After Beatrice had bidden Lionel good-by in the early dawn she did the most sensible thing possible: she went to bed. But it is one thing to go to bed and another to go to sleep, as many a sufferer—from insomnia, love, indigestion, or kindred ailments—has found to his cost. You feel weary, oppressed with the want of sleep, let us say, yawnsome—in a word, ready to drop off the moment you are between the sheets. But, if a white night be inscribed in the book of Fate, how changed the mood as soon as the light is out! At once, almost, you lose that sense of impending slumber and become wide awake, clear-eyed and keen of brain. Something occurs to interest your mind and you meditate perspicaciously thereon. Another thought succeeds, and another, and you grow more wakeful every moment. Soon you begin to say, "I must go to sleep now," and resolutely try to refuse to think. But resolution is vain before insomnia. Eyelids may be tightly shut, but the masked eyeballs still peer vigilantly into the void: hands may clench themselves in the hopeless effort to compose the will and induce the wished-for slumber: the alert body may strive to cheat itself by observing the accustomed ritual—first on the right side, then left, then right again—in the expectation of influencing mind by matter: droves of sheep may be counted passing through innumerable gates—poems recited till the very thought of verse revolts—numerals repeated by the ticking brain—but still you are far from the haven. It seems that
"Not poppy, nor mandragora,Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world"
"Not poppy, nor mandragora,Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world"
could bestow the most blessed of all boons. And at last you give up the unequal struggle and try to make the best of it.
Failing drugs—and one has to be a smart society lady, a broken man or woman, for them—there are various palliatives. You may turn on the light and read till sleep comes with soothing fingers upon tired brows. Or, if young and enterprising, you can go for a walk and see the dawn. Or sometimes an impromptu bedroom picnic—bread and cheese and a bottle of beer raided thief-wise from the pantry, taking great care not to let the stairs creak and alarm the house—may have excellent results. These, and a score of similar expedients, may be recommended with assurance to the patient. And if they fail, at least they have passed an hour or so more pleasantly than in mere acquiescence.
Beatrice lay awake, sorely against her will. She knew that sleep was what she needed, and would need still more within some fourteen hours. The strain of acting, followed by her preposterous adventure at the magnanimous churchwarden's, had used up more of her nervous resources than was desirable. Sleep was therefore the obvious thing. But alas! it proved the impossible thing, too, and she lay restless, aglow with thought, waiting impatiently for what she knew would not come.
What did she think of during those hours of frenzied vision? Was it of Lukos, waiting in an eastern prison for the news that would set him free to join her? Was it her dead son, the little boy she had spoken of to Lionel? Or Turkey, the land of her adoption, struggling for freedom, enmeshed with perils, the slave of diplomatic and selfish adventures? Her art—had it a place within those weary wheels of thought; her success on the stage, the triumphs of the footlights—illusory, but so real in seeming, so satisfying and complete? Or Lionel—did he whip her straining fancies to a wilder effort toward the goal? Something of all these may have engaged her, for each was inextricably interwoven with the others. Lukos—Lionel—the sultan—Mizza—the Hedderwicks—the ambassador—a hundred minor characters, "supers" in the drama of her life, wheeled hither and thither, mocking, defying, questioning. The horrible lines of Wilde burned in letters of fire upon the wall:
"Slim shadows hand in hand:About, about, in ghostly routThey trod a saraband:And the damned grotesques made arabesques,Like the wind upon the sand."
"Slim shadows hand in hand:About, about, in ghostly routThey trod a saraband:And the damned grotesques made arabesques,Like the wind upon the sand."
Each must have had his place in the drama, but the important question was, who played the lead? Lukos or Lionel—honor and faith or ... inclination? Yet that is hardly a fair way of putting it: she must not define her interest as inclination, hinting at something more potent. Interest one may admit without qualification: Lionel had saved her life, was an attractive and pleasant young man, and had been her guest for a week. Of course Beatrice was interested; she would have been hard or inhuman otherwise. But did her inclination show signs of becoming something more? Could she honestly say in the stereotyped phrase that "he was nothing to her?"—nothing being the antithesis of everything. In that sense she could say it, for he was certainly not everything. But was "nothing" exact? Ah!...
At least she must have found comfort in the reflection that she had sent him away on an errand that would avert all danger, if successfully carried out. She had been ... weak ... once or twice, but such a weakness may find a ready forgiveness, considering the circumstances and the expiation. Which of us, oh, censorious reader, would have been as strong as Beatrice?
Still, she could not sleep, and for the present that outweighed all moral hesitations and scruples. At seven o'clock she gave up the unequal contest, dressed and went out for a short walk. The air calmed her, and she gained a respite from the self-examination for an hour. Then, after making an effort to eat some breakfast, she sat down to smoke a cigarette and think again about Lionel. What was he like, the real man, the true Lionel? Was he a man to be trusted, a man to be relied on, the sort of man, so to speak, one would like (supposing it were possible) to marry? Lionel as a husband.... "Husband" brought a smile, a blush and a frown to the face of Beatrice, and it is to be hoped that the shade of Lukos noticed the blush as well as the smile. "Heavens! and I have only known him a week!" thought Beatrice with self-chastisement: "besides ..." Precisely! There are so many "besideses" in real life.
But undoubtedly, and without any disloyalty to shades, living or otherwise, he was the dearest of boys. He had behaved extraordinarily well throughout—extraordinarily well, for actresses have unique opportunities of studying man's weakness—not only in the cab and the dressing-room, but during the week of voluntary imprisonment. Polished, controlled, devoted without being tiresome, he was certainly the dearest of boys. Human, too, and humanity was a quality that appealed to Beatrice; nor did he lack a sense of humor and romance. But she had only known him for a week, and could she possibly form an adequate judgment in such a period? "He may be acting all the time," she thought with a dismal pucker of the forehead, "and I ought to know how easy it can be to act. What a fool I am to worry over things!"
She threw away the half-smoked cigarette with a petulant gesture and continued to worry. The remembrance of Mizzi flashed across her mind—her prettiness and Lionel's evasive declarations. These had been glib enough, no doubt, but glibness and dexterity were not sufficient to lull the suspicions of Beatrice. "He is a man," she argued angrily, perversely pleased in lashing her apprehensions, "and a bachelor. What else could one expect? Of course, he may not have kissed her, but.... If he has, well ... what right have I to...."
Her petulance increased with every moment, and when the bell rang about ten o'clock she felt more like a naughty ill-tempered child than anything else. Remembering that now she had no maid, she controlled herself and opened the door. Her face cleared, for on the threshold stood a man she liked, her manager.
"Hullo, Ashford!" she said. "Come in! I'm glad you've come, for I'm bored to tears."
Ashford Billing, a smartly-dressed man of thirty-six, entered. One would hardly have guessed him to be connected with the stage, for he had a mustache, was well-groomed without over-emphasizing the fact, and had a pleasant look of self-reliance without swagger. He was tall and lean, as if he was accustomed to keep himself in hard condition, and though an American you could scarcely have guessed it from his speech. Four years in England, during which time he had studied to erase transatlantic idioms and intonations with a view of playing on the stage, had been crowned with almost complete success. Only a stray word, a phrase occasionally, showed that he was not a native-born.
"It's an early call, Miss Blair," he said pleasantly as he followed her into the sitting-room. "Partly business and partly pleasure. Which will you have first?"
"Oh, pleasure," answered Beatrice carelessly: "I'm tired of business. Will you smoke?"
"No, thank you. Well, I'll plunge into the pleasure right away, though there's some business in it, too. You know I'm not the man to beat about the bush, so I'll ask you straight out if you're still in the same mind as you were six months ago?"
Beatrice made an irritated movement of her shoulders.
"Oh, bother!" she answered. "Fancy calling at this hour to ask me that!"
"Sorry," said Ashford Billing. He did not appear at all excited, though his eyes gleamed. "My time's hardly my own just now—working day and night over the new production, provincial tours and syndicates. And you never seem to be at home at reasonable hours—I called twice last week, but Mizzi said you were out."
Beatrice blushed, and turned to the window to hide the blush. She remembered her instructions to Mizzi.
"So I thought I'd come now on the off chance," continued Billing. "Dear Miss Blair, I may not appear romantic or in earnest, but I am. I'm a plain man and want to marry you. You refused me once, but I don't like giving up altogether. Is it any good?"
"Not a bit," said Beatrice decisively. "Sorry, Ashford: I like you awfully, but not that way. So you must take that as final."
"I will for the present," he answered, looking gloomy for a moment. Then he brightened up. "But at the risk of offending I warn you that I mean to ask you again later on, in case you change your mind. In the American dictionary there's no such word as 'impossible.'"
Beatrice was roused at this.
"Look here, Ashford!" she said, biting her lip, "don't you talk to me like that! It's no good, and I won't have it! You'll make me lose my temper in a minute. I've never encouraged you, though I've always been fond of you in a friendly way."
"Then still there may——"
"You've as much chance," said Beatrice, with flashing eyes, "as a bob-tailed dog in fly time! There's one of your own Americanisms for you, and I hope you like it!"
Ashford Billing could not help laughing, though Beatrice seemed in a thoroughly bad temper.
"Say, that's fierce!" he said, relapsing. "Where did you hear that?" Then he became graver. "But I won't worry you any more. I'm sorry ... but I guess I'll study to improve my manners."
"Let's get to business," said Beatrice, sitting down. "I'm tired to death of this. What is it you want?"
"Well," he said, following her example, "I came here for two things. The first was to ask you to be my—oh, yes! good enough! I know that's a back number now. For the present, anyway. If that didn't materialize I wanted to know if you'd care to tour the provinces inA False Step. You know we close down in a week, and I'm going to start the tour—number one towns only—in the autumn."
Beatrice shook her head.
"No; I'm going to take a rest."
"You'll have lots of time to take a rest before the tour starts. Why not——"
"Look here, Ashford! You seem to think that I don't know my own mind in anything. I've already refused your offer for a London shop, and I don't mean to think about the provinces. See? I won't be worried any more—I'm——"
She paused and suddenly burst into tears, hiding her face in her hands. Ashford Billing, long accustomed to the vagaries of leading ladies and hardened in a rough school, was completely taken aback. He had known Beatrice for a fine actress and a finer woman—a woman who had charm, good looks and character. To see her break down for no apparent reason was not merely distressing—it was a shock.
"Say, little girl," he said kindly—and there was no hint of disrespect, though on other occasions he was scrupulous in his use of "Miss Blair"—"I'm real sorry. I didn't know you'd feel bad about it. What's the trouble? Can I be of any help?"
Beatrice recovered herself, feeling extremely ashamed.
"It's only nerves," she replied, drying her eyes with vicious dabs. "I didn't sleep last night. That's all. Give me a cigarette."
Billing opened his case and gave her one, looking gravely at her. There was something behind this, he thought, but what it was he could not guess.
"I won't worry you any more," he said quietly. "I'd have liked to book you for that tour, but I guess you know best. You've had a tiring season—long runs are the very deuce, though they pay the manager. You take that rest you talk of and make it a good one. But let me know when you feel like getting to work again."
"Thanks, Ashford," said Beatrice, smoking quickly. "You're a good sort. But, honestly, I'm thinking of giving up the stage altogether. I'm getting sick of it."
Billing, who had had the kudos of giving Beatrice her first chance, felt his heart sink. But, realizing that this was not the time to urge mature reflection, he held his peace. Beatrice talked idly a few minutes, trying to appear natural, but the effort was great.
"Where are you going for a holiday?" she asked.
"Flying," he answered. "Across the channel, perhaps. I've never done it yet."
"What a queer boy you are," she said, looking at him fixedly. "What on earth made you take to the aeroplane?"
"Why on earth did I take to the sky?" he laughed. "I did it to advertise my first production over here. It was the right goods, too, for every one talked about the actor-manager-air-man. When I found how exciting it was, I couldn't stop. That's all."
"You're odd creatures, you men," said Beatrice, musing. "I should have thought that managing theaters was exciting enough."
"Change of excitement—just like falling in love with a new sweetheart," he smiled.
"Ah! that sounds like a man! Tell me, Ashford, do all men run after every pretty face they see?"
"You want me to give away trade secrets, eh? Well, I suppose most men do ... until they're hooked."
"Ashford!Hooked!How loathsome!"
"I beg your pardon ... I was thinking as a cynical bachelor. What I mean is that I suppose most men swear off the pursuit once they've promised."
"And never relapse?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"The decent ones don't, but even they sometimes have a bit of a struggle. Take an extreme case: suppose a decent chap gets engaged, and force of circumstances keeps him apart from his divinity for ... years...."
"He ought to feel bound in honor not even to think of another!" flashed Beatrice.
Billing sighed.
"He ought, but he's up against a tough proposition. At least, the decent one tries...."
"Men are horrible," she said wearily.
"Pretty horrible," he agreed, "but there's an amazing lot of unseen goodness hidden in the dirt.... Men aren't so bad ... some men. But we're getting too serious. I must be off. It's been a bad morning's work for me." He smiled—not very whole-heartedly, but still he smiled. "You refuse both my offers. But you'll let me know if I can ever do anything, won't you? That's merely friendly."
Beatrice did not smile, but she looked appreciatively at him.
"Thanks, Ashford," she said. "Yes; I've just remembered one thing you can do. Read a play by a friend of mine."
He groaned in comic despair.
"All right!" he said, "but don't make me promise to produce it. Remember this is my living!"
"No; I only want you to read it. If it's bad, say so like a man: don't put the poor wretch off with the usual sugary criticism. And don't let it lie for months with all the rest of the lumber. You managers are cruel to authors, and you've had this one lying idle a long time."
He did not deny the charge, save by a smile.
"I'll read it this week, sure," he said. "What's it called, and who's the author?"
"I forget the name of the play. The author is a Mr. Mortimer."
She said the name quite easily and without a blush, but Billing on the instant thought, "Who the devil is he? And what does she want to push his play for?" But he did not allow his face even to hint at surprise. He just held out his hand and said good-by, as naturally as if he had not been rejected without any hope of a future recantation. For though he professed optimism, in his heart he felt that Beatrice was not for him, and the knowledge hurt.
"Good-by," he said cheerily. "Mind you have a good holiday, and come back to work soon."
"Good-by, Ashford," she said, trying to keep back some unnecessary tears. She had known him for some time and guessed what he was thinking. He, she was sure, was at least one of the men who tried. "You're a good sort. Good-by."
Then she telephoned to a garage: "I want my car at two o'clock!"
The Happy Heart was an ideal resting-place for a tired man, whether town or country-bred. To the former it made the stronger appeal, for there could be no greater contrast than between The Happy Heart and the flaring brazen public-houses which offer solace to the dwellers of the pavement. These attract by their fierce pledges of light, warmth and the stimulated oblivion of the moment; The Happy Heart draws the heart-strings alike of the physically tired and mentally jaded. Apart from the promise of good liquor—and all who go to Shereling can rely on the promise being fulfilled—it makes an esthetic appeal. For it is still an old-fashioned country tavern of the prettiest type, destined to make even the total abstainer wonder whether he be so absolutely in the right after all. It boasts a porch, over which a Virginia creeper spreads its amorous leaves; rose-bushes waft a welcome and the sure hope of peace to plowman or golfer after the day's striving. A meditative cow, apparently an artistic fixture, chews the cud in a field hard by from day to day. Smoke curls lazily from a huge and ancient chimney, as much as to say, "Be of good cheer! I come from the kitchen!" And there is, too, one of those signposts you see sometimes in the south,—a pillar placed separate from the inn itself with a swinging board above. The superscription, by the way, was due to the fancy of the squire's wife. When the squire entered into his inheritance and married he had had dreams. He wished to be like Dogberry and have everything handsome about him. His wife, a pretty imaginative creature, had imbued him with ideas for the betterment of his dependents, and he had tried to fulfil her wishes. He inclined to the practical side, and to him was due at least half the credit for the improved housing and sanitation of Shereling. She, practical enough, thought that estheticism should show an equal growth; and to her shade the visitor does reverence when he admires the profuse planting of trees, the village library with its good pictures, the addition of a tower to the church, and a fine organ. Last, but not least, she persuaded her husband to have the inn called The Happy Heart, instead of The Bull and Dog.
In this desirable residence Tony and Robert Hedderwick sat at two o'clock, enjoying their cigars after a copious lunch. Robert had slept the whole morning, and now felt a new man. Tony was tired, but disinclined for bed,—there had been too much to interest him up to the present, and he felt there might be more to come. This was such a new sensation that he had no trouble in propping his eyelids till the evening, and he listened with zest while Robert prattled cheerfully of his incredible adventures. They had, of course, agreed to work as partners, so long as tedium kept away: they were mutually attracted, and already more than friendly. Confidences had been exchanged: Tony had repeated to the envious churchwarden some of the tamer episodes of his dilettante existence; Robert had tried to cap them with his burglars and Alicia.
"But you ought to let your wife know something," suggested Tony. "She may be worrying."
The churchwarden looked a little uneasy. "If I write I might be traced by the postmark," he objected. "I suppose I might send a letter saying I'm all right to a friend, and get him to readdress it. But even then there's a danger...."
"There's danger any way," said Tony, smoking thoughtfully. "From what you tell me, I should think Mrs. Hedderwick would not hesitate to use detectives if she thought it necessary. I should hardly think it would be long before they picked up your trail, unless you communicate with her. Really, you know——" He broke off suddenly and laughed. "No! don't write; I've got a better plan. I won't tell you now, but keep it for a little—till a dull hour comes and we are hard up for something to do."
Robert, naturally curious, begged for enlightenment, but Tony was adamant. Changing his ground, he declared that there was no hurry for a day or two,—or at least for a few hours. Mrs. Hedderwick would probably take a couple of days to make up her mind to use the police, and meanwhile they were better employed in seizing the thrills of the moment. Tony got his way, of course: he was accustomed to lead and exact obedience. Personality and class-consciousness, coupled with a humor that appealed to his victims, made the task easy.
"I haven't told you yet," said he, after silencing Robert's objections, "what I did with my morning. Well, I looked round and got the general hang of the village. More, I followed our mysterious friend—let's call him Billy,—and from a distance saw him enter The Quiet House. (Queer place that, by the way. Surrounded by a brick wall ten feet high,—couldn't get a glimpse inside except through a gate.) The landlord tells me that he hasn't booked a bed here, so it looks either as if he meant to leave Shereling or stay at The Quiet House."
"A good job, too," commented Robert. "It wouldn't do for him to see me. Of course I should be recognized at once, and that would make him suspicious."
"Quite so," agreed Tony. "If he hung about here you'd have to stay in bed all day,—rather a depressing prospect when fun is promised. But if I were you I'd give a false name to the landlord. If Billy heard of Mr. Hedderwick it would make him think of things."
Robert had an instinctive repugnance to the plan. In some obscure way it savored of criminality, and the shackles of convention were still not wholly broken. But in the end Tony again triumphed, and the blameless Hedderwick was dubbed Bangs. He did not particularly care for the choice; but as Tony said he looked the perfect essential Bangs and that any other name would be unthinkable, Robert gave way.
"Oh, and I saw some one else," continued Tony when the point was settled. "A remarkably pretty girl. She, too, entered The Quiet House—some time after Billy. I had seen him safely in, and was waiting by the roadside when she came along. She snubbed me—quite properly,—but was kindly careless enough to drop a card. It bore the name of Miss Arkwright, who, I understand, owns The Quiet House. But somehow I don't feel sure that the card is hers."
"Why?"
"Dunno," said Tony with a dissatisfied air. "I haven't any reasonable evidence. A kind of intuition, I suppose, more than anything else. Somehow she doesn'tlookan Arkwright,—she hasn't got an Arkwright personality. Now, you simply exude Bangs at every pore,—you'reall right."
"What was she like?"
"Bangs being a respectable married man, mere good looks have no interest for him." ("Oh, but they have!" interrupted Robert with a naif eagerness.) "Well, they oughtn't to, then. As a matter of fact, she was deucedly pretty, and—good lord!"
He broke off and jumped to his feet in a listening attitude. Robert did the same, for in the porch they heard the voice of Lionel—or "Billy," as they had named their anonymous friend—in conversation with the landlord. The two men were discussing the weather, and Tony and his partner looked frantically at each other for a plan. In another minute Lionel might enter the parlor, and there was no escape. The door was but a yard distant from the porch: the window opened on the road. To leave the room by either egress might mean discovery, and for Robert to be recognized by Lionel would ruin all. That is, it might effectively put an end to the development of the adventure, for if "Billy's" suspicions were awakened he might take the first train back to town. At least he would be put on his guard, and that would make things more difficult than ever. It was imperative that Robert should be hidden from sight. But where? He could not be concealed under the table, for no cloth lay upon it, drooping decorously over the edges. There was no cupboard large enough to contain the bulk of Bangs. No friendly screen, the time-honored refuge of the dramatist, stood in any corner. No Falstaffian basket was there to promise aid. The room was a Sahara in view of the unhappy arrival of "Billy," and beads of perspiration stood out on Robert's brow as he waited, without a plan, helpless as a trapped rabbit.
Tony's friends used sometimes to complain that he put them in impossible situations. The charge was not unjust; but, as Tony would point out when accused, he was equally ready to sacrifice himself if circumstances demanded it. It was unfortunate, no doubt, that Fate seemed to prefer the immolation of a friend, but that was not his fault,—it was Fate who should be reviled. This was an occasion calling for presence of mind, resource and unflinching discipline. If the adventure of his life was to be carried through successfully, no minor considerations—such as friendship or soot—could be allowed to weigh. With a strong gesture he pointed to the old-fashioned hearth and capacious chimney. "Up you go!" he whispered. "Look sharp!"
Robert recoiled. "No! no!" he whispered piteously. "Not that! Surely——"
He was not allowed to argue. In another moment Robert felt himself led, as in a dream, to the fireplace. The next, and he had a foot upon the massive iron bars. Luckily there was no fire laid, no coal to disturb and proclaim his bid for obscurity. He looked up into the cavernous darkness and groaned in spirit; that was the first time he regretted his mad flight. Then, helping himself by projecting bricks, searching for insecure crevices with his toes, he began to climb the few feet necessary to safety.
By the time his ankles were the only visible evidence the hearth was covered with soot, and Tony looked anxiously round for something to remove it. As chance would have it, a broom stood in the corner of the parlor, left there by a careless servant after the morning's tidy-up. Triumph in his eye, Tony seized it and approached the hearth. But on getting there his purpose changed; temptation was too strong. Pushing the broom up the chimney, he used it as one uses a ramrod, helping the murmurous Robert in his upward path. "Excelsior, old friend!" whispered Tony, for an ankle could still be seen. "Excelsior!" and he thrust with frenzy. The only response was a muffled sound that floated down, a subdued kind of blasphemous choke. It filtered into the parlor as "Orpgh," but Tony did not relax his efforts till the ankle had disappeared. The next moment Lionel entered the room, followed by the landlord. The latter gave an astonished grunt as he surveyed Tony, hands and face smudged like a Christy Minstrel, and even Lionel's breeding found it hard to restrain a laugh.
"There has been a fall of soot, Mr. Glew," observed Tony blandly. "I found this broom, and was just going——"
"Lor', sir, don't you trouble," said Glew, scandalized that a guest could so demean himself. "The servant'll do that presently. I was just saying to the missus a week ago come Thursday that we should 'ave to get our chimneys cleaned soon. We'll 'ave to set about it in earnest now, and no mistake."
"I suppose you send over to Dallingham for a sweep?" suggested Lionel, sitting down. The landlord chuckled.
"Yes, sir, when the squire's at 'ome. 'E makes us. But when 'e's abroad, why, we do the old-fashioned way—light a batten of straw and burn the flue clear."
A slight scuffle proceeding from the chimney seemed to hint that Mr. Bangs had heard. Could it be that he feared lest they were going to clean the flue in the old-fashioned way now, or was he merely suffering from cramp? Whichever it was, he shifted: the noise was unmistakable, and the fall of more soot made the landlord shake his head.
"I doubt there's a bird got down the chimney," he said, scratching his chin. "Those jackdaws or young rooks do sometimes. Give me the broom, sir, and I'll soon have him down."
Tony's hand tightened on the broom.
"Let me," he said suavely. "There's no need for two people to get black." Without waiting for a reply he approached the fireplace and thrust his weapon strenuously aloft. It was no time for half measures, and Tony felt obliged to be as realistic as possible in the interests of his friend. Realism, however, may be carried to excess (as Mr. Bangs pointed out later with no little heat), and the fluttering of the mythical bird would have drawn tears to the eyes of humanitarians.
"It's no good, sir," said the landlord, dismally observing the soot; "it's out o' reach. I fancy I'd better get that straw and ha' done with it."
"That's rather too cruel, landlord," said Lionel from his seat. "I don't like the idea of smothering the poor beast."
"Put it this way, sir," said Glew, who was an amiable fellow; "is it better to smother it or leave it there to starve? My way 'ud take five minutes—yours a couple o' days. Well, sir?"
"I suppose you're right," said the soft-hearted Lionel, "but I don't half like——"
"Don't you worry," struck in Tony, who was beginning to get anxious. "I tell you what! It's a big chimney and I'm pretty slim. If you'll let me go up to-night after the pub's closed, Mr. Glew, I'll strip and climb. Of course we mustn't leave it there, and smothering doesn't appeal to me."
"You're a decent chap," said Lionel, moved to admiration. Tony modestly murmured "Not at all," and hoped the landlord was satisfied. But he was not. The very ideer! One o' his guests a-climbin' the chimney! No! he'd send the boy up. Hi!
Things were now looking very black in more than one sense, and the disciple of romance in the chimney had serious thoughts of a descent. But as the landlord opened his mouth to bellow for the boy, the man from up-stairs—"Mr. Beckett"—passed the door with his golf-clubs slung over his shoulder. He looked in and said, "I'm going up to the links, Mr. Glew. Dinner at seven-thirty, please," in a polished voice that carried a hint of an alien accent. Then he went on.
Lionel determined to follow. He had been to The Quiet House that morning and had learned that Miss Arkwright was away. She would be back, however, about four. The door had been answered by the dumb footman spoken of by the vicar, who had exhibited one of those dials that stand on hall tables—"Out—in at...." So Lionel had come back, meaning to kill a couple of hours at the inn. But when he saw the man "Beckett" it struck him that he might as well waste those hours on the links. He might possibly get into conversation with this man, whom he felt sure was the Turkish ambassador. Every thing pointed to it,—the newspaper paragraph—the accent—the assumed name (for he had confessed it to the vicar)—the age. Supposing this to be so, he might be worth watching. If Beatrice were right in her suspicions and conjectures, it was quite possible Mizzi would follow him to Shereling and seek an interview. Mizzi, in point of fact might have already made an assignation—she might even be waiting on the links! Supposing he found them ... well, at least he would have verified suspicions, and could chart his course by certain knowledge. Yes, he would follow on the off chance.
He did not take as long to make up his mind as we have taken to describe it. The reader, if kindly-hearted, should be glad of this; for meanwhile the unhappy Bangs has risked exceeding the proverbial allowance of "a peck of dirt" to be swallowed in a lifetime. Lionel, then, went out, leaving Tony to deal with the landlord. He sighed with relief, for at least the most important character had disappeared.
"Mr. Glew," he said winningly, "I have a little surprise for you. May I close the door for a moment?"
"Cert'n'y, sir," said the other, staring. His bovine gaze followed Tony as he walked to the fireplace, stooped down, and said gently, "Come, birdie, come!"—a song of his childhood flitting suddenly across his brain. To make his meaning perfectly clear, he added, "It's all right, Bangs. You may get down from the table!" Then he discreetly retired a few paces and waited. He had not to wait long.
"Mygoard!" said the landlord explosively, and indeed there was excuse for the expression. It was caused by the extraordinary entrance of Mr. Bangs. He clambered down painfully for a few feet, but just as he reached the bottom his foot slipped and he sat down emphatically, facing them, in the grate. The appearance of this gnome, silent, save for a strange wheezing that rasped its way through a soot-slaked windpipe, baffled description. Tony looked at the figure with a mournful compassion, and the landlord rocked drunkenly against the door.
"You see, Mr. Glew," said Tony soothingly, "it happened like this. My friend—who, I am sure, will corroborate me as soon as he has had a drink,—my friend and I had a dispute about chimneys. He averred that they often concealed a 'priest's hole,'—one of those hiding-places for Popish priests we read about. I disagreed, and our dispute became so heated that we even staked money—Mr. Bangs, on the probable existence of such a chamber here, I on the negative side. He is an enthusiast, and nothing would content him but the immediate settlement of the question. So, despite my protests, up he climbed. Just as he was about to descend, you and the other gentleman entered. Conceive the position! He naturally had no wish to be discovered in such a situation, and waited, hoping the parlor would soon be empty. Your suggestion of the batten upset all calculations. Now, I am sure you will spare his feelings and say nothing of this. All he requires is a hot bath. You quite understand?"
The landlord gave a crow of assent. But as he went down the passage a deep rumbling, suppressed but distinct, betokened that he could not regard the situation seriously. When the door was closed Tony turned apologetically to his companion-in-arms.
"Awfully sorry, old chap," he said, "but it was one of those things that had to be. You quite see that, I hope?"
"Krwx!" said the gnome, weeping. "Krwx! airp—krwx!"
At the club-house Lionel put his name down for a week's membership, thinking it might be useful. He learned from the local professional in the course of a short chat that there were only some half-dozen players out that afternoon, all being men. Mizzi, therefore, had not assumed the disguise of a golfer, though she might be waiting somewhere on the horizon at an appointed trysting-place. The ambassador drove from the first tee while they were talking: he was playing a solitary game against bogey, who—judging from the first three shots—appeared likely to win. The fact that he did not take a caddy might mean anything—a sense of shame or an expected meeting with Mizzi. Lionel, that he might have a reasonable excuse for keeping him under observation, borrowed some clubs from the pro. on the plea that his own had not yet arrived. He had not played golf for years, but trusted that some of his ancient skill might still remain,—enough, at least, to justify his appearance on the links.
The scheme, however, produced little, for there was no sign of Mizzi. Lionel played slowly, keeping a methodical hole behind all the way. At the fifteenth, however, he caught up with his quarry. In a moment of ill-judged enthusiasm, and fired by the thrill of a superlative brassie-shot, he went all out for his third. It was a long hole—bogey five—and there was a deep bunker guarding the green. Lionel, after some consideration, took the mashie in preference to the iron. It was a mistake, for the green was farther than he thought. He made a beautiful full shot that flew straight but fell short, deep in the heart of the bunker. "Spoilt it!" thought Lionel with natural melancholy. "Ah! well! Not so bad, considering I haven't played for so long."
As he walked on he remembered with a pang that he had forgotten the ambassador. In the pleasure excited by a perfect drive, a perfect brassie-shot, and an ill-fated, ill-judged, but clean full mashie, he had lost sight of the other's existence. Now he was nowhere to be seen. "Confound it!" thought Lionel uneasily; "what a kid I am to get carried away by the game! Has he holed out and gone on, or is he by any chance in that bunker?"
He hurried forward, now thinking only of the chase; and as he drew nearer he heard curious sounds proceeding from the grave of so many hopes. Voluble, emphatic and distinct utterance in an alien tongue floated through the abashed ether, and with a sigh of relief Lionel approached and stood on the brink of the pit.
It was a deep sandy hollow, shored up on the farther side with stout banks of timber, and at the bottom stood the ambassador cursing his ball. So intent was he on this futile but human act, that he did not observe his audience above. Lionel stood and watched, not ill-pleased that an aged arbiter of the peace of nations could on occasion show some feeling, real if regrettable. Presently the exasperated diplomat ceased his objurgations, swung his niblick once more and tried to get out. He struck once and the ball bounded heartily against the timbers, falling back at his very feet. He smote again and a shower of stinging sand whipped sharply in his face. "Whee!" he said distinctly, and Lionel's cheek tingled in sympathy. He swung a third time and with neat precision played a flint-stone well on the green, laying it dead. Being a man of obvious determination, though limited skill, he tried again, and yet once more. Then, with uncouth barbaric cries, which Lionel rightly guessed to be in the Turkish language, he lashed flail-wise at the ball. It rolled, leaped, hopped—grew vivid with excitement, but still it never left the bunker.
He gave it up at last. This cunning diplomat, this indomitable statesman, was obliged to own himself defeated. Picking up the ball, he deliberately took a knife from his pocket and tried to cut it in half. This proving impossible, he flung it away, resolved that nevermore should he be troubled with this particular disturber of the peace. Then with a resolute quiet action, he broke his niblick across his knee. Lionel, hoping to get into conversation, left his eyrie and joined him in the pit.
"My turn now, sir!" he said with a fictitious cheerfulness. "I hoped the green was twenty yards closer. This is a beastly place to get out of."
It was a false move. Had he waited till the other had done a hole in three, or at least made one good approach, Lionel might have found him good-humored, conversational, entertaining. But at the moment he was not himself. With a contemptuous "Allez au diable!" the ambassador looked sourly on Lionel and climbed slowly up the hill. Lionel, disappointed but not resentful, watched him drive from the next tee.
He followed him round without result, and in the fulness of time saw him leave the golf-house and walk dejectedly home. After watching him enter The Happy Heart, Lionel made his way peacefully to The Quiet House, hoping Miss Arkwright would have returned. In this he was not disappointed, for the silent footman bowed in answer to his question and held the door invitingly open. Lionel accepted the unspoken welcome, entered and was shown into the drawing-room. The footman placed a chair and motioned that he should sit down. Lionel obeyed with a vague feeling that something was amiss. Was it the silence of the footman that gave him an uncanny impression, or was it the atmosphere of the house? He had heard of presentiments of ill under similar circumstances and had disbelieved them all, but now it was different ... he was uneasy. After sitting uncomfortably in his chair, half expecting it to play some goblin trick upon him, he got up and began to look at a picture hanging above the mantelpiece.
He was still busy with his scrutiny when he heard the door open and close again behind him. Turning at the sound, he saw a lady standing perfectly still in the middle of the room. Lionel gasped, and almost fell. "You!" he quavered, sure now that wizardry was at work. "You!"
"Please sit down," said a grave voice. "I am Miss Arkwright."
Lionel pulled himself together with an effort, but he did not sit down.
"No," he objected steadily. "I am sorry to contradict you, but that is not true. You are playing a trick on me for some reason that I can not understand. But I swear that you are not Miss Arkwright."
The lady smiled, as one who soothes a maniac.
"Indeed?" she said courteously. "Then perhaps you will tell me who I am?"
"You are Miss Beatrice Blair," said Lionel in a hard voice. He was bitterly disappointed, and no wonder.
"Beatrice Blair?" repeated the other, with an astonishment that could not but be genuine. "Whom do you mean? Who is Beatrice Blair?"
"She was playing last night at the Macready Theater," returned Lionel with a patient dignity. "How she contrives to be at Shereling at this hour, mystifying a poor wretch whose only fault is a too ardent devotion, I can not explain."
This he thought rather a fine speech, and he was relieved to see the clearing of her brow. But he was mistaken as to the cause.
"The Macready Theater!" cried the lady in a tone of satisfaction. "Ah! I can guess now. You must mean my sister, of course. There can be no other explanation. I know she is"—she shuddered daintily—"an actress, but I had quite forgotten her nom de guerre."
"Her ... sister ..." repeated Lionel dully. "Why, yes ... I thought I was calling on her sister ... I wished to see her—not Miss Blair again...."
He sat down, unable to realize it yet.
"Did you not know we were twins?" she asked, clearly anxious to help him.
"I had heard ... but I did not expect...."
"To find the resemblance so striking? I have not seen my sister for years, but when we were younger strangers often mistook us. We were mutual replicas. I imagine from your surprise that the resemblance is still very marked."
"That is the feeblest way of putting it," he answered, still staring as if fascinated. "You are identical in every feature—eyes—hair—even the voice...."
"Perhaps you might find that we differ in disposition—in character——"
He interrupted bruskly, forcing himself to accept the incredible.
"Excuse me; but I can not imagine any one so perfect as Miss Blair."
The lady sighed. "She is on the stage."
"Good heavens, madam!" said Lionel with scornful candor. "Does the stage spell infamy to you? I thought that attitude wasvieux jeunow."
"I may be old-fashioned," she said primly, "but I am under few illusions. Of course I would not even hint that my sister is likely to tread the downward path" ("Oh,lord!" he groaned in spirit)—"one of our family must have sufficient firmness of character to rise above evenherenvironment. But we know the old proverb of pitch and defilement; can she honestly hope to retain her bloom unsullied?"
"Have you ever—I won't say 'met an actor or actress,'" asked Lionel in polite wrath, "but, been to a theater?"
"Certainly. Three pantomimes andOur Boys."
"But that is—how many years ago?"
"It was a revival of the play," she said with a blush, and Lionel was glad to notice that she had at least one human trait. "I am thankful to say that I did not laugh."
"And you rest your condemnation on that?" he asked, disgusted that so pretty a creature could be so narrow.
"On that, on what I have been told, and on the ridiculous number of post-card favorites that I see—often in deplorable dishabille—in every stationer's shop. I have deliberately come to the conclusion that the stage is immoral. How, then, can I avoid condemning my sister's lamentable choice of a career?"
Lionel rose, pale with anger, forgetful of his errand.
"I am sorry to hear it," he said with absurd dignity. Of course, he ought to have laughed and talked about the garden. "I am sorry you persist in such a hasty condemnation of a noble profession——"
"And of Miss Blair," she put in with a sly jealousy.
"If you like," he flung out. "I can not allow any one—even you—to criticize her. I regret, therefore, that I shall not be able to stop the night."
"I was not aware," she said with an unmoved countenance, "that I had given you an invitation."
Lionel was so taken aback that he sat down abruptly in his chair. Then the humor of the situation came to his rescue and he laughed outright. The lady, too, though she made a gallant effort to control herself, failed miserably. In a moment the pair of them were united by the most perfect bond (save one) that earth knows—the mutual appreciation of a jest.
Lionel, as the waves of their mirth broke gently into ripples and presently dissolved in the foam of smiles, realized how foolish he had been. When he set out first for The Quiet House he had taken it for granted that Beatrice had telegraphed to bespeak her sister's hospitality. It was only too clear now that she had not done this, either through forgetfulness, pressure of work, or procrastination. He had simply assumed that Miss Arkwright would receive him as her guest, and the conversation had been too briskly controversial to allow him to think. Now he was doubly annoyed at his clumsiness: he had behaved like a boor and had sacrificed the interests of Beatrice to an ill-timed chivalry. His cue was submission at all costs for Beatrice's sake.
"I apologize," he said with a frank good humor. "I thought your sister had already engaged your good offices on my behalf." He noticed hopefully that Miss Arkwright's eyes still twinkled with amusement. Clearly she was not all prunes and prisms.
"I have heard nothing," said the lady much more sweetly. "No doubt she meant to write, and forgot. Poor Beatrice! She was always harum-scarum."
To a sensitive man this might have implied a lack of confidence in the protégé of Beatrice, and Lionel moved uneasily.
"I hope," he said humbly, "that you will forgive me. I trust that you will allow me to prove my good faith—that——"
"I shall ask you to dine and sleep?" she said bluntly, though a charming smile softened the crudity of her words. "Well, Mr.——?"
"Mortimer. Lionel Mortimer."
"Mr. Mortimer, I do not doubt your word for a moment. I should enjoy cultivating your acquaintance and hearing some first-hand news of my sister. But I fear it is impossible. You see there are the proprieties to be considered. I am a single lady, and perhaps...."
To Lionel this was an astonishing view of the case. After his unconventional week at the Bloomsbury flat he was poorly qualified to appreciate the apprehensions of Miss Arkwright. His brain told him idly that she was perfectly right, but his heart merely insisted on the abyss between her outlook and her sister's. And, as usually happens, the heart found the readier audience.
"Quite so—quite so! But surely you——"
"Are old enough?" she suggested helpfully, plunging him deeper.
"No—no! I did not mean that! I only meant that surely you have a housekeeper—some person of mature age, much older—oh!mucholder than yourself—who would save the situation?"
"Well," she admitted with an exasperating coyness, "I have such a domestic, it is true. Mrs. Wetherby is sixty. Do you think that would do?"
"Admirably!" cried Lionel in triumph, caring nothing for his recent buffets. "Admirably! Mrs. Wetherby shall protect you with the armor of a centurion—or of a Lord Nelson," he added scrupulously, remembering that the pre-dreadnought era would carry more conviction. "The thing is arranged! I shall stay after all!"
"Thank you," returned Miss Arkwright with a demure twinkle. ("Is she a prude? Oh, is she?" he reflected, watching.) "Of course, I shall be delighted to do all I can for a friend of Beatrice. You reallydoknow her?" she asked in pretty appeal, as if frightened at her own rashness.
"If you like," said Lionel, luxuriously recalling his wonderful week, "I shall paint a word-picture of her charms. I shall tell you how her eyes shame the starlight—how her hair can enmesh the hearts of all beholders—how her lips——"
"I do not think I need trouble you," interrupted his hostess rather distantly. "No doubt Beatrice is an attractive young person——"
"Young person!" he repeated, horror-struck. "Beatrice Blair ayoung person! Profanity! Please, please do not——"
"I shall leave you to think of a better description," she said, with a smile of pity that held no scorn. "I have some letters to write, and I fear you will have to dine alone. You must excuse me, but it is inevitable.... Do you mind ringing the bell?"
He obeyed, and a moment later the footman entered. "Take this gentleman to the blue room, Forbes," said Miss Arkwright. "See that he has everything he wants." The footman bowed and held the door open for Lionel. "Dinner is at half past seven. If you are dull before then, please go to the library. But perhaps you are not a reader? Perhaps you are of those 'whose only books are——'" She checked herself, as if remembering her own correctness or the immobile Forbes.
"They taught me only wisdom—the best wisdom of all," said Lionel, answering the unfinished quotation. Then he went out, wondering.
"Bloomsbury, London."Dear Mr. Mortimer,—Long before this reaches you my sister will have received a telegram introducing you properly. I am so sorry that I forgot to wire before, but I have been so harassed and busy that I never thought about it. A true woman, you will say—I can almost see your superior smile as I sit writing here, yet I dare to hope that the smile will not be too superior, that a touch of pity will creep in when you remember that my worry is for a husband's freedom. If only I can save Lukos—but it is foolish to waste time on 'if's.' Imeanto succeed, and you have promised to help me. You have my heartfelt gratitude already."Thank you for your letter telling me of your arrival at The Quiet House. Do not be discouraged that you have not seen Mizzi yet, and that you have been unable to approach the ambassador again. I have been working very hard and am not dissatisfied with the results, though they would look paltry if I committed them to paper. My information leads me to think that we are on the right track—that Mizziisthe guilty party—that sooner or later an attemptwillbe made to sell the document—and lastly that we must suspect every one. Yes,every one! Even my sister, perhaps, and that brings me to the more important part of my letter."I have not seen Winifred for some years, but from the hints you gave me in your letter I gather that she is of distinctly prepossessing appearance. (Isn't that how the police reports usually describe it?) My pen hesitates whether to write 'Be on your guard' or not. Shall I?... may I?... But it is written and must stand. Oh! do not imagine that I am distrustful—Iknowyou can be relied on—Iknowyou can be true and firm and faithful: but my heart fails when I remember that you are a man; encompassed, too, by perils you hardly perceive, snares almost impalpable. Forgive me! I have no right to speak like this.... I know you are honorable ... but the greatness of the stake forces me to utter my warning—to foresee danger which may be remote—to leave no stone unturned to insure a triumph—to guard against any weakness, however venial or trivial, which may make my path—and the path of Lukos!—more difficult."This is a rambling letter. It is midnight, and I have had a tiring day. Forgive me and understand; or, if you can not understand, forgive! I urge you again to watch my sister carefully.... Heavens! it seems a perfidy; but the life of Lukos!... Watch her, I say again. I have grave cause for suspicion, though she does not guess I suspect. Why she, above all others, should betray me I can not tell. I had hoped that—but this is weak and futile.Watch her carefully."You say that up to the present nothing has happened. It may well be that nothing will happen for a time. In any case, you are of the greatest service by remaining at The Quiet House—on guard! Stay there at all costs, till you hear from me again. Do whatshetells you—play the hypocrite if need be—strive to conciliate her, butwatch. I have London under my eyes."So much for the chief business. As for news, the play ceases very shortly and I may be able to arrange a meeting, when we can talk things over. On the whole, I am happy, being busy,—at least as happy as I can expect to be until.... Oh! by the way, since we parted I have had another offer of marriage. Such a nice man, too. But if only men could be satisfied with being truefriends.... Some men can, I know, but the rest ... I am tired. Good night, my friend.—Your friend,"Beatrice Blair."
"Bloomsbury, London.
"Dear Mr. Mortimer,—Long before this reaches you my sister will have received a telegram introducing you properly. I am so sorry that I forgot to wire before, but I have been so harassed and busy that I never thought about it. A true woman, you will say—I can almost see your superior smile as I sit writing here, yet I dare to hope that the smile will not be too superior, that a touch of pity will creep in when you remember that my worry is for a husband's freedom. If only I can save Lukos—but it is foolish to waste time on 'if's.' Imeanto succeed, and you have promised to help me. You have my heartfelt gratitude already.
"Thank you for your letter telling me of your arrival at The Quiet House. Do not be discouraged that you have not seen Mizzi yet, and that you have been unable to approach the ambassador again. I have been working very hard and am not dissatisfied with the results, though they would look paltry if I committed them to paper. My information leads me to think that we are on the right track—that Mizziisthe guilty party—that sooner or later an attemptwillbe made to sell the document—and lastly that we must suspect every one. Yes,every one! Even my sister, perhaps, and that brings me to the more important part of my letter.
"I have not seen Winifred for some years, but from the hints you gave me in your letter I gather that she is of distinctly prepossessing appearance. (Isn't that how the police reports usually describe it?) My pen hesitates whether to write 'Be on your guard' or not. Shall I?... may I?... But it is written and must stand. Oh! do not imagine that I am distrustful—Iknowyou can be relied on—Iknowyou can be true and firm and faithful: but my heart fails when I remember that you are a man; encompassed, too, by perils you hardly perceive, snares almost impalpable. Forgive me! I have no right to speak like this.... I know you are honorable ... but the greatness of the stake forces me to utter my warning—to foresee danger which may be remote—to leave no stone unturned to insure a triumph—to guard against any weakness, however venial or trivial, which may make my path—and the path of Lukos!—more difficult.
"This is a rambling letter. It is midnight, and I have had a tiring day. Forgive me and understand; or, if you can not understand, forgive! I urge you again to watch my sister carefully.... Heavens! it seems a perfidy; but the life of Lukos!... Watch her, I say again. I have grave cause for suspicion, though she does not guess I suspect. Why she, above all others, should betray me I can not tell. I had hoped that—but this is weak and futile.Watch her carefully.
"You say that up to the present nothing has happened. It may well be that nothing will happen for a time. In any case, you are of the greatest service by remaining at The Quiet House—on guard! Stay there at all costs, till you hear from me again. Do whatshetells you—play the hypocrite if need be—strive to conciliate her, butwatch. I have London under my eyes.
"So much for the chief business. As for news, the play ceases very shortly and I may be able to arrange a meeting, when we can talk things over. On the whole, I am happy, being busy,—at least as happy as I can expect to be until.... Oh! by the way, since we parted I have had another offer of marriage. Such a nice man, too. But if only men could be satisfied with being truefriends.... Some men can, I know, but the rest ... I am tired. Good night, my friend.—Your friend,
"Beatrice Blair."
Such was the letter that Lionel was reading for the fiftieth time since, a fortnight past, it had come to The Quiet House. It gave him little information and less comfort. From the formal "Dear Mr. Mortimer" ("Hang it! I couldn'texpect'Lionel'!" he told himself savagely) to the distant intimacy of "Your friend Beatrice Blair," it was unsatisfying to a devoted adherent of romance. Yet what else could he ask for? He was not in love—no! he was not in love, for there was a husband! Besides, Beatrice would be the last person to lead him on when.... Stay! there had been temptation on her part in the cab and in the dressing-room. Yes, therehad; there was no sense in pretending to himself that there had been no encouragement: therehad. Charity (a word, by the way, which the Revised Version has altered to "Love") on the instant said: "Coxcomb! She led you on to engage your services for Lukos. A pardonable deception." "Very well," grumbled Lionel, admitting the justice of the argument, "let it be so. But it seems a little rough on...?"
Leaving this, he turned to other items, trying to read some new shades of meaning into the too-well-remembered words. She was working hard—good: she was fairly happy—good: he must stay where he was—good: watching—good: Lukos—Lukos—again Lukos ... h'm ... yes, good—certainly good. The beggar was her husband, after all. Good. The sister was pretty—a smile: he must be on his guard ... h'm ... perfidy ... a traitor ... of prepossessing appearance ... could she be ... jealous?
"Coxcomb!" said reason again: "look at the end—'Yourfriend.' Then, too, there is 'another proposal ... such a nice man.' Jealousy? Ha! ha!" Lionel swallowed the pill with a bad grace and put the letter away.
He had been at The Quiet House for a little more than a fortnight, and up to the present he had achieved nothing. Mizzi had made no sign, the ambassador was invisible, no further instructions had come from Beatrice. Yet he had been interested and amused, studying the character of his hostess and waiting, Micawber-like, for something to turn up.
His position was the oddest conceivable. Since Beatrice's telegram ("She introduces you," said Miss Arkwright, "at the price of five and threepence. You must be an exceptional man!") he had been more than a guest, almost an old acquaintance. He had been accepted without question, treated as an equal, hall-marked with the stamp of an Arkwright's approval, because the Arkwrights, it appeared, prided themselves on their hospitality. It was not for the sake of Beatrice alone that he received so warm a welcome: she was a lady to be mentioned with reserve, being "on the stage." But she was an Arkwright, and a guest vouched for (especially at five and threepence) by an Arkwright was a person to be considered.
This at a price, and a curious price at that. "In some things I am a faddist," Miss Arkwright had said the morning after his arrival. "I admit it freely. I am glad to welcome you here, Mr. Mortimer, but if you stay you must give me your word not to go outside my grounds during your visit. The garden is large—the village uninteresting, so your curtailed liberty will not be much of a deprivation. You think me insane, perhaps? Well, I have reasons for my wish,—personal reasons into which I can not enter. That is the only stipulation I make: can you accept it?"
He said yes, for refusal meant a lodging at the inn, where he could not watch her. In his letter to Beatrice he told her of this extraordinary whim, and asked whether she thought it better to agree or to pack up and go. Her "stay at all costs" was sufficient answer, and though he hoped this did not mean "If need arise, break bounds and your word," still he meant to do it if necessary. The life of Lukos and her happiness were worth more than a detective's honor.
But up to the present there had been no question of breaking bounds. He could see nothing of Mr. "Beckett" nor Mizzi, but he was obeying Beatrice. And it was not unpleasant even for a detective to enjoy luxurious idleness, a perfect garden and the society of a charming woman. For she was charming, despite her fads and bigotry. She was well read, exceedingly pretty, and could talk. The mornings she spent in writing and arranging her household affairs. After lunch she gave herself up to him entirely. Tea they usually had together in the summer-house. About five she always excused herself, and Lionel dined alone. He was given to understand that she was busy on a history of the Arkwright family and could work best at night. Consequently he never saw anything of her again till breakfast.
This naturally struck him as one of the most suspicious features of the case. Suspicious—not in the sense that Miss Arkwright was an Ottoman conspirator, for that he had been instructed to expect; but suspicious for a deeper reason. More than once during the first week of his stay he had caught himself wondering, "Can she be, by any chance, Beatrice herself, masquerading as her own sister?" It was a solution that suggested itself to a mind seeking explanation of extraordinary things, extraordinary people. It was the most natural suspicion in the world, considering what he had gone through. He rejected it at first as being preposterous and disloyal, but common sense and a dislike of being victimized made him return to the idea and weigh it from day to day.
In the end he discarded the theory. It was, he thought, too enormous a deception to be carried through with success: even Beatrice, actress though she was, could not have the histrionic powers necessary to the feat; such atour de force, continued from day to day, was impossible. Besides, Miss Arkwright and her sister were different in many points. They were, it is true, identical in voice, feature and carriage, but their outlook and ideas were far asunder. Winifred Arkwright obviously hated the stage, while Beatrice Blair was an actress; Winifred seemed timid in some respects, Beatrice radiated courage; the latter had never mentioned religion; the former was a Christian Scientist; Beatrice adored asparagus; Winifred's weakness was kidney beans. These, and a hundred other variations, trivial in themselves but overwhelming in the mass, gave him heart of grace and a fresh faith in his lady of the stage.
But despite all this he claimed that Winifredmightbe Beatrice. It was almost unthinkable, but still itmightbe so. What gave the coup de grâce, at least for a time, to his vain imaginings was a copy ofThe Times. It has been said that Miss Arkwright always left him after five: this would have given her time to motor to London and play at the theater if she had been Beatrice Blair. But Beatrice herself had written that the play was soon to be taken off: when he saw an announcement in the newspaper that the Macready Theater was closed, he wondered if his hostess would join him at dinner that night. If shedid, why, it would be a damning fact. But she did not, either on that or any subsequent day. He breathed more freely, and went on waiting as patiently as he might.
The task of learning the house, grounds and personnel did not take long. The servants were an aged cook, whom he never saw; a gardener; Forbes the footman; and the housekeeper, Mrs. Wetherby, a silent faded woman of over sixty, whose recreation outside her duties was the game of patience. A sad and oppressive creature, she, whose life had been a tragedy. The details were not given, though Lionel gathered that it had been a very ordinary tragedy, but enough to wither her life and make her shun her kind. Both the men servants were dumb—an odd circumstance, but Lionel was getting used to oddity. He expressed surprise one day, hoping to draw out his hostess. She was frank about the matter: "They are dumb, poor creatures, but their affliction is my gain. Most servants gossip or argue. Mine do neither, and that is why I was at some pains to engage them. It works very well, though a stranger is naturally surprised at first."
The more he saw of her, the more he admired. The primness of her attitude, when he began to know her better, struck him as being anything but ineradicable; she was in some things exceedingly human. They were talking one afternoon of Christian Science, and Lionel asked her if she really believed there was no such thing as pain.
"Of course," she said promptly. "Pain is merely ignorance."
"Then you must admit," he said, "that there can be no pleasure."
She was puzzled. "How so?"
"Everything must have its foil. Good requires evil as its negative, or there is—nothing. So to feel pleasure one must postulate pain. Otherwise you are incapable of pleasure."
"Oh, but I'mnot!" she said impulsively, and laughed.
"Then where are your science and your logic?"
"You mean I am a woman and illogical." She parried, evading the dilemma. "When you understand our true position you will realize how fallacious are your arguments. Now, what do you think ofPendennis?"
He laughed again, but talked Thackeray willingly enough. When, a few moments later, she idly plucked a rose and pricked her finger on a thorn, giving a little cry, he said humorously, "Ignorance, not pain!" She disdained to notice him, but smelt the rose luxuriously. "The illusion of pleasure?" he suggested, pressing the thrust home. Her eyes sparkled with indignation, but he smiled into them unafraid. They were getting on capitally, he felt, and it was pleasant to find Miss Arkwright so much of a woman. She would pay for flirtatious treatment, he thought villainously, reflecting what a shame it was that lips so alluring should be unkissed. Lionel, you may have observed, was an adaptable creature. Fickle? Surely not. He had mapped his course and was steering strictly according to compass. While Beatrice was still a grass-widow the more innocent paths of dalliance showed no warning board, "Trespassers will be Prosecuted." They were not applauded, it is true—and here he readily confessed his weakness,—but they were not forbidden. So why, in the strict execution of the charge laid upon him, may he not try to persuade Miss Arkwright to take a less frigid view of life? The reader, virtuous soul, may censure: I can only record. Yet, too, it was something in the nature of a drug to his conscience. When he had time to think (and he had plenty of time for that) he loathed the idea of being there under false pretenses, playing the spy. It was all very well arguing that it was for the sake of Beatrice, but it would have been an easier task if Winifred had not been so charming. She was too charming, but it had to be done.... Of course, he ought to have refused a hint of dalliance, but one step leads to another, and man is frail. Besides, it had not gone very far ... not far enough to hurt either him or her.
One mundane detail must be given in this chapter. The morning after his arrival he had written to London for a supply of clothes. For the credit of the Blair side of the family he felt that some of Beatrice's notes ought to be spent on an adequate wardrobe. They came the day after, giving color to the excuse that his valet had got drunk and pawned the contents of his flat two hours after his leaving London. Miss Arkwright did not seem to think it strange; anything might happen in that wicked city. But she considered the Homburg hat a little "too continental." This was before her education had begun in earnest.