so already. I allow myself that as a concession to the flesh."
"And a sensible concession, too," replied Lionel heartily. He was pleased that a gentleman in Holy Orders did not think it undignified to drink in a common "pub." "I have been drinking beer, and very good it is—or was. But I must try the cider, if I remain here."
"Staying long?" asked the other pleasantly. And when Lionel said, guardedly, that he had not quite settled yet, the clergyman did not pursue the question, but passed on to other themes. "I am the local parson," he said chattily. "My name is Peters." As he spoke the landlord came back with the clerical cider and a telegram.
"Does your name happen to be Mortimer, sir?" he asked. "Because if so, this here telegram is for you."
"It is," said Lionel in some surprise. The wire could only be from Beatrice, but he had not expected any communication from her as yet. With a brief apology he opened the yellow envelope and read its contents. It was all he could do to keep from betraying his astonishment. The wire read as follows:—
"Hope you had pleasant journey. My suspicions deepen. Try stay Arkwright twin. Suspect even her. Wait further wire.—Blair."
"Hope you had pleasant journey. My suspicions deepen. Try stay Arkwright twin. Suspect even her. Wait further wire.—Blair."
He read the telegram three times, but it was not till the third reading that he grasped the import of "Arkwright twin." He knew no one of the name of Arkwright, nor had he ever claimed acquaintance with a twin. "The nearest I could do is triplets," he thought. "Johnson of the House was a triplet, I remember, but that's no good to me.... Who on earth...?" And then he recalled Beatrice saying that she had a twin sister who had disapproved of her stage career. Of course it must be she. He had been so accustomed to think of his preceptress as Beatrice Blair that he had almost forgotten it must be a stage name. And so she was really an Arkwright—rather a pretty name on the whole, though unworthy of her high claims; failing Beatrice Blair, it ought to have been Rosalind ... Rosalind what? Rosalind Roy ... Rosalind Gay ... Rosalind Ebbsfleet ... Rosalind Wise.... He smiled as his thoughts played with a score of dainty conceits. He was roused to common sense and depression by the remembrance that she was really Mrs. Lukos. But was Lukos a surname? "Let's hope not," he reflected sourly.
"No bad news, I trust," said the chubby clergyman, with a polite but ecclesiastical inflection.
"No—no," answered Lionel abruptly. He abandoned Rosalind completely and tried to arrange his thoughts. "By the way, do you happen to know any one of the name of Arkwright in the neighborhood?"
The chubby clergyman looked interested.
"I do and I don't," he said, pulling his chair close to the table and leaning on his elbows. "A Miss Arkwright lives at The Quiet House. She has been the tenant for only two months, and nobody has seen her yet."
"What!"
"It sounds odd," said the clergyman with the smile of one who has an interesting story for a virgin audience, "but it is true. She calls on nobody, and denies herself to every caller. She is never seen in the village except when driving in her motor, and I am sorry to say that she does not come to church."
"But surely something is known of her,—through the servants, for instance——"
"She has a housekeeper, I believe, who makes friends with nobody; a dumb gardener and a dumb footman. A little extraordinary, eh?" He rubbed his hands with zest. "But it is true none the less. Of course, all sorts of gossip have been greedily accepted. I never listen to gossip—one has to think of one's position—but some things can not be hid.... They say she takes motor drives at night,—every night. I do not credit the 'every'—exaggeration is so prevalent. I always believe less than half what the villagers tell me—that is, what drifts round to my ears."
"But what does she do all day?" asked Lionel. Clearly this was a queer state of affairs.
"I do not know. Her grounds are large. Perhaps she gardens."
"You do not think there is any fear of ... of a scandal?" asked Lionel in a pained voice, anxious not to wound.
"I trust not ... I trust not. I have no reason to think.... Of course, thingsdolook odd, and my wife says ... but, no! I am sure she must be wrong. I ... I hope so."
"Mrs. Peters has heard——?" hazarded Lionel. The clergyman shook his head with dignity.
"Nothing. Nothing. My wife called, but was refused admittance. Naturally she, as the vicar's wife, felt a little hurt...."
"Of course," agreed Lionel. "But no other friends come? Nobody in motors?"
"I believe not. I should have heard,—it would have drifted round to me in the course of time."
"Nobody stays here, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes—golfers. One is here now—an excellent man,—old and of foreign origin, I believe. He calls himself Beckett; but he has told me (in confidence) that he is here for rest, incognito. He may be somebody of importance—an excellent man, however. He gave me a guinea for our restoration fund the day I showed him the church."
"The ambassador!" was Lionel's swift conclusion; and then aloud, "Has he been here long?"
"Three days. For golf. We have played a few rounds." He smiled at some hidden joy. "He is not very good, for even I can give him a stroke a hole. Uncommunicative—very, but interesting, a gentleman, and I should say a seeker."
"Ah!" said Lionel, getting up. "Well, I must go on. Can you tell me how to find The Quiet House?"
The other gasped.
"You are going tocall!" He recollected himself and apologized. "I beg your pardon, but ... go straight down the road ... the prettiest house on the right. By the way, if you are staying here I should be happy to take you round the links. Or show you the church——"
"Thank you," said Lionel. "You are very good, but I don't know how long I shall be staying."
"Well, come round and smoke a pipe after dinner," suggested the clergyman. His eagerness to secure one who knew Miss Arkwright was poorly disguised. "I would say, come and dine, but Mrs. Peters...."
He left it to be understood that Mrs. Peters' permission must first be obtained. Lionel could hardly restrain a smile. "Thank you," he said; "I can not promise yet, but I will remember. Good-by."
He left Mr. Peters rejoicing over a fresh piece of news that had "drifted round," which he meant to retail to his wife at the earliest opportunity. As he sat down again to finish his modest allowance, Tony Wild and Mr. Hedderwick made an unobtrusive appearance. They had watched Lionel turn the corner before approaching, for Robert was not anxious to meet his late visitor by daylight.
"Good morning, sir," said Tony. He turned to his friend,—"What's yours? Mine is beer, and lots of it!"
"Mine's bed," said Robert, and sat down with a yawn.
There are few things more restful than watching other people working hard, and the sensation is doubly piquant when one is sitting in the shade watching the worker toiling beneath the sun. Mrs. Peters was sitting in the shade; and though she would have denied the suggestion of idleness (for was she not picking the names of likely helpers for the imminent bazaar?), it was not unpleasant to observe Brown, the odd-job man, mowing the lawn. He seemed willing, though of course you must remember he had been taken on only two days ago, and besides, knew that the mistress had her eye on him; sober, too, refusing beer in favor of lemonade—but there! that might be hypocrisy, for there is always something, and these quiet men are often worse than the patently unsteady. Probably he gambled.... Still, at present he was undeniably working, and he had sense enough to oil the machine every quarter of an hour.
The vicarage lawn was big enough for two tennis-courts, with a little over for croquet in miniature or clock-golf. It took, theoretically, an able-bodied man an hour and a half to "run the machine over it." The optimistic phrase was the vicar's, who had not run the machine (or its predecessors) for twenty years. A succession of practical runners made the sum come out differently; and one rebellious soul—"of course, my dear, a radical chapel-goer"—had invited his employer to shove the qualified mower himself and see if 'e could do it in a qualified howerananarf. The sporting offer was not accepted, but the idealistic standard maintained. It was, in fact, a grass-cutting bogy who had never been beaten yet.
"Be careful, Brown," said Mrs. Peters, preparatory to a departure indoors, "to gather upallthe grass and put it in the sack. It looks so untidy if you leave any lying about."
"Yes, ma'am," said Brown respectfully; "I'll be sure to do so. I ought to finish in half an hour or so."
"Less, if youwork, Brown," said Mrs. Peters reprovingly. She knew he had been mowing for little over an hour, but discipline must be kept up. Besides, does not Browning say, "A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a Heaven for?" Without waiting for possible protests she went into the house.
The odd-job man smiled.
"She's all right," he said softly to no one in particular. "Oh, lor',yes!...She'sall right."
He whistled softly, but without obvious discontent, and made a change in his labors. Giving the machine a well-earned rest, he began to gather up the cut grass from a square of canvas that lay extended on the ground and stuffed it into the sack referred to by Mrs. Peters. This task brought him near the tall privet-hedge, reinforced by a four-foot paling, which sheltered the vicarage garden from the road. He had hardly accounted for a dozen armfuls when a voice from the other side of the hedge said, "Good morning."
Regardless of Mrs. Peters' late instructions, the odd-job man dropped a generous portion of grass and stood transfixed. "So you've come!" he said quietly but distinctly. "For goodness' sake let's have a look at your pretty face!"
The privet-hedge parted, and a damsel of twenty-three smiled upon the gratified Brown.
"Is that better?" she asked.
"Lots," replied the odd-job man, pressing closer to the hedge. "But I tell you what would be better still——"
"Yes?"
"I shall have to whisper it...."
The damsel, full of innocent curiosity, bent forward to listen. The odd-job man, congratulating himself on extraordinary cunning, bent forward and essayed a kiss of welcome. The intended recipient, however, seemed to be possessed of a sixth sense or instinct, for, when his lips were on the point of meeting hers, she drew back with a melodious cry of surprise. The kiss was too late to be checked, and unhappily was bestowed upon a bunch of privet.
The odd-job man mildly whispered the equivalent of "How very annoying!" and then remonstrated in a louder tone. He pointed out that he had not seen his visitor for a week, and that under the circumstances the least she could do, etc.
"Ye ... es," agreed the damsel, parting the hedge once more, "it is true, all that you say. But you forget that you have not earned it yet."
"Holy Moses!" said the odd-job man, appealing to the heavens. "Here I chuck my job in London at a word—or, rather, a letter from you! I come down here got up as a laborer; I hang about the blessed village till I'm sick for the town and you again; I get taken on here to work—and, mind you, itiswork, though I don't grumble at that. And it's all for to keep an eye on a chap I've never seen."
"And not for me?"
"You silly chu—I beg your pardon, miss—that is, my dear! What I do mean is, who are you gettin' at? Ofcourse, it's for you, and I'm going through with it. But I do think you might give me a bit of encouragement like, when you come at last——"
He paused; there was the sound of steps coming down the road, and he had no wish to be overheard courting. Thus drawn back to real life, conscience pricked him, and he wondered if there was any danger of Mrs. Peters reappearing. In a panic he looked over his shoulder.... No! the lawn was deserted: he still had time. But when he turned to the hedge he was surprised to see his love with her head pushed right through the privet, scarlet from excitement. A hand, too, appeared, enjoining caution and silence.
You must have recognized ere this that Brown, the odd-job man beneath the thrall of Mrs. Peters, was none other than Mr. Henry Brown, cab-proprietor, under different auspices. You will remember, then, the type of man he was but a few chapters ago, middle-aged, reserved, cautious and a little unenterprising. But you will not forget that love had made a change in his habits, outlook and élan. He was younger now, more alert, audacious and full of guile. So you must not be surprised that when he saw his lady beckoning, appealing to him to come closer, be careful, not talk, but observe—when he saw her head (and it was a very pretty head) framed in harmonious privet—when he saw this gift of fortune, you must not be surprised that he accepted it. He drew near and kissed her very quietly but very heartily. She, for some obscure reason wishing to remain unseen, did not dare to withdraw her head or box his ears. All she could do was to bite her lip and stamp her dainty heel, while she remained, ostrich-like, in the hedge.
The footsteps passed, but before they began to grow fainter Henry Brown repeated the salutation. "Couldn't help it!" he said meekly, answering the sparkle in her eyes. "You shouldn't tempt a man. Now, what's the row?"
She was too excited to rebuke him; the moment was too precious to be lost. "You see him?" she queried, pointing to the retreating figure of Lionel, who was on the road to The Quiet House. "Well, that is the man you are to watch! That is he from whom you are to recover the document!"
"The deuce it is!" said Henry, gazing after Lionel with interest. "Well, he's big enough to give trouble...."
"You are not afraid?"
"Not particularly," he said with a slow smile. "It's not a job I hanker after, but I've promised you to try, and I will try. You'll tell me, I dare say, what you think the best way of setting about it?"
"Of course. You are far too stupid to think for yourself. And now, good-by!"
"I say, you're not going! And I had such a lot to talk about ... that wedding, for instance...."
"What wedding?" She paused, chin in air.
"Come! that's a good 'un. Ours."
"Pstt! the assurance of these male creatures!—As if I would marry a man who kisses me by force! No, Mr. Brown, do not count on that. Do what you have promised first, and then I will think about it. If I choose, well ... If I do not choose, well ... I promise nothing."
"That's a poor sort of bargain."
"It is no bargain: I do not bargain. I give an order. Good-by. Oh, I will write to you——"
"Thank you—thank you——" he began.
"To tell you what to do. I shall not be far, but you must not attempt to see me without my leave."
She turned on her heel and marched down the road. The odd-job man whistled in amused dismay. "They're all alike," he muttered as he turned to his work again and met the vicar's wife. She was coming from the house and wore a severe expression.
"Did I hear you talking, Brown?"
"I can't say, ma'am," he answered stolidly. She frowned.
"Be good enough not to equivocate," she commanded. "Wereyou talking?"
"I often talk aloud to myself," said Henry mildly. He was an honest man and did not take kindly to lies, even of the whitest. Mrs. Peters frowned again.
"Indeed!" she said icily. "Do you mean to say you were not talking to a young woman through the hedge?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Henry, "I was. I suppose I'm allowed to rest for a minute now and then."
"Rest is a very different thing from philandering. That I can not allow. It looks very bad from the road to see the vicarage servants gossiping or worse through the hedge. Remember, Brown, it must not happen again. I can not understand one of our village girls——"
She paused interrogatively, but Henry was not so silly as to fall into the trap. He began to oil the machine, and even Mrs. Peters did not like to ask pointblank who his sweetheart was. Instead, she finished with a snap, "—making herself so cheap."
She went back to the house again. Henry straightened up and glared after her. "They're all alike!" he said again; but how he could include two such different people as Mrs. Peters and his adored in the same condemnation is hard to understand. The words of the sentence, it is true, were identical; but the inflection hinted at a great gulf fixed between the two offenders. Possibly they were charged with different offenses.
"They're all alike...." Are they? Does the same essential lurk beneath the surface? Supposing we could dissect Mrs. Peters, Alicia, Mizzi, Beatrice Blair, and a thousand Ermyntrudes or Sallies, should we find the same germ of woman? Take Lionel's evidence, if it were available. You might safely assert that to him Beatrice was different from and superior to any other woman you could produce. Henry Brown would as stoutly hold the same of his anonymous sweetheart. Mr. Peters and Mr. Hedderwick we may hope would take an identical line, or at least they would have once. But these are, or have been, lovers, the blindest of mortals, and their evidence is too partial to be trustworthy. A cynic like Pope would tell you that every woman is at heart a rake, and might find a score of others to support him. A Shaw might produce a monster like Ann Whitfield and brazenly say she was typical. A Chesterton would talk of women being sublime as individuals but horrible in a herd. A son might say that his mother was perfect, but he, too, would be partial. What is the truth about woman? Only a woman can say, and she would find it hard to take a detached view. Probably truth was partly expressed by the odd-job man in words—wholly expressed by his words and inflection. They are human and feminine if you probe deep enough, but there are variations, unimagined harmonies and discords for the seeker. "They're all alike"—with a difference, and no man can learn the whole truth from a text-book. The text-book can give him elementary rules which may serve him well, but he must be prepared to find plenty of exceptions. The student, however, need not fear monotony.
But while we have been indulging in cheap philosophy Mr. Brown's sweetheart has got well down the road, following at a considerable distance the footsteps of Lionel. Evidently she is in a good humor with the world, for she hums an air that has a sprightly sound as of the boulevards or cabarets, and she stops to pick a wild rose. She is smiling at her thoughts—possibly at the lamentable lack of self-control exhibited by her lover, possibly at the remembrance of the grass still to be mown and neatly gathered. And as she is in a good humor, self-possessed, and the air is of the balmiest, is it wonderful that she should smile absently on a good-looking stranger sitting by the roadside, smoking a cigarette? Surely not, as the stranger is Tony Wild, who has left Mr. Hedderwick exhausted at The Happy Heart, while he strolls out to examine the lie of the land.
"Good morning," says Tony courteously, raising his cap. He does not get up, for that might frighten her away. "Can you tell me which is the road to Hetton-le-Hole? Forgive me asking, but...."
"I have never heard of it," says the lady, with a smile that shows she penetrates Tony's elementary artifice. "I am sorry.... Good morning."
Tony deliberately flicks the ash from his cigarette.
"What a bore!" he observes with a fluent laziness in his voice, and of course the lady can not continue her progress while he is speaking. It would look so prudish. "I was awfully keen on seeing Hetton-le-Hole, but nobody here seems to know the road, so I suppose I shall have to give up the idea. I say, don't you find life rather a bore?" It was an abrupt change of subject, but there seemed no inconsequence as the words dropped idly from his lips. He appeared to be talking at random for an obvious purpose, but with an unaffected sincerity. "Nothing to do, I mean, and not a vast amount to see. One day following another, and so forth, you know...."
"Heavens, no!" replied the lady with an amused contempt. "There is so much to see—to ask—to think about! What can a young man like you think of himself if he is bored at ... at twenty-six?"
"Good shot!" said Tony. "I say, please forgive me being so forward and pushing and all that, and do sit down and talk to me. I should be tremendously gratified, and I'd do my best to amuse you."
"I have stayed too long already," she said with a crisp note of rebuke. "I have neither the time nor the wish to stop and relieve the tedium of bored strangers. I hope you will soon find the road you speak of."
She turned and went on her way. Tony smiled good-naturedly; really, she had been quite lenient, though he had hardly deserved all she said and implied. She was more than pretty and was evidently no fool. A lady? N—no ... but ... was it worth following up? Should he try to engineer a small flirtation or be content with the fair promises held out by Mr. Hedderwick? N ... no ... Yes! She had spurned his lightly-proffered homage to her charms, and amour propre would not allow him to give in without a struggle. He was only too willing in most things to step aside of his own free will—things so soon lost their interest; but to be forced to play the part of rejected spectator, that could not be permitted. His eyes followed her smilingly. "I bet she turns and waves!" thought the despicable Tony. "She's a charming lady's maid who likes fun, respects herself, and means to be treated with correctness—when she chooses. She will turn and wave before reaching that bend in the road. AndIwill be stand-offish and refuse to reply. A perfect cause of offense, with a delightful misunderstanding to follow.But, I shall follow her secretly along the hedge and find out where she lives. Admirable!"
She had gone some little distance, but still did not turn round. Worshipers of beauty, modesty, good feeling and decorous behavior, rejoice! She did not turn round! Her gaysveltefigure marched bravely along, virginal defiance in her shoulders and the swing of her tailor-made skirt. The fragments of a gallant whistle floated back to Tony, and he murmured "Bravado!" with an uneasy doubt. The curve of the road was close at hand now: a few more yards would carry her past in triumph, and the sex be vindicated. Tony was in painful agitation, for his knowledge of woman and powers of swift diagnosis were at stake. Three yards were left—two—hope seemed dead. Then, alas! she stopped and a smile crept to his lips. But she did not turn round—there is still a loophole for the sex,—she did not turn round! All she did was to open her reticule and take her handkerchief from it. As the handkerchief was withdrawn a bit of pasteboard was caught in its folds and fell—unnoticed?—on the road. Tony waited with vast contentment until she had turned the corner. Then with a light heart he followed and picked up the card. He read the inscription with amused curiosity. It was, "Miss Arkwright, The Quiet House."