"Capital!" whispered Lionel. "Drench him first, then stun him with the jug. Any other trifles to bestow? Soap—hair-brushes—a boot or two? Any little knickknacks——"
"The ladder is moving!"
It was being shifted a few inches, apparently to a better foothold. Lionel seized the jug and made ready for action.
"Cigar or cocoa-nut, lidy?" he whispered joyously as he threw up the sash.
"Dinnerasusual, sir?" said the landlord of The Happy Heart, looking into the parlor where Tony and Robert were playing piquet.
"Please, Mr. Glew," said Tony. "Seven o'clock as usual. Oh, by the way, have you got such a thing as a lantern?"
"A lantern!" interjected Robert in surprise. "Why, what——" He was checked by a kick under the table.
"I dare say I can find you one, sir," said the landlord. "We don't need 'em these summer nights, but I'll be bound there's one knocking about somewhere."
"Thanks. My friend and I are enthusiastic collectors of butterflies and moths. We mean to try for some of the latter to-night; so, if we are not in till late, you won't be surprised or imagine burglars."
"Bless you, no, sir!" said Glew, and went out to look for the lantern. As soon as the door closed Robert began to speak.
"Don't think me censorious, Mr. Wild, if you please; but, really now, was there any need for that?"
"The lantern? Rather! We may have to——"
"No—not the lantern. The—the perversion——"
"Oh! you mean the lie. Don't apologize, Bangs, old chap! you haven't offended me in the least. I like people to say what they think.—Well, the lie.... Yes, I think it was necessary. Conspirators can't stick at trifles. Besides, it's onmyconscience, so there's no need for you to worry."
"But wouldn't an excuse——"
"Have done equally well? Possibly, though I never save the ha'porth of tar. And an excuse would have been only a lie in another form—just as culpable. But don't let's worry over this: I want to tell you of the plan of campaign."
Robert subsided, content to have recorded a protest, however mild. He loved adventure; but, being a man trained in meticulous accuracy, he did not take kindly to deception—verbal deception, at any rate. The path of an adventurer he had found a trifle thorny, trodden by a man of conscience, but still he had enjoyed it and hoped to tread it still further. But he was careful to leave most of the talking to his comrade.
"While you, Bangs," pursued Tony, leaning against the mantelpiece, "have been living the lotus life and acting slugabed, I have been working hard. Ever since I got a hint that Brown was in touch with The Quiet House I have been following him like the proverbial sleuth hound. I have discovered—at the expense of torn trousers and soaking feet—that he keeps tryst nightly with that charming bit of womanhood I spoke to once—and only once, alas! He has a private entry over the wall, having driven some large nails into the outer side, well off the beaten track. Up there the gay Lothario climbs—drops into the garden—meets his divinity, andvoilà tout!"
"What happens?" asked Robert eagerly.
"The usual thing, Bangs. Exchange of kisses and confidences—which I, alas! can hear but imperfectly."
"But you don't listen!" exclaimed Robert, scandalized. Tony sighed.
"I have to steel myself. In high politics, you know ... but, of course, I shall never tell."
"Oh!"
The disappointment was obvious, and Tony laughed.
"No, old fellow, love's young dream and so forth must be respected. Honestly, I've only watched, hoping to get a clew—perhaps some conversation with the girl when Brown goes home. No good! No earthly good! Brown sees her safe to the house and then comes back. He stands on a convenient garden roller and climbs. Then he drops, and off home. Ditto me, disgusted, envious, lacking information. To-night I mean to move."
"Yes!"
"We'll lie in wait, Bangs, and have a word with them. A coil of rope and a sack—those shall be our only tools. While Brown is talking we'll try to slip the sack over his head and tie him up. I don't think the lady will scream, for it seems to me that there's a kind of counterplot afoot—either against Billy, the Turkish government, or Miss Arkwright. (I still feel sure she is not Miss Arkwright, but a maid of sorts.) Now, if I'm right in my conjectures she won't be keen on advertising Brown's presence to her mistress. If I'm wrong and shedoesscream and help comes, we must bolt to the wall and clear out at once. If we succeed, we'll have a talk with her and try to find out something. I'm tired of waiting in the dark. Now, are you game to help?"
Robert wagged his head nervously.
"Of course, Mr. Wild, I'm as ready for adventure as I ever was. But—but this is a serious business. It—it might mean prison!"
"It might," agreed Tony; "but I don't think it need if we're smart. Anyhow, we must be prepared to risk a little for a great adventure. If we're cute about the sack business I think I can manage the roping part all right. You would have to hold the lady."
"B-but——"
"She's awfully pretty ..."
"That is no inducement, Mr. Wild. You forget——"
"Come, Bangs, none of your 'perversions!' I don't forget anything. How many chaps half your age would jump at the chance of capturing a beautiful anarchist!"
"I am not an old man yet, Mr. Wild," said Robert with some heat. "You misunderstand me. I love romance and can take an interest—a detached interest, of course—an appreciative and artistic interest in a pretty woman. What I am thinking of is the law. But, since you put it like that, I will come and risk it."
"Good," said Tony, concealing a smile. "Don't let your interest be too detached, old boy, or she may get away into the house. Grip her firmly by the wrists."
They spent the rest of the summer evening in maturing their plans and piquet. Having given his word Mr. Hedderwick scorned to withdraw, though it was plain that he did not relish the prospect of a night attack. Tony, in addition to the lantern, procured some rope and a sack from the landlord. "To put the moths in, Mr. Glew," he said brightly by way of explanation.
"To put the morths in!" repeated Glew in a dazed fashion. "To put the MORTHS in! TO PUT THE——"
He was still repeating the formula when the adventurous pair set out.
It was a quarter past ten, thirty minutes before the odd-job man was wont to meet the lady of his heart. They reached The Quiet House in some ten minutes, and then skirted the wall for a short distance, till Tony stopped with a whispered "Here we are!" It was in a bridle-path that they found themselves, about eighty yards from the main road that ran through Shereling. Tony crouched down behind a convenient clump of bramble and lighted the lamp.
"I'll light you up the wall," he said softly. "When you get to the top, hang by your hands and drop quietly down. There's soft grass ten feet beneath you. As soon as you're up I shall put out the light, for I know the way by heart now."
With a resentful obedience Robert observed the big nails that had been driven into the brickwork by the amorous Brown. Heartily wishing himself at home—or at least in the snug security of The Happy Heart—but loath to plead his years or cowardice, Mr. Hedderwick put his foot on the lowest spike, grasped one above his head, and began the ascent. To an active boy it would have been a trivial feat; to an elderly adventurer it was full of pain, and in spite of an heroic spirit he was more than once on the point of climbing down again. Something, however, forbade the refusal of the adventure: curiosity or shame held him to his word. The glimmer of Tony's lantern following—nay, leading him ever upward, shone like a beacon of promise in the dark. The thought spurred him, and it was not until he had one leg across the top of the wall that he reflected on a change of simile: the light might rather be a will-o'-the-wisp luring him to destruction or disgrace. For a moment his courage failed.
"Mr. Wild!" he whispered despairingly, "I'm——"
The light went out.
"All right?" said the cheering voice of his fellow criminal. "Good. I'm coming."
He began to follow, rope, sack and lantern coiled over his shoulders. With a groan of resolution Robert wiped the sweat of fear from his forehead and dropped lightly to the ground.
Tony joined him a moment later, breathing a little quickly from the climb. Without a word he walked cautiously forward, Robert close behind, until they reached a thicket of elder-bushes. Into the heart of this they crept, making as little noise as possible. Presently, when Tony judged they were so placed as to be secure from observation, themselves able to observe, they halted. "May as well sit down," whispered Tony; "quite likely we shall have to wait a bit." He spread the sack upon the ground and the two of them established themselves upon it, clasping their knees.
The night, most luckily, was fine. There was no hint of rain, and little dew was falling. There was no moon, and the fitful starlight only served to display the immensity of the darkness, the monstrous tree-shapes looming threateningly on them, the overwhelming horror of The Quiet House. Black against the dark background of the sky it reared its bulk above them, seeming to menace the guilty pair with nightmare terrors, starting ghoulish fancies, prosaic fears of the police, a child's dread of the dark and all its goblins. It was so silent, powerful, unknown. Mr. Hedderwick's flesh crept with a chill that was not climatic, and instinctively he huddled closer to his companion.
"Can we smoke?" he breathed.
"No.Theymight see the glow."
"They," of course meant Brown and his accomplice; but, uttered beneath that lowering sky, those gloomy trees, in the atmosphere of intrigue and hypothetical bloodshed, the words assumed an awful import to Mr. Hedderwick. Romance cut with a keener edge across his quivering soul. He was getting his fill of adventures, and with an unfeigned zeal he now wished himself safe at Bloomsbury, even at the price of a Caudle's welcome. To think that he, a middle-aged—no! anoldman, with a good wife—yes! agoodwife, though sometimes a little overbearing—a churchwarden of Saint Frideswide's and all the rest—to think that he could be so harebrained and ungrateful as to embark on such an enterprise! It was incredible: he must be dreaming.... No; it was real. His right foot was in agony: it had gone to sleep.
"Ouch!" he said, stretching it. "What's the time, Mr. Wild?"
"Can't see. Daren't light a match. 'Fraid they're late. Shut up."
Time passed heavily to the unhappy man. A schoolboy, condemned to a caning, can face the prospect with a decent front if only the punishment is not deferred. "Cane me, if you must!" he would say, "but get it over and let's have done with it!" A fair request, provided the culprit be not a hardened nature whom it is policy to keep in suspense. In such a case the Third Degree may be justified. But suppose your culprit to be a sensitive shrinking nature, to whom the waiting is worse torture than the actual pain itself, is it not a refinement of cruelty to keep him on the tenter-hooks? Robert Hedderwick was of such, a gentle, kindly, romantic, imaginative fool. You who scorn his folly might pardon, could you but enter into half his feelings as he waits amid the elder-bushes.
At eleven o'clock there was promise of incident to cheer their hearts. From the other side of the house they heard a voice call sharply, "Who is there?" No answer was returned, but before the echoes died they saw a dark figure run silently across the lawn and clamber up the wall where they had made an entrance. Breathlessly they watched, and in another moment a second figure, carrying some lethal weapon, walked sharply into the field of vision. The newcomer made a tour of the house and part of the garden, but did not disturb the anxious watchers in the elders. As soon as he had disappeared Robert whispered, "What now? Shall we go after the man who climbed?"
"No," replied Tony, whispering too. "I don't understand this. It's a different program. Looks as if something is up. Better wait."
His companion sighed, for he had hoped release was at hand. Instead, he resigned himself to waiting.
An hour crept by with feet of lead. To the amateur plotters it seemed as if time itself were standing still. Robert thought it must be two o'clock at least, but Tony's common sense guessed it to be near midnight. Once the churchwarden ventured to suggest that honor was satisfied, curiosity likely to be disappointed; why not retire? Tony refused doggedly:
"I'm going to see it through now if we wait till five o'clock. No more lost chances!"
Robert groaned and rubbed his leg.
It was half past one when Robert, half asleep, conscious of nothing but discomfort, felt Tony plucking at his sleeve. He roused himself irritably, almost forgetful of their errand. Then, in the dim foreshadowing of dawn, he saw the outline of a man on the top of the wall. He awoke fully on the instant, clutching his fellow sufferer in pure fright, staring with wide-open eyes. The man dropped nimbly down upon the grass and walked noiselessly across the lawn.
They watched him eagerly, feeling that their sufferings were about to be rewarded, wondering whether they ought to follow or wait. If the first, they might be discovered; the second, they might lose him. For once in his life Tony was at a loss. He had reckoned on Brown's arrival, but not at a different hour, pursuing a new course. What was the best plan?
Fortunately the period of suspense was short. The figure, which had disappeared for a moment round the corner of the house, came into view once more. It still moved with surpassing stealth, but now it was carrying a long unwieldy object in one hand. It was a ladder. Tony nearly whistled when he saw this ominous contrivance, and Robert quivered with a satisfying impatience for the coming drama. Were they to see a new version ofRomeo and Juliet, or was it merely a vulgar burglary?
The man paused, surveyed the blank unlighted house, and then reared his ladder against a window. He climbed rapidly up, but after a brief inspection descended with equal swiftness. He raised the ladder with no obvious effort, carried it some little distance along, and placed it at another window. It was clear that he was correcting a mistake.
"What"—began Robert in a thick whisper, but Tony clapped a hand on his mouth, fearing lest the faintest sound might betray them. Not that there was any real danger, for the night-prowler was twenty yards away, the wind had begun to rise, and the tree branches were sighing loudly enough to drown a human murmur. But Tony meant to run no risks: he was determined to see the play through to the end. Not the quiver of an eyelash must betray them. At all costs, silence.
They saw Brown—for who else could it be?—rear the ladder, then shift it a little to get a better foundation. He tried it with his hand to make sure that it was firm. At last, satisfied and resolute, he placed one foot upon it and began to climb. The watchers held their breath, unconscious of the drama within a drama about to burst upon them. Robert was trembling, his mouth still covered by Tony's precautionary hand. Brown was on the second rung, when the window above was suddenly flung open. The mysterious Billy leaned out, jug in hand. "Good evening!" he said distinctly, in pleasant gentlemanly accents that reached the watchers in the elders: "good evening. Have a drink?"
The wretched Brown was sobouleverséby the unexpected apparition that he stood fast, gaping wonderfully, upon the second rung. It was lucky that he had climbed no higher, for the cascade that fell with unerring aim fairly upon his countenance was the best part of a gallon of water. Apart from the hydraulic force exerted the wanton suddenness of the attack must have dashed him to the ground. He fell prone upon the grass, striving to disburden himself of an unwanted draft, pitiable, a spluttering ruin of a conspirator.
"Glwhtt!" said Robert from behind the hand of Tony. He was nigh to bursting with suppressed emotion. "Glwhtt! oh! glwhtt!"
Tony, too, found it hard to keep himself in hand. Despite his disappointment at beholding his fair hopes frustrated, it was no easy task to check the laugh. To see a man, bold, confident, assured of success, in one moment converted into a sodden and convulsive mass, weltering upon the lawn—it was catastrophic. If incongruity be the basis of the comic spirit, it was here with a vengeance.
"With a vengeance." The thought was impelled by the quick hurry of events. Brown, after gaspy flounderings for half a minute, recovered himself and stood erect. He shook an Olympian fist in powerless wrath toward the window, breathed a crimson oath that might have scorched the stars, and ran blunderingly toward the wall. He made for his point of entry by a straight path and dashed blindly through the elders. In his headlong course he trod convincingly on Robert's fingers, but sped on, heedless of the yelp of pain. "Ahoo!" whooped Mr. Hedderwick, leaping in his agony, unrecking of the consequences. "Ahoo! Ahoo!" He was wringing his hands in an ecstasy of anguish as Lionel came bursting from the house, a heavy walking-stick in his hand.
"The wall quick!" said Tony, seizing him by the arm. They had a start of thirty yards: Brown was over the wall and out of sight by this time, and there was still hope of escape. Had Tony been alone he would have got away, for they reached the wall well ahead of the frantic Lionel, aflame for blood. But chivalry forced him to let Robert climb first. "Up you go!" he said, thrusting the adventurous churchwarden upon the roller. There were no spikes to help or hinder on the inner wall. Robert caught hold of the top bricks and scrabbled piteously with his toes, searching for a foothold. Tony shoved fiercely from beneath, the thought of prison or the bowstring beating in his brain. With a heave of which he scarce thought himself capable he boosted Robert high in the air. Mr. Hedderwick flew up like a ball of india-rubber, rolled on to the top, and fell over the other side with a wail of apprehension. Luckily the mud was soft. But just as he touched the mud, Lionel came up with his quarry and seized him by the collar. Tony turned and struggled like a wildcat, but he was no match for the other. Lionel shortened his stick and drove it upward. With a grunt of pain Tony collapsed. "Whew!" said Lionel, vastly pleased as he contemplated the fallen foe. "There's one of 'em, anyhow. I hope I haven't killed the brute."
The twelve-year-old son of Mr. Glew, who, in the intervals of school and expiating the inevitable offenses of youth, was utilized to carry telegrams, came whistling up the drive of The Quiet House. He rang the bell, and in the fulness of time the summons was answered by a man servant who had been engaged the day before. He was called Jones. "Hello! young cock-sparrow!" said Jones cheerfully. "Brought a wire? Who's it for? Her Imperial Highness or me?"
"Name o' Mortimer," said the youthful Glew. "Catch hold!"
"Mortimer's on the lawn, sunning himself," said Jones. "Better take it straight round."
"I'm employed to hand telegrams into the house," said the boy with all the dignity of a government servant. "It's your business to see ole Mortimer gets it."
"And it's my business to give a clip 'side o' the 'ed," said Jones, riposting. "So if you don't want a thick ear inside of a jiffy, my lad, off you go."
Master Glew obeyed, soothing his outraged independence by a cry of "Yar! red-nosed beef-eater!" as soon as he was out of reach. Jones, regretting the ungiven clip, banged the door, and the libel-loving Glew went pleasantly on his way.
He found Lionel in the summer-house and delivered the yellow envelope, waiting dutifully to see if there was a prepaid reply, hoping for a possible douceur. In this he was disappointed; for although the telegram seemed to give unbounded pleasure to the recipient, no money changed hands, and Master Glew retired, embittered and pessimistic. As soon as he was alone Lionel read and read again the flimsy slip that conveyed so much. The words danced before him in the sunlight:
"Lukos has died of measles. Stay where you are and keep watching. Beatrice."
"Lukos has died of measles. Stay where you are and keep watching. Beatrice."
Lukos dead! Then the path was clear, and he was free to hope, free to pursue, to strive with all his heart and soul to ... to do what? Why, make love to her, of course, and presently ask her to marry him. "Marry" ... The word came on him with a stunning shock, as it does to every free bachelor when he sees the wedding-ring as a reality within his grasp. However much we long to persuade the beloved object to the vow—however much we have striven, hoped, schemed and waited—still, when the time comes of a verity, and at last we can confidently say, "I am to be married to-morrow!" or next week, or a year hence—then, in the midst of our ecstasy, there comes a whisper, "Married! Tied! Shackled!" We welcome our chains, of course,—we would barter our souls for the lovely fetters; but there always comes, if but for the briefest of seconds, the appalling thought, "Freedom has gone forever!" Is there a single husband who, during the period of courtship, has never been "afraid with any amazement"?
The thought, the fear, came to Lionel as to the rest of us, and for an instant he felt like taking to his heels. Then he smiled as a grown-up upon a child, naturally timid and ignorant. Next, his face fell, as he harped back to his theme. He was to "make love" to her.
To a man of his stamp making love is not a difficult matter. To a man like Tony it is a second nature—the breath of life—a perennial pastime. But making love is not the same as loving, and to make love to Beatrice would be an insult. He admired Beatrice so much—respected her—was anxious to serve her, to obey her slightest whim,—thought her the best and most desirable creature he had ever known. But if he did not love her, it would be a base thing to pretend, to use her as a toy. Did he love her or not? He wanted her—oh, yes! he wanted her as he had never wanted any one else in his life. There had been others, of course, with whom he had dallied—for instance, Mizzi. There had been one or two in whom he had taken a more serious interest, like Miss Arkwright. With the latter he had more than once imagined himself to be in love—he had dwelt delightfully upon the possibility—had gone to bed reflecting, "Dash it! Beatrice has forgotten me. Winifred's a darling! Why not?" And then when the kiss had been offered, he had refused. Well, in that lay hope of a greater certainty. He had refused the kiss—had he not?—because of Beatrice. Therefore he loved her. Therefore he must make love to her. Therefore he must ask her to marry him. Marriage! Whew—w—w!
"Oh, you vacillating ass!" he groaned to himself, getting up and stretching his arms as if to free himself from the enmeshing subtleties. "Why can't you be content to believe yourself in love and go straight ahead now that the path is clear? Why can't you be an ordinary, sane, matter-of-fact lover, and ask the dear woman if she'll marry you and help you to help her, the world and yourself? Yourself, who need it badly. Why—why—why can't you be reasonable?" He shook his fist savagely at the heavens. "Why worry your brain about these intricate analyses? Why?Because, my boy, she deserves certainly, and, by George, she shall have it!"
He sat down and read the telegram once more. "Poor old chap!" he thought. "Dead ... and of measles. Lord! it's hard not to laugh. A man who plotted and shook the chancelleries, in daily danger of poison or the sword, to die ofmeasles! What a world of oddities! Poor devil ... I wonder how she takes it?"
The remembrance of the forced marriage led him to think that she could not feel it too cruelly. No doubt she had liked him—had even felt affection for him. But the compulsion of wedlock and the death of her only son would not but make the tie more light than usual. "Let's hope so, anyway," he growled to himself, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "Lionel, you were selfish to talk of love so soon. More especially when you don't know yet if you love her or not."
Miss Arkwright came across the lawn. There had been no more talk of his departure. Since his noble rescue—five nights agone—it had been impossible to be harsh. There had been an interview next morning in which considerable frankness had been displayed on both sides. Miss Arkwright had asked him to repeat his explanation of Mizzi's presence in his bedroom, and this he had done cheerfully enough. In return, he had inquired what Mizzi was doing there, and had accused his hostess of conspiracy. "I feel," he had said, "that it is time we understand each other. Cards on the table, please. As you may know or guess, I came here to watch you, believing you to be in the service of the Turks."
"Absurd!" Winifred had replied. "I can not explain all now, but my sister is mistaken. Mizzi applied for a situation through a registry office, and only came the night you discovered her. I have questioned her, and though I believe your explanation of her presence, it is best for us all that she should not stay.—Oh, I have taken care that she shall not suffer financially.—I am sure your suspicions of her are as groundless as my sister's of me. In any case, I have no intention of conducting an inquiry into so flimsy a charge. Now we know where we are. If you will be pleased to prolong your stay, I shall be glad. Perhaps you will learn to believe in me at last." He did not believe her in the least, but the knowledge that he was no longer there on false pretenses was no small solace, and he stayed on.
"Well," said Miss Arkwright, approaching, "let us go and look at our prisoner. Have you seen him this morning?"
"Not since breakfast," said Lionel, rising. "What is his job to-day?"
"Digging and wheeling," answered Miss Arkwright with a smile. "I am told that he shapes well."
They walked round the back of the house, and presently came upon a second lawn. Across this was laid a narrow footway of planks. As they approached a figure was seen wheeling a small barrow of earth toward an embryonic flower bed. The figure came to the end of the causeway, upset his load with a professional side-twist, and then wiped his brow. "I believe that is always done," he said apologetically to the lady, who had halted with her cavalier: "one picks up a wrinkle here and there. Your gardener, for instance, showed me how the navvies unload their barrows, correcting my natural impulse to upset it straight ahead."
"Do you feel tired?" asked Miss Arkwright critically: there was no sympathy in her tone.
"The masses are used to that," answered Tony. "In time, no doubt, I shall learn the trick of doing the maximum of work with the minimum of effort. No, I can't say I am especially tired; it's rather a healthy feeling on the whole."
"You're making a bit of a mess of the lawn," observed Lionel, his glance falling on a scarred patch.
"Ah! that was in the apprentice stage," said Tony airily. "The barrow ran off the plank, and this narrow wheel cuts. Of course I am always open to learn, and if you——"
"Mr. Mortimer is a guest, not a serf," Miss Arkwright reminded him. Tony bowed.
"I apologize. For a moment I had forgotten class distinctions. Beg pardon, mum! By your leave, sir! I must be gettin' back to my job."
He trundled the barrow briskly out of sight to where a mound of soil awaited his efforts. He was soon back, however, and another load of soil was deposited dexterously upon the growing bed.
"You're still obstinate," said the lady, smiling.
"Meaning——?" He paused, shovel in hand.
"That you won't give any account of yourself."
"Why should I?" asked Tony innocently. "I am the slave of a perfectly charming despot"—he bowed again with grace, despite his costume and the mud stains. "I am well housed and fed. I have nothing special to do. I am regaining the rude health of youth——"
"But you have towork!" Lionel reminded him with a laugh. "And judging from your hands I don't think you've done much of that in your life."
Tony waved one of the despised hands.
"It is a popular error to speak of manual laborers as 'the working classes.' There is such a thing as brain-work—no! I don't press the point. As a matter of fact, I am rather attracted by this kind of work—for a change. Perhaps, when I regain my freedom, I shall then take up some sort of work as a hobby."
"You can be free as soon as you like," said Miss Arkwright carelessly.
"Ah! but at a price! You want the secret of my life. I shall only tell you the tragic story when you tell me something of yours. Meanwhile I am quite content to labor here on parole. It is true that I am forbidden the village—I am not even near enough the wall to pass the time of day (is that the local phrase?) with the outside world. But until I know more I am not anxious to leave the most delightful tyrant I have ever met."
"You ought to think yourself lucky," said Lionel, "that you're not cooling your heels in jail."
"By all accounts," said Tony blandly, "I might retort with atu quoque."
"What do you mean?" asked Lionel, puzzled. "What do you know of me?"
Tony shrugged.
"That is part of the feuilleton," he said. "As soon as you like, we shall exchange stories. Meanwhile, permit the horny-handed aristocrat to pass along."
He went off again, whistling, leaving his questioners unsatisfied. In spite of the mystery of his presence, in spite of the recent struggle, both Lionel and his hostess felt an instinctive liking for Tony. It had been Miss Arkwright's idea to set him to work. After the capture Lionel suggested a medieval treatment of bread-and-water in a locked chamber. Police proceedings were naturally out of the question. But Miss Arkwright was original in her methods, and after an interview with the unabashed intruder, had given him a choice of penalties. Either he might elect for the modern equivalent of the deepest dungeon beneath the moat, or he might work in the garden on parole. She saw he was a gentleman, and suspected him of being an interesting addition to The Quiet House. So Tony was admitted to the drawing-room on an equality with themselves. The mornings and afternoons he spent in forced labor, a victim of thecorvée; his mid-day meal and "four o'clocks" were harmoniously eaten in the potting-shed. It was curious to observe a grimy navvy enter by the back door, to appear in the drawing-room later dressed in a lounge suit, with hair carefully parted. When he played or sang to them it seemed still more incongruous, but they were all adaptable creatures and there was no constraint.
This morning it was very hot, and Lionel and Winifred went back to the hammock-chairs in the shade. The heat made the air flicker like waves, and even the midges seemed too lazy to come out. A universal torpor hung heavily in the atmosphere; one thought regretfully of slaves in offices, clerks on stools, perspiring operators in factories. For, whether it be hot or cold, work has to be done by all save the leisured classes. And even they are sometimes compelled to exert themselves either by force of circumstances or a sense of duty.
It was the latter spur that roused the Reverend Charles Peters to get to work on his sermon for next Sunday. True, there were still three days' grace; but it had been his immemorial custom to begin to write his sermon on a Wednesday, and nothing short of a new heresy in the morning's newspaper could have kept him from his desk. Whether the garden tempted him to dally amid roses, or a keen frost suggested the pleasures of a brisk walk—whether he feltdisponiertand stored with telling phrases, or empty as a sieve with the wind blowing through—whether his digestion was in first-class order or cried aloud for a liver-pill,—whatever conditions obtained, duty and habit drew Mr. Peters to a task not uncongenial. So, on this morning he went to his work as usual, despite the heat, not slothful enough to delve in a well-filled drawer and read over some "cold meat" for his parishioners. He established himself in the dining-room—luckily, as it proved—for his study was being "turned out."
As a preliminary he threw open both windows and removed his jacket and waistcoat. Then he lighted a pipe and settled down to arrange his thoughts. He had not been meditating for more than ten minutes when his wife came in.
"The milkman's account, Charles," she said. "Can you settle it now?"
"Certainly, my dear," replied the vicar, unlocking his cash-box. "It's extremely hot this morning, isn't it?"
"It is," agreed Mrs. Peters, waiting for the money. "But, Charles——"
"Yes, my dear?"
"Do you think it quite seemly to be writing your sermon in shirt-sleeves?"
"It's extremely hot, Clara."
"Yes. But asermon, Charles!"
The vicar laughed.
"Would you have me write it behind stained-glass windows, with incense burning round me?"
"A strict Evangelical——!!!"
"I was only joking, Clara," said the vicar quickly. "Of course, I shouldn't dream of——"
"I do not think one should be flippant under such circumstances. Shirt-sleeves and a pipe! My dear Charles——"
The vicar moved a little restlessly.
"My dear Clara, the day's very hot and I'm doing nothing to be ashamed of. If the bishop of London called I'm sure he'd say——"
"Mr. Bangs," said the housemaid at the door, and Robert entered with a troubled mien.
The vicar made a dash for his discarded garments and performed a Protean act with amazing speed. His wife, true to her salt, interposed between her husband and the visitor, making a few banal remarks about the weather. She did not shake hands.
"Excuse me, Mr. Bangs," said the vicar, blushing despite his late assertions of independence. "You find me trying to keep cool under adverse conditions. Had I known——"
"The weather is very sultry, is it not?" said Mrs. Peters, with a glare that said, "I told you so!"
Robert surveyed them with a wild and unreceptive eye. He looked, so thought the vicar's wife, like a man dogged by the officers of the law.
"I called," he said quickly, "because I wanted your advice and help."
"Certainly, if I can be of any use," replied the vicar. "Clara, my love——?"
His tone indicated a request that she would leave them. To the vicar's intense surprise, his love made no sign of compliance. "Perhaps I had better stay, Charles," she said grimly.
"But, Clara——"
"I—I should like to speak to your husband alone," said Robert, nervous but determined. "You see, it is very private——"
"Of course, Mr. Bangs. I quite understand. Perfectly natural. My dear——"
"I think not, Charles. Mr.Bangswill understand why."
"I don't at all," said Robert, dismayed and puzzled. "I have come here for advice and help. As a matter of fact, I have to make a confession——"
The vicar shrank.
"I do not hear confessions," he said. "I do not approve——"
"Evangelical," snapped Clara. (Yes: there are vicar's wives who snap, and she was one.)
"I don't understand," repeated Robert wearily. Then suddenly a light broke on him, and he laughed. It was his first laugh for five days. "Oh, I see! I don't meanthatkind of confession. This is purely a personal matter—man to man."
"In that case, my love, I think——"
"No," said the resolute woman. "I am determined that you shall not be imposed on any longer. I have kept silence, perhaps too long. Mr.Bangs, yesterday I telephoned to Bloomsbury843B."
"What!" said Robert with a moan. "You telephonedthere!"
With a glance of triumphant contempt at the bladder she had pricked so easily, Mrs. Peters turned to her husband. "I think, Charles, that I can safely leave you now to hear Mr. Hedderwick's explanation. I have no wish to be present during a painful scene; besides, I am wanted in the larder."
"Mr. Hedderwick!" repeated the vicar blankly. "What do you mean, Clara? I can not understand—I have no idea—you must——"
"He will tell you," said the lady, vouchsafing nothing further. After all, she had had a fair share of the lime-light, and there was no need to risk an anticlimax. "If you had only listened to me when I warned you ... but there! men are all alike."
She swept from the room, and the bewildered clergyman appealed to the heap in the chair.
"Mr. Bangs—Mr. Hedderwick, perhaps I ought to say—will you be kind enough to tell me what it all means?"
Robert raised a stricken head.
"I thought, Mr. Peters, that things were bad enough when I came. Your wife's news proves to me that I am wrong. My name is not Bangs, but Hedderwick."
"So I gathered," said the vicar uncomfortably. "I think you owe me an explanation of your reasons for adopting a false name."
Robert glanced wildly at the clock.
"There is no time to go into details now. She may be here at any minute. But for the moment, Mr. Peters, please accept my word that I am involved in no disgrace—no shameful action. I am a churchwarden——"
"You really are?" There was excuse for the implied doubt.
"I really am, and innocent. My fault is an excessive love for romance and a temporary desertion of my wife. Oh! do not misunderstand me!" he begged, as he noticed an ecclesiastical stiffening. "I simply ran away for a short holiday—I meant to go back very soon! Surely, surely, you can understand! You are married—I mean, a clergyman in the exercise of his duties must have a wide knowledge of the world—a certain sympathy...."
"I can understand," said the vicar thoughtfully, perhaps flattered at the tribute to his worldly knowledge. "I can not praise—possibly can not sympathize; but at least I may fairly claim to understand."
"Thank you—thank you! Well, to be as brief as I can (and every minute is precious!), my friend and I had reason to suspect the occupants of The Quiet House——"
"Ha!" The vicar pricked up his ears. "Certain hints and whisperings have drifted round to me in the course of my parochial visiting, but——"
"Please,please, don't interrupt. You forget the London train! Mr. Wild and I entered The Quiet House garden by night to watch——"
"Surely that——"
"Yes—yes—yes! Most reprehensible, but you do not know all. We watched, were discovered, and in making our escape Mr. Wild was captured. I have not seen him since."
"What!"
"For five days I have been alone, miserable, in doubt and anguish. I have wondered, waited, made cautious inquiries. Nothing has happened. What am I to do?"
"You suspect——?" queried the vicar in delightful horror. He felt his hair bristling in anticipation.
"I do not know ... I can not guess. They say it is high politics—the Turkish government.... A spy.... I do not know what to believe. What can I do?"
The vicar, who prided himself on being a business man, mused for a moment, chin on hand.
"Suppose," he said brightly, "that Mott, the local policeman, applied for a search-warrant?"
"I would rather not invoke the aid of the police, if possible. There may be nothing serious after all, and in that case we should look ridiculous. Besides ... I wondered if you could call?"
The vicar seemed pleased, but apprehensive.
"Of course," he said, "I would face any danger if necessary and for a good cause. But I have my flock to think of.... If matters are as serious as you suggest, might there not be a second kidnaping? One hesitates to be melodramatic, but the possibilities of...."
"They would not dare to touch a minister of the church. There would be an outcry——"
"True ... true ... but would they admit me? I have called and been denied. Do you think——"
He paused, as a motor-horn sounded from the road. The noise of the engine was plainly heard. A moment later and the gate leading to the drive opened. The vicar walked to the window.
"Who can this be?" he said in surprise. "A motor-car, and in the morning! I hope he'll be careful of the borders."
Robert joined him at the window, his heart filled with anxious questioning. As he watched the car drive slowly in he clutched the vicar's arm. "She has changed her plan!" he gasped. "It's my wife! You must hide me quick!"
"B—but," stammered Mr. Peters, "there's no sense in that! Pull yourself together, Mr. Bangs—Mr. Hedderwick, I mean. You say you have done nothing wrong. Why not face her and get it over at once like a man?"
Robert, pallid in face and soul, gripped him more tightly, his knees shaking. The desperate need of the moment scorned the veneer of discretion. "You said you understood," he hissed fiercely. "Do you always stand up to Mrs. Peters?"
The vicar avoided his eye, but his answer brought hope to Robert. "Come along!" he said briskly, going to the door. He threw it open, and was disappointed to find his wife in the hall. That way of escape was blocked. "A caller, my dear!" he said, trying to cover his embarrassment. "If I'm wanted, I shall be in here." He returned to the room and closed the door. "You're caught, Mr. Hedderwick, I'm afraid. I'm very sorry, but you'll have to face it, after all."
"No, no!" said Robert. "Isn't there another door—a window?"
"The chauffeur's outside. Yes; by jove! there's the buttery hatch. Behind the screen! Get through that and out of the pantry window! It opens on the back. After that you must look out for yourself. I won't tell any lies on your behalf, but—but I'll try to give you a—a sporting start!"
Robert breathed a blessing on his head. Then, with some ado, he lifted the hatch and crawled through. The vicar closed it behind him, heard the pantry window open with a noiseless chuckle, and then braced himself to face a pair of indignant ladies. He had not long to wait, for, a minute after Robert had gained the road, Mrs. Peters introduced his visitor. Mrs. Hedderwick glanced round the room much as a terrier who has been told there is a rat about, and without waiting for apologies or declarations, said with an extraordinary bitterness, "Where is my husband?"
"He was here a moment ago," replied the vicar, nervous, but not without a certain enjoyment of the scene. "I suppose that you are looking forward to—a reunion—a——"
"I am," said Mrs. Hedderwick with a vindictive quietness. "Where is he? Hiding under the table?"
"My dear madam," expostulated the vicar, suppressing a wish to get there himself, so alarming was her eye, "do you imagine——"
"I want to know where heis!" interrupted the lady, still dangerously calm and determined. "Mrs. Peters most kindly—mostkindly telephoned to say that he was in Shereling, and she has just said that she left him here. Where is he?"
"He has gone," said the vicar dreamily, looking out of the window and wondering whether Robert had reached The Happy Heart. A good runner, he reflected, might perhaps have succeeded, but Mr. Bangs was no longer young.
"Gone!" ejaculated both ladies together, and for once in his life the amiable clergyman had the satisfaction of communicating dramatic and exclusive news.
"Gone!" repeated Mrs. Peters. "Oh, Charles! Where? How?"
"Gone!" said Mrs. Hedderwick, with a rising inflection. "You have helped——"
"How could I detain him?" urged the vicar, retreating behind a chair. "Why blame me? Could I be expected to keep him here by force? If Mr. Hedderwick preferred to depart by the buttery hatch——"
"The buttery hatch."
"Let me show you," said the vicar helpfully, thinking that a reconstruction of the crime might divert a morbid interest in himself. "You see here it is, behind the screen. Mr. Hedderwick opened it, climbed through——"
"I do not believe it! It is too small for——"
"My dear madam," expostulated the vicar warmly, annoyed at having his veracity impugned, "I assure you itwasso. Try for yourself!"
In her rage Mrs. Hedderwick raised her arm as if to strike the impious suggester. Mrs. Peters interposed, as the vicar quailed, and the situation was saved.
"Charles! What an indelicate thought! Imagine a lady like Mrs. Hedderwickcrawling——"
The vicar had been through an anxious quarter of an hour. His nerves were on strings, and at any moment the tension might prove too strong. Had he been master of himself—had he possessed no sense of humor—had his late guest not presented so ridiculous an appearance in his exit, all might have yet been well. But the image projected upon his brain by the words of his wife (who had but an imperfect sympathy with comedy) was too much. He did not roar aloud, as he could have wished, but he buried his face in his hands and leaned upon the mantelpiece. The heaving of the shoulders gave evidence of his emotion.
"I think," said Mrs. Hedderwick, after a dreadful pause, "that your husband is hardly himself."
"I will attend to him presently," replied Mrs. Peters with menacing sympathy. "Come, Mrs. Hedderwick: I am sorry you should meet with such a disappointment. Your best course would be to drive to The Happy Heart, where I understand the fugitive is staying."
They left the room, without deigning to bestow any further notice on the vicar. He, unhappy man, pulled himself together too late. He wiped his eyes and rushed after them to offer seemly apologies. But as he reached his garden gate he saw the motor drive off. Behind the chauffeur were seated Mrs. Hedderwick and his wife. Mrs. Peters was resolved, if possible, to be in at the death.
"After all," thought the vicar when he realized that he could do nothing to reestablish himself, "why shouldn't I, too, see what is going to happen? Hedderwick suggested I should call at The Quiet House.... I might try again.... His suspicion, surely, can not be founded on fact, but at least it will be interesting—nay, a positive duty! If a fellow creature wants our services, we ought to spare neither time nor trouble—well, Brown! what is it?"
"Beg pardon, sir!" said the odd-job man, touching his hat. Mr. Peters noticed with astonishment that he was in his Sunday clothes. "I want to give notice!"
"I can't be bothered with that now," said the vicar impatiently. "I am particularly busy. Come to me——"
"I am sorry, sir, but I want to go at once," he said, interrupting the vicar.
The latter stared.
"But that's most unusual and inconsiderate. If you want to go, a week's notice——"
"It's too important for that, sir. Of course I am ready to forego my week's wages, but go I must."
"Not a death in the family, I hope?" said Mr. Peters, subduing the impatience of his tone. "If so, I'm very sorry, and of course——"
"No, sir: nothing serious—serious in that sense at least. I am sorry to have to give notice in such a hurry, but it must be done."
"Very well," replied the vicar, resuming an every-day voice. "Legally, of course, you couldn't demand your wages; but I have no intention of standing on the letter of the law. I might as well pay you now. Let's see——" He searched his pockets for change.
"Thank you, sir," replied the odd-job man. "You're very good to be so reasonable, and I wish I could oblige you by staying. Instead, if you'll kindly put a sovereign in the poor-box for me, I shall be satisfied."
"Eh—eh!" stammered the vicar. "Has all the world gone mad this morning? A sovereign in the poor-box, from my gardener! Wh—what——"
"A little mad, sir?" smiled Henry Brown. "Perhaps there's some excuse. Good-by and thank you."
He touched his hat and left the Shereling garden forever. Mr. Peters stared dumbly after him. He could make nothing of it, however, so he came to the sensible resolution of setting out on his investigations at once. Taking a stick in his hand, he trudged toward The Quiet House. Here, by the way, he was told there was nobody at home.
Henry Brown, whistling a cheerful strain, betook himself to The Happy Heart. He found the motor-car standing outside, the chauffeur indulging in a cigarette. Voices from the parlor indicated that the landlord was trying to reason with two ladies, neither of whom seemed to be amenable to treatment.
"But he's gorn, I tell you, ma'am," said the voice of Mr. Glew despairingly. "Ran in here, he did, a quarter of an hour ago: out again in five minutes——"
"I think you are prevaricating, Glew," said the acid tones of Mrs. Peters. "Your manner is not straightforward at all this morning——"
"And we shan't be satisfied till you have shown us his room," added Mrs. Hedderwick. "So there!"
As the landlord resumed the mournful chant, apparently relying on tautological emphasis rather than reasoned argument or ocular demonstration (a suggestion that seemed unwelcome), Henry Brown smiled and passed into the bar. Addressing the Boots, a "lad" of sixty-three, who acted as barman, beater, stable-boy, or butler as occasion or the seasons demanded, he said, "Is Miss Schmidt ready?"
"B'leeve so," said the Boots. "But I'll tell her you're here."
He went out, but returned shortly, followed by Mizzi, who was dressed for traveling. "Ah!" said she, with a radiant smile of welcome. "I have not kept you waiting long, have I?"
"Five days," answered Henry, to the astonishment of the Boots. "Five wasted days. Can't think why you wanted to stay here all that time. After being——"
He paused. He was about to say "sacked," but from consideration of his audience, refrained. Mizzi thanked him with a laugh.
"Ah!" she said very cheerfully. "The separation—shall we say?—was due to—guess!"
"Dunno," said Henry, watching her fasten her glove with admiring eyes.
"Jealousy!" she flashed, with a ripple of merriment. "Think of it!Jealousy!Even I could have hardly credited it. But I bear her no ill-will. On the contrary, I regard her as more human and could love her still more. (Bother—bother—r—rthis glove. Can you——?")
"But why did you wait?" he grumbled, fastening the glove and taking as long as he could for the pleasure of pressing her dainty wrist.
"I will be frank," she said, laughing temptingly. Henry dumbly cursed the Boots. "Curiosity! I wanted to watch a little longer. But I foresee the end of the play and am ready to go. Let us be off!"
"Your luggage has gone to the station?"
"Yes, and it is time we followed. Come!"
"A kiss first," said Henry, hungrily bending forward.
At this moment Mrs. Peters, Mrs. Hedderwick and the landlord (the latter still emitting "But he's gorn—varnished, I tell you!") came from the parlor. They halted on observing the obvious sweethearts standing in the passage. Mrs. Peters, her finest instincts revolting from such a naked display of animalism—and in the morning, too!—at once relinquished the lacquered Mr. Hedderwick for a more congenial theme.
"Brown!" she ejaculated in tones that would have chilled a satyr. "Brown!how disgusting! Go to your work at once!"
The odd-job man could not restrain a natural blush, but he was man enough to stand his ground. The presence of Mizzi confirmed his courage and quickened his wits.
"Mr. Brown, if you please, ma'am," he said quietly but with resolution. "I've left your service and am my own master now."
Mrs. Peters, justly annoyed at being thus spoken to by a menial, changed her line of attack.
"So this is the explanation!" she said, wishing she had a lorgnette for Mizzi's benefit. She surveyed her with a severity that ought to have appalled. The survey gave her no comfort, for Mizzi was dressed to perfection. "So this is the young woman!"
"A deplorable exhibition," said Mrs. Hedderwick dispassionately. "The lower classes—"
The young woman gave a most impertinent laugh, and said, "Come, Henry! We shall miss the train!"
They left The Happy Heart; and the landlord, who had recovered breath, but not a fresh inspiration, during the interlude, took up the tale again.
Outside, the odd-job man, whose face was flushed, swore. "I wish they were men!" he said vindictively: "if they were, I'd teach 'em a lesson in manners. By jove! I'd like to get even with——"
"Do not worry," said Mizzi soothingly. "After all, Iama young woman. Mesdames would give their ears to be the same."
Henry stopped dead, an idea having come upon him. With a growing light in his eye he surveyed the motor-car and the chauffeur, who in turn surveyed Mizzi with a gathering admiration. He even threw away the cigarette.
"I say," said Henry, "this isn't a private car?"
"No," said the chauffeur, glad of a chance further to admire this enchanting damsel. "General Motor-Car Company. Druv the ole gal down from London s'morning. Made me crawl, too."
"Driving her back?"
The chauffeur suppressed an instinct to spit disgustedly and said, "Yes, wuss luck." Mizzi observed them, wondering.
"What would you take," said Henry, breathing hard, "to drive us back instead?"
The chauffeur shook his head.
"I'd lose my job."
"Five pounds?" hinted Henry.
"A job's a job."
"I'll find you another."
"Garn!"
"Straight! I'm Henry Brown, taxicab proprietor, Bloomsbury. Is that good enough?"
"Anda fiver?" stipulated the chauffeur, avaricious but cautious.
"Here you are," said Henry, diving into his pocket. A note changed hands, and the chauffeur assumed a bland demeanor. "Jump in!" he said concisely; "it's a bet!"
"Oh, but——" objected Mizzi, hanging back.
"Romance!" whispered Henry. "You said you liked it! Quick! Quick!"
She jumped in, smiling happily.
"You are a dear!"
"And you're a darling!" he said, getting in beside her and shutting the door. "Now, William, give 'em the horn and then London!"
Honk! Honk!
"Once more!"
Honk! Honk!
Mrs. Hedderwick appeared fretfully at the porch. "Do not make that exasperating noise!" she commanded. And then—"What!what impertinence—what——!"
"Higher up, William!" said Henry peacefully.
"Good-by, madam!" and he raised his hat. "There, my little foreigner; will that do?"
"Oh, Harry dear!"
And Harry dear had no time even to say "Good biz!"
Let us go back a couple of hours and see what has been engaging Miss Arkwright and Lionel since their interview with Tony. They are still reclining in the hammock-chair, which they have been obliged to move, more than once, retreating before the all-conquering sun. They have talked for a space, but nothing of their conversation is worthy of a recorder's pen, and at last they have fallen silent, each occupied with busy musings. Lionel, of course, has had plenty to think about since the early telegram—new schemes to mature, fresh hopes to be weighed, old difficulties to brush aside or evade. Winifred's silence, too, is not extraordinary. Apart from her secret history—and she must have a secret, to be sure, if not a dozen—there is matter for consideration in her presentmilieu. Putting aside the trivial incident of the five-days'-old attack (and an intriguer can not spend much time on trifles, especially when they end happily), there is the problem of Tony to be pondered over. But, at the worst, he can only be looked on as a light-hearted dilettante, whose greatest misfortune is the curse of wealth. Such, at least, is Winifred's shrewd guess, and we know how near the mark the arrow has fallen. Then, Lionel ... what shall she do with him? Is it better to keep him with her longer, a cheerful gentleman who seems quite content to waste his time in her company, despite the chilling fact that he appears equally content to chaff their prisoner if she is busy in the house? Or shall she send him away?
Winifred stole a glance at Lionel, pondering with knit brows, and permitted herself a smile that was unseen by him. Was she thinking of his pursuit in the garden, the hurled water-jug, or the exposure of Mizzi? Perhaps the latter; for the smile was followed by a delectable frown that did not mar the poetry of her face. It seemed, indeed, to act but as a foil, enhancing the smile that followed again like a victor,—a victor that has retreated, only to return.
As she wondered and smiled, Forbes came across the lawn and handed the morning's letters on a tray. The post had just come in.
"Three for me," said Winifred, picking up the letters. "And one for you."
Lionel took it with a lazy gratitude. What had letters to do with him this heavenly morning, when he had had a wire to say that his mistress was free? How much better to pursue the current of his thoughts and try to make up his mind, once and for all, whether he loved Beatrice enough to ask her to marry him! Without glancing at the postmark or handwriting he murmured, "Excuse me!" and tore open the flap. The first few sentences made him sit bolt upright in his chair. "Good heavens!" he murmured, reading hastily on. His face grew dark, and the jaw set ominously the more he read. Winifred, watching him with a stealthy interest, had not yet opened her budget.
"I hope it is no bad news?" she said with a soft sympathy.
"The worst," said Lionel with a grim absence, not looking up. Presently his face cleared and he smiled. "That is," he corrected himself, with a hasty glance at her, "I mean the best. Yes, certainly the best."
Winifred bit her lip and looked away with a puzzled discontent. What did he mean? The worst and the best ... strong words for a man of his age to use. The "worst" and the "best" should only be applied to strong emotions, such as are caused by love, money, or honor. Which of these potent stimulants was at work?
"I am going in," she said suddenly. "Please don't get up. If I can be of any help in any way, you must let me know. But I ... I am glad your news is 'the best.'"
She went into the house, leaving Lionel to his letter. This was it.
"Bloomsbury, London."My Dear Friend,—The cable announcing Lukos' death came to-night at seven. As soon as I had recovered from the shock I wired the news to you, but I do not expect that the telegram will be delivered till to-morrow morning. And now, at half past eight, I am sitting down to write very hurriedly, to tell you of my plans."I mean to go straight to Constantinople within two days. Why? To make sure, in the first instance—to find out for myself if he is really dead, and if it was 'measles' or something worse. I feel that the news must be true, but I must make certain. If itistrue, then perhaps I can do something by way of revenge. You, I hope, will still befriend me by trying to regain the stolen papers. They may be of use to England yet. If not to England, then to me—a woman who has lost her husband. This is no time to assess my love for him, but I owe something at least to his memory, and the debt shall be paid."I must see you before leaving, and I hope to come down to Shereling to-morrow. Please tell my sister. You know our differences, but I am sure she will sympathize and help me. Yes; I am sure. I believe now that I was wrong in suspecting her—my information was untrustworthy, but I had every excuse. In haste.—Your friend,"Beatrice Blair."
"Bloomsbury, London.
"My Dear Friend,—The cable announcing Lukos' death came to-night at seven. As soon as I had recovered from the shock I wired the news to you, but I do not expect that the telegram will be delivered till to-morrow morning. And now, at half past eight, I am sitting down to write very hurriedly, to tell you of my plans.
"I mean to go straight to Constantinople within two days. Why? To make sure, in the first instance—to find out for myself if he is really dead, and if it was 'measles' or something worse. I feel that the news must be true, but I must make certain. If itistrue, then perhaps I can do something by way of revenge. You, I hope, will still befriend me by trying to regain the stolen papers. They may be of use to England yet. If not to England, then to me—a woman who has lost her husband. This is no time to assess my love for him, but I owe something at least to his memory, and the debt shall be paid.
"I must see you before leaving, and I hope to come down to Shereling to-morrow. Please tell my sister. You know our differences, but I am sure she will sympathize and help me. Yes; I am sure. I believe now that I was wrong in suspecting her—my information was untrustworthy, but I had every excuse. In haste.—Your friend,
"Beatrice Blair."
Lionel's heart leaped as he read a second and a third time the words of comfort. At the first casual glance he could only understand that Beatrice was going out of his life, perhaps forever, and he plumbed depths hitherto undreamed of. But after the blow came the reaction and a saner grasp of the true importance of her news. He was on fire, yet coldly logical. The white heat of his heart and brain told him that here at last was hope realized, the goal reached, the attainment of certainty. The knowledge that he could not bear to lose her told him that he loved, and that his love was worthy of a declaration. He breathed a prayer of thankfulness.
Doubt of a prosaic nature was swift to follow. He loved her and must ask her to marry him. Yet, how could he ask her? He had not a penny in the world save what she had given him as her paid employee. How could he ask her to wed and coolly propose to live on her income? Lionel made short work of that. "I know," he said to himself, thinking swiftly but with honest logic, "that I am not mercenary. I would marry her in rags if she'd have me. As she happens to have money, so much the better. If by good luck she loves or learns to love me, she will not think me mercenary. Why should a pair of lovers wait when the only obstacle is a convention?—a convention good enough in itself (a proper discouragement of the ordinary place-hunter and hypocrite)—but a convention none the less. The exception shall prove the rule, for neither she nor I could be accused of conventionality."
He laughed aloud. Still, there was a kind of discomfort in the laugh, for the conventions of a thousand years or more can not be laughed away in a moment, be the iconoclast never so hardy. In spite of his honesty and brave words, Lionel, in the dim recesses of consciousness, knew that he wished he could have said, "My dear, I love you and can afford to pay for a home!" He knew that from the idealist's standpoint he was right, but the purest cups of nectar may reveal an acid in the lees. Still, he drank his nectar and was very glad.
Presently his face grew graver. "I must wait though," he reflected. "One can't propose the moment one hears she is a widow—too indecent. Besides, she may not love me.... I must give her time.... At least, though, I'll go with her to Constantinople. If she won't think of me as a husband or lover, by jove! I'll be her dragoman! She mustn't go there alone.... And now, let's break the news to Winifred."
He found Miss Arkwright in the library and told her of her sister's intention to come down to The Quiet House. To his disgust she began to make difficulties.
"You know, Mr. Mortimer, that we do not agree on her choice of a career——"
"Yes, yes," he said impatiently. "I know all that. But this is a serious business. She is going to Turkey in a day or two, and wishes to see me before leaving. Surely——"
"She does me the honor of suspecting me of conspiracy," returned Miss Arkwright slowly, but with a resentful gleam. "I have told you that she is mistaken. Why should a conspirator lend her hospitality?"
"She acknowledges her error," said Lionel. "You must forgive much to a woman who has suffered so cruelly as she."
"I will not," said Winifred deliberately. "I have not said much to you on the subject, but now I will not conceal from you that I have been deeply wounded."
"Are you not great enough to forgive?" he urged, fair play telling him that she had a right to feel indignation—if she were innocent! He tried in vain to find a melting in her eye.
"No," said Winifred, still very deliberately and coldly. "I am a woman, and can not forgive her lack of trust as yet. I will yield so far as to allow her to come here and see you, as she is going abroad, but I will not see her myself."
"Your sister?" he suggested, still hoping.
"No," repeated Winifred. "On that I am immovable. Be content and—leave me!"
Her voice trembled over the concluding words, and the next moment she buried her face in her hands, leaning forward over the table. There were no sobs—no tears escaping from that indomitable lady, but her attitude was eloquent of tragedy. Lionel was not so foolish as to attempt consolation. He left the room, hoping to soften her before Beatrice came down.
The morning dragged wearily, but at last the luncheon-gong sounded, and Lionel went to the dining-room. Winifred joined him at the meal, but neither had much to say. Lionel, though understanding her resentment, could not excuse it, and his attitude in consequence was chilly. Winifred, reading his condemnation, made no effort further to justify herself, and both were glad when the meal came to an end. Before leaving the room she said, "If you prefer to see my sister in the house, the library will be at your disposal."
"I prefer the garden," he replied stiffly, and he thought he caught a smile.
"Suppose it rains?"
"There is The Happy Heart."
"But your promise still holds," she reminded him.
"If Miss Blair prefers the inn," said Lionel with polite determination, "we go there. That, of course, will cancel the promise, and you will not see me again. In case she does," he added more softly, "I had better say good-by now. Thank you for many kindnesses."
"There is nothing to thank me for," she replied, looking confused.
"There is. And I wish you would give me one thing more for which to thank you," said Lionel, taking her hand. Her eyes dropped. She blushed, but did not free herself.
"And that is——?" she murmured.
"It would be a great happiness to see you and your sister reconciled."
She wrenched her hand away.
"Do not ask me that again," she replied, seeming both disappointed and pettish. "I have given you my answer already. Now, please, will you be kind enough to tell the prisoner I wish to see him. He can stop work and change. I will wait for him in my sitting-room up-stairs."
Lionel went in search of Tony. He found the latter pocketing his pipe, preparatory to a fresh attack upon the mound of earth. "Miss Arkwright says you can stop," said Lionel genially. "You may go and get clean; she wishes to see you."
"What about my work?" objected Tony. "You know, old friend—forgive me, but I seem to have known you for years—I am making quite a good job of that bed.Exegi monumentum ære perennius!What? That's about all I have left of a thousand-pound education. What I mean to say is that future generations may come and look at my flower bed as being the beau-ideal—the standard—the Super-bed, and so forth. Honestly, I'm beginning to be quite proud of the little chap—it's a most promising child. I say, between old schoolmates and that sort of jolly palaver, what does she want me for?"
"Haven't a notion, friend of my youth," said Lionel sympathetically. Knowing nothing of Tony, he felt nevertheless an attraction and a mutual bond. "You'd better do as she tells you."
The bed-builder arose.
"Of course. I say, do you think she'll let me stay here for a bit longer? What I mean is, has she any intention of carting me at once?"
"I haven't a notion."
"You see ... here's the bed ... some one must finish it. I should hate to think of another artist putting in his oar. The bed, in short, worries me."
"Ask her to take you on as gardener," suggested Lionel, smiling at the absurd creature.
"I wonder...." Tony moved off with dragging dissatisfied steps. After progressing a few yards he turned. There was hesitation in his voice and manner.