"I—I say, oh, companion of my infancy, I wonder if you'd mind me asking you a question? Of course, we've not been introduced and all that, and I hope you'll not regard it as a liberty, faux pas, double entendre, or what-not. But do you mind telling me if you're engaged to her?"
"Lord, no!" said Lionel, mightily surprised. "Not the least intention of trying. If that's all your trouble, go in and win. And good luck to you!"
"I say," observed Tony with a most engaging smile, "you're a blind ass, old yoke fellow of my youth; but you're no end of a sportsman. One more question—I promise that I'm quite a decent chap, though appearances are against me—is she engaged to any one else?"
"Not that I know of."
"The planet Jupiter is in conjunction with Saturn, or words to that effect. Whatever the stars are, I seem to be in luck. Oh, of course she mayn't look at me, I know. We must give her time to appreciate my many excellences—not dream of rushing things. But she has made my few days' stay so pleasant, that common gratitude——"
"No: don't spoil it!" said Lionel, reading something beneath Tony's idle chatter; "you don't mean that." Tony looked at him and changed his tone.
"What I do mean," he said sincerely, "is that she's a perfectly top-hole creature. She's taught me a few things—not excluding work, in which she must share the credit with others—during the last few days. I want to extend the lessons. Well, I think a little soap and water might be rather a promising start. Where am I to see her? Up-stairs?"
He strolled off whistling cheerfully, bearing Lionel's good wishes. The latter was in a good humor with all the world to-day: he felt like giving a sovereign to every child, and a five-pound note to every grown-up. "If ever I make a hit with my plays," he thought, "I'll give the vicar a peal of bells and Mrs. Peters—what on earth could I give to Mrs. Peters? I suppose a calf-bound set of her husband's sermons would be the most acceptable souvenir, unless she's human enough to enjoy diamonds. Yes, I think it might be diamonds." He smiled at his happy visions, and walked back to the hammock-chair to wait till Beatrice should appear.
He did not know, of course, whether she was coming by rail or motor, and therefore did not trouble to look out possible trains. He was quite content to wait patiently for her in that delightful garden, knowing now that he loved her, and hoping she might love, or learn to love him. But though he was content and patient, he could not distract himself, or spend the lagging hours with books or newspapers. He tried, indeed, but failed. After reading a few lines he found his attention wandering: he could not compel his brain to follow the paltry adventures of Mudie's heroines, or the stupendous feats chronicled in the daily press. Instead, his thoughts flew back to that lucky rescue in the Strand, to the wondrous hours with Beatrice in the theater or in the Bloomsbury flat, to the mad adventure of the magnanimous churchwarden, to the thousand incidents of the past adventurous month. He could not read, but tobacco was no hindrance to the brave play of memory and imagination, and with a luxurious smile he lighted a pipe and drowsed. Presently, between the nicotian clouds, he thought, "I must make Winifred be friends. What scheme shall I try? Winifred is a dear, too, though she has a woman's resentment. What can I do to make them all happy—to make every one happy? Winifred ... Beatrice...."
The besotted lover, overcome with his soul's reaction, the June sun and a crowded morning, fell asleep....
He was roused by a touch upon the shoulder. He awoke and blinked lazily toward heaven. Beside him stood an angel in a lavender linen frock, and a lavender hat with a daring touch of black, carrying a lavender parasol with a white handle. It was Beatrice at last!
Lionel stared dumbly for a moment, not completely realizing what had happened. Then he jumped up with a wry smile. "You must think me a poor watcher," he said, inwardly cursing his sleepiness. "I was so busy waiting and thinking of you that I suppose I must have—I imagine I have—that is, I fell asleep. Did you come by train?"
"Yes," she said. It would be idle to say "in the well-remembered tones." Her voice was identical with Winifred's: her appearance, gesture, carriage—all were Winifred's; but the telepathy of love told Lionel the myriad differences between the sisters, differences impalpable, impossible to define or even hint at, but differences that were real, if psychological. "I came by the four-thirty, and walked from the station."
"Then—good heavens! what time is it?"
"Six o'clock," she said with a smile. "How long have you been asleep?"
"It must be at least three hours," said Lionel in rueful amazement. "Fancy wasting three hours of a day like this in sleep! But don't let us waste any more. Tell me all about yourself, your plans, everything. You are well?" he added anxiously, though the question was needless.
"Perfectly. And you?"
"Quite fit, thanks." And a silence fell between them. It seemed odd that there should be a silence, for so much had happened since they last met. Lionel had been living in a penny novelette, and her fate could not have been much more fortunate. Yet now they seemed to have nothing to say beyond the commonplaces of friendly acquaintanceship. It was Lionel who broke the silence.
"You must let me say that...." He stopped. He could not honestly say he was sorry for the death of Lukos, so he changed the form of his statement: "—that I am sorry for your trouble. You know it already, but I should like to tell it you.... I suppose it must be true?"
"Thank you," Beatrice replied evenly. "Yes, I expect it is true; but, as I wrote to you, I am going to make sure."
"Is that wise?"
"Perhaps not, but I mean to go."
Lionel did not attempt to argue with her, to reason or persuade. The finality of tone and his knowledge of the woman made him give up at once any thought of such a useless effort. "But I go with her," he resolved, "either as husband or servant. And if she won't take me, I'll go on my own if I have to steal a ride under the train!"
"Did you call at the house?" he asked.
"I came straight across here, seeing you the moment I entered the gate. Perhaps I had better see my sister before we begin to talk. Our conversation may be long."
Lionel moved uneasily.
"I am sorry to say," he began, "that your sister feels anything but well-disposed toward you. She resents your suspicion, and ... and...." he stuck fast.
"Refuses to see me?" she suggested.
He nodded. "I have hopes of winning her over yet, but...."
"If she has said 'No' she will stick to it," said Beatrice, digging her parasol into the lawn. "She can be a darling, but she can also be pig-headed. What do you think of her?" she added quickly, turning upon him.
"Charming," said Lionel. "Except for this unfortunate weakness. And there is some excuse even for that."
"Do you consider her pretty?" It sounded an odd question, but oddities were lost on him now.
"Yes; very pretty."
"As pretty as I?" asked Beatrice.
"Quite," he laughed, beginning to feel more at home, "but in a different way. And I prefer your way," he added with sincerity.
"That is a little crude," she smiled. "I expected a more delicate compliment from a man of your education. Please pay me one at once."
To be asked for a delicate compliment at a moment's notice must be much the same as if thePuncheditor were asked for a joke instanter. You can imagine Mr. Seaman being introduced with, "This is Mr. Seaman—Punch, you know." "How charming! Please, Mr. Seaman, be good enough to be funny," and the resultingdébâcleof Mr. Seaman. Lionel felt empty of all wit and ideas. He simply looked at her and shook his head.
"I am sorry ... you have silenced me."
She smiled provokingly. "Try!"
He shook his head again with a sudden sadness. As he observed her, devotedly absorbing every detail of her dress, her charming attitude, her delicate color, the dainty foot in the lavender stocking and trim black shoe pushed seductively forward, the glorious hair, and brilliance of her eyes, the incarnation of youth and joy (and he excused her that, remember, for the compulsion of her marriage), he groaningly realized that his late logic would not hold. He loved her and wanted her: he knew that he would not be mercenary in asking, but he felt he could not after all. To think of asking for such a lovely creature, without a penny of his own—he could not do it. He was wrong, he told himself, and felt that his ideals were true, but it was impossible. His face grew grim as he looked at her. The smile faded from her lips.
"What is it?" she said softly. "Is anything the matter, my ... friend?"
He was near the breaking-point, and had that moment continued he might have told her all. But an interruption—a twentieth-century interruption—saved him.
From the deeps of the air was heard a dull humming. The noise increased every moment, and Beatrice looked perplexedly about her. "Do you hear it," she asked, "that curious noise?... Like a gigantic bee...."
Lionel had heard a similar noise before and was not perplexed. "It must be an aeroplane," he said reassuringly: "it sounds as if it were quite close. Perhaps that clump of trees hides its approach."
His surmise proved correct, for in a brief space the machine soared into view like some beautiful bird. "There it is!" they cried together, standing like two delighted children watching a kindly rock from theArabian Nights. "Why! what is it going to do?" continued Beatrice, speaking as if the monoplane were a living creature. "See! it has changed its course ... it is circling round like a bird of prey."
"It looks as if he meant to land," said Lionel, "and was seeking for a suitable place. Yes, by jove! he's found it. Now watch!"
The air-man had shut off his engine, for the buzzing ceased, and he came down to earth, with a graceful swoop that enchanted Beatrice, on a bit of level pasture two fields away. "Come on!" cried Beatrice excitedly. "Let's go and have a look! I've never seen an aeroplane close to."
Lionel smiled at her enthusiasm, and they set off at a brisk pace. Leaving the garden by the little wicket at the back, they crossed the tiny stream, dignified by the name of Shere, and walked on, chatting happily till they were close upon the air-man. They could see him walking round his machine, examining it with a parent's care, pulling here, patting there, testing the tension of a wire, inspecting the engine. Suddenly Beatrice stopped short. "Bother!" she said impatiently. "I've left my hanky in the garden. I wonder if you'd mind——"
"Of course," said Lionel, glad, you may be sure, of the lightest service. "You go on and learn to fly. I'll join you in five minutes."
He left Beatrice and ran back to the garden. But in spite of the most careful search he could not see any trace of the handkerchief. He searched the lawn, the chairs, the drive, but no handkerchief was visible. "She must have lost it in the train," he thought, "or dropped it on the road. Well, that's soon remedied."
Going into the house, he rang the dining-room bell. It was answered by Forbes. "Get me a clean handkerchief, please," said Lionel. To his utter amazement Forbes said "Yes, sir," and prepared to leave the room.
"Hi!" said Lionel, and Forbes stopped, flushing a dull red. Lionel pulled himself together with an effort. "Excuse me, Forbes," said he, striving to speak calmly: "I understood you were dumb. Has the age of miracles revived, or what?"
Forbes bowed discreetly.
"Our local doctor is a very clever surgeon, sir," he replied blandly. "I think you said a handkerchief, sir?"
He disappeared....
"Cleverness, Forbes," said Lionel when the footman returned, "is not confined to doctors. I congratulate you ... on the recovery of speech."
"Thank you, sir," said Forbes with a well-bred humility. "I find it a great blessing, I own. It opens out a new world."
He held the door, and Lionel passed out, his brain sagging heavily. A few minutes later he rejoined Beatrice, who had more surprises in store. She was chatting merrily with the air-man as he came up.
"This is great luck!" she said cheerfully to the astonished Lionel. "Here's an old friend of mine dropped from the skies—yes! literally!—to pay a friendly call. Let me introduce you: Mr. Mortimer—Mr. Ashford Billing, my late manager."
"Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Billing," said Lionel mechanically. "I've heard your name before."
"And I yours, Mr. Mortimer," replied Billing with genuine heartiness. "It's a real pleasure to meet a man who can write like you."
"I don't understand," said Lionel. "How can you know anything of my work? It's not attracted much notice yet."
Billing laughed.
"Shall I tell him?" he asked, turning to the lady.
"Bags I!" said Beatrice, laughing: "that must be my royalty, or commission, if you prefer it. First of all, let me explain his presence. He called on me this afternoon and found that I was out——"
"Asusual," interrupted Billing.
"And learned where I had gone from my servant. Then, being in a hurry——"
"Wanted to try to persuade her to sign a new contract," said the irrepressible Billing, "but she won't. Perhaps you can make her realize, Mr. Mortimer, that if she retires the stage will lose one of its brightest jewels."
"Oh, keep that for the publicity agent!" she begged. "I've told you I mean to retire, and that's final. I want to tell thenews. Well, Mr. Mortimer, the impetuous man couldn't wait, so he went down to Brooklands and flew here——"
"Quicker than the train," smiled Billing. "American hustle and all that——"
"And now he tells me—as a casual item of information—that he's going to produce your play."
"What!" said Lionel.
"Yes—yes—yes! Isn't it splendid? Now, Ashford, you can tell the rest."
"Guess there isn't much left to tell," said Billing, still smiling. "Well, sir, Miss Blair told me about your play a month ago now. My reader reported favorably on it, and I read it myself. I think it will go, Mr. Mortimer, if I'm any judge; and when you get back to London we can fix up the contract. I hope it will mean something hot for both of us."
Lionel turned, incapable of speech, to Beatrice. He thanked her with his eyes, but more than thanks lay in them, and Billing noticed the mutual look with an inward groan. There was silence for a moment. Then Billing squared his shoulders, and in a matter-of-fact voice said, "Well, I calculate I must be getting home."
Beatrice protested. There was not the least hurry. There was no sense in this flying over to see them and only staying for ten minutes. He must stop and have dinner: why not sleep?...
"You forget I don't know your sister," he replied with a peculiar smile. Beatrice blushed. Lionel did not notice the blush. He was too busy thinking of the new vistas that opened before him even to hear what they were saying. He despised the flying man, for did not he, Lionel, tread upon the air?
"I'll arrange that somehow," said Beatrice quickly. "Ashford, you really must stop. I want to talk to you."
"Excuse me," he said with a queer smile that was not of joy, "but I guess I know better than that." His voice sank. "My dear, I wish you luck!"
"Oh, Ashford, dear!" she whispered, "I'm so sorry ... I'm so sorry...."
"That's all right," he said more cheerfully. "Now, I'm really going, never to worry you again. Hello! what's this?"
His exclamation of surprise caused them to turn and look toward The Quiet House.
From the wicket-gate had issued the figure of a man running. He wore no hat, and though apparently elderly, was progressing at a very fair rate of speed. But he had not run more than twenty yards before another man came bursting from the gate.
"Why, it's the prisoner!" gasped Lionel, "and good heavens!—yes!" He turned swiftly to Beatrice. "It's the churchwarden! What on earth is he doing here?"
"So it is," replied Beatrice without emotion. He wondered at her self-control. "They seem to be in a hurry."
Robert was evidently in a very great hurry, but Tony had the advantage in years and sprightliness. He caught his quarry in a very short space, and seized him by the shoulder. Then the pair of them stopped, Robert obviously unwilling, and began to talk with much gesticulation on both sides. The onlookers of course could hear nothing of what was said, but from the pantomime Tony appeared to be expostulating, advising, entreating. Mr. Hedderwick seemed to be in a condition of irate panic. As a matter of fact, Tony was remonstrating with his comrade-in-arms for his cowardice, and urging him, for the sake of himself and the sex, to make a stand for the rights of man. "If you give in now, after your many heroisms with me," said Tony warmly, "I shall be ashamed of my pupil and disown him. Come! though youhaverun, it's not too late for a recovery."
"You don't know my wife!" panted Robert.
"I do—I've spoken to her for three minutes, and I can guess what she's like. I know something about women, and I feel sure that if you stand up to her now you'll be boss in your house for good. If not, she will. It's now or never."
"You—you're not joking, Mr. Wild?" said Robert piteously.
"I'm really serious. Now, come along with me and talk to these people. We'll let your wife catch us here. An audience ought to give you courage. Mind!" he added, holding Robert by the arm as they began to walk toward the aeroplane, "there must be no weakening, however terrible she may appear. Be a man, and you'll triumph!"
It was all very well to urge him to be a man, but Mr. Hedderwick had been through a very tense six hours. When he escaped from the vicarage he rushed straight for The Happy Heart. There he instructed Mr. Glew in a sentence of some five hundred words, without so much as a comma intervening, that he meant to retire to his room at once, that he was to be denied to all callers, that casual inquirers were to be told that he had gone to the station, that on no account must any one be allowed to come up-stairs, and that information was to be given when the coast was clear. "I'll explainitalllaterglewwhenihavetimebutrememberthatit's afiverinyourpocketifIcomethroughto-daysafe," he babbled, dashing furiously up-stairs. "Right, sir," responded Glew, a creature to whom the word "fiver" was all that was necessary by way of present explanation. Robert's bedroom door slammed and was locked behind him long before the "Right, sir" had died away.
The visit of Mrs. Hedderwick and the vicar's wife made matters fairly clear to the landlord; but, true to his salt and interest, he persisted in the tale that Robert had gone to the station. His story was disbelieved. This was not to be wondered at, considering the paucity of his inventive powers and imagination; for Glew did not adduce a particle of corroborative detail to support his statement. The ladies simply declined to give him credence, and demanded to be shown Mr. "Bangs'" bedroom. Foiled in this amiable purpose, the determined pair announced their intentions of waiting in the parlor till the victim appeared. The landlord's renewed protests and offers of affidavits had no weight with them, and they sat down with an awful dignity.
At two o'clock Mrs. Peters' weariness conquered her curiosity, and she went home, offering unbounded sympathy and a bed for the night. The sympathy was accepted, the bed declined, Mrs. Hedderwick declaring she would remain at the inn, if necessary sitting up in a chair till morning.
Glew had no wish for this, and cast about him for means of getting rid of the undesired guest. At six o'clock he sent his hopeful son up-stairs, himself keeping guard over the parlor from the bar opposite. Young Glew found Robert desperate: he had not thought his wife capable of such obstinacy.
"Dad says," began the interested youngster, "that he'll go in and talk to the lady—keep her occupied like—if you'd care to risk it and slip out."
"I will!" said Robert on the instant. Anything was better than this terrible suspense. "Let me see ... there's a train in half an hour or so ... I'll go to the station. No! I won't! Wait a minute!"
He changed his resolve, partly from quixotic, partly from selfish reasons. He did not like to leave Tony to an unknown, unguessed-at fate; and he also felt very strongly that he would like that judicious schemer's advice on his next steps. He resolved to risk all and boldly apply for admittance to The Quiet House. If matters there were really serious ... well, at all events they could not be much more serious to him than the presentimpasse. "I'll do it!" he declared with a sudden resolution. "Boy! when you get your father alone, tell him I've gone up to The Quiet House. I'll write to him from there. Now go down and ask him to talk to my—to the lady. Beg him to stand in the doorway and fill it up. I'll creep quietly past in ten minutes' time."
The boy obeyed, and after ten palpitating minutes Robert stole cautiously down-stairs. True to his promise, the landlord's bulky figure blocked the parlor door, his voice raised in mournful reiteration and appeal. Robert reached the fifth step from the bottom without making the slightest noise. But the stair-rod of the fifth step had worked loose: the carpet slipped, and he tumbled down with considerable uproar. Luckily he was unhurt by the fall; but the landlord's sharp turn of the head and expression of dismayed surprise, coupled with the din, roused Mrs. Hedderwick's suspicion. "What is that?" she demanded querulously, trying to push past the landlord. At the terrific tones Robert jumped up and took to his heels.
His wife had common sense and did not attempt to follow, knowing she could not hope to catch the fugitive. She knew, too, that Glew was incorruptible. But as the landlord walked out to block the passage and observe the escape with a sympathetic eye, she turned to Master Glew and said decisively, "Here is half-a-crown if you can tell me where he has gone."
"Quiet House," said the guileless lad without hesitation, and pocketed the coin. Mrs. Hedderwick left the inn at once.
After inquiry from a passer-by she reached her destination, a quarter of an hour behind the peccant Hedderwick. She walked up the drive, and beheld the unsuspecting Robert pouring out his grief to Tony. They were sitting in the hammock-chairs.
Robert gave a cry and fled once more. Tony courteously waited and implored Mrs. Hedderwick to sit down and rest. "There is a misunderstanding," he said urbanely; "it shall be my pleasure to set it right." Filled with shame of his sex, determined to vindicate Robert's manhood and obtain for him a peaceful mastership, he ran after him, catching him outside the grounds as has already been described.
Mrs. Hedderwick, however, was not content to wait. She did not run—no! no! perish so undignified a thought: but she proceeded very swiftly indeed in the wake of Tony. "A smooth-spoken hypocrite!" she thought ungratefully, remembering Mrs. Peter's description of Robert's accomplice during their mutual vigil. "If I only get a chance I'll give him a piece of my mind, too!" She ran—I apologize: she proceeded very swiftly—through the garden, and presently saw Tony disappear in the distance through a wicket-gate. At a convenient interval of time she followed. In front of her, a field ahead, she saw Tony and her husband standing still, their arms waving furiously. In a moment they began to walk on again, toward a little group which she now observed for the first time. Mrs. Hedderwick slackened her pace, not because her desire of vengeance was cooling, but because she did not wish to appear in a panting state. She saw the two men come to the group, and some handshaking followed. "The wretch!" she thought. "Some of his wicked friends, I suppose!" A few moments later she joined them. They looked at her with interest, and she returned the gaze unflinchingly—an iron woman. Beatrice came forward. "Mrs. Hedderwick, I think we have met before."
It must be admitted that Mrs. Hedderwick behaved well. There was every excuse for a scene, and no possible excuse (unless one know his dull life) for Robert. Mrs. Hedderwick merely looked coldly at Beatrice and said, "We have, but I prefer not to remember it." Then she turned to her husband, "Come, Robert!"
Mr. Hedderwick was pale, but determined. Tony's reassuring and stimulating words, together with a short breathing-space, had put courage into him. Besides, during the last minute he had conceived an idea. So, though he trembled internally, his voice was calm enough as he replied, "Alicia, I am not coming just yet."
Tony took Beatrice by the arm. "This isn't our scene," he whispered. She obeyed the hint; and she, Lionel, Tony and Billing retired a few yards to the aeroplane, out of ear-shot. "Is it fair to leave him?" asked Beatrice; "he looked very frightened, poor little man!"
"Yes—yes!" said Tony decidedly; "he must do this on his own—sink or swim. I think he'll be all right, now that I've stiffened him. Let him alone."
Mrs. Hedderwick appreciated the withdrawal, but it did not soften her mood. "What do you mean, Robert?" she said coldly. "You are my husband, though you did desert me cruelly. You must come."
"I come on conditions," said Robert stoutly, though his knees were quaking. "I mean to be master of the house in future—to do exactly what I like and when I like—to go to Brighton, if I choose——"
"Don't be absurd," said Mrs. Hedderwick.
"I mean what I say," he reiterated. "I'm—I'm still very fond of you, Alicia, but I must be master——"
"Don't be absurd," said Mrs. Hedderwick, still unmoved. "You will come home with me to-night."
She advanced and took his arm in a wifely grasp. Robert, feeling the chains imminent, resolved to play his last card. It was his sole remaining hope of freedom. Bruskly he freed his arm. Then with incredible agility he ran to the aeroplane and scrambled into the pilot's seat. "Now, then!" he said grimly; "you admit thatIam to be head, and I'll come down. Otherwise I'll start this infernal machine. I don't much care what happens."
"Robert!" screamed his wife, shaken out of her composure. "Oh, Robert! come down!"
"Not till you promise!" he said, fumbling at unaccustomed levers. "Here, sir! how do you start it?"
"You fool!" shouted Billing, alarmed, as chance directed Robert to the object of his search. "Stand clear!" he screamed, fearing the propeller would start and hit the bystanders. He pulled Beatrice aside, and Tony did the same for Mrs. Hedderwick. "Stop it, you fool! No!—the other lever! The machine will be up in a minute."
"Promise!" screamed Robert, like one possessed. He was playing for life now, and was past caring.
"I—I promise!" wailed Mrs. Hedderwick, as the propeller began to move, and then at last Robert obeyed the frantic instructions of Billing and stopped the engine. He descended with all the honors of war.
"You will excuse us," he said with a pale smile, taking Mrs. Hedderwick by the arm. "We are stopping at The Happy Heart to-night. Perhaps, to-morrow...."
He retired at the right moment, his wife beneath his manly protecting arm. "There! there!" he whispered soothingly as they walked off; "it's all right now, my love! You mustn't be frightened."
"Oh, Robert!" said Mrs. Hedderwick. "How could you—howcouldyou do it! I—I didn't know you had it in you!"
Robert expanded a hero's chest.
"My dear, love is proverbially blind."
Beatrice and the three men watched the passing of the Hedderwicks in amused silence. When they had disappeared from view Billing said, "Well, that's done ... and now, Miss Blair, I'm really going."
"Me, too," said Tony lightly. "I mean to have a shy for that seven-thirty train."
"Then you're determined?" said Beatrice to both men. Billing nodded with a smiling melancholy. Tony smiled more cheerfully. Though this interview with Miss Arkwright in the afternoon had opened his eyes, he was not so hard hit as the air-man: things had not had time to go so far.
"I'll just wait and see the machine start," he said. "Then ho! for the station and prosaic London once more!"
"If you like," said Billing, "I'll take you back to Brooklands with me. This is a two-seater. Unless you've a bad head for heights."
"I've fallen from too many to mind," said Tony ruefully. "My biggest drop occurred this afternoon. Thanks very much. If you'll give me time to collar a coat and a rug, I'm your man."
He ran off, leaving them chatting, but he was back in a very short time bearing the necessary articles. "I bagged the first I could lay hands on," he explained, getting into the overcoat. "I hope nobody——"
"Er—the coat happens to be mine," said Lionel pointedly. He liked Tony very well, but could hardly stomach so unblushing a theft. "Sorry, old chap, but I may want——"
Tony put both hands on his shoulders and gazed deep into his eyes.
"Little man," he said calmly, "listen to your wise old uncle. Youwon'twant it. Take it from me that youwon'twant it. I'll send it back to-morrow. That will be in heaps of time."
"Time for what?" said the puzzled Lionel, smiling out of sheer sympathy with the quizzical glance. "Oh, well—take it and be hanged to you!"
"Thanks," said Tony. Then he took off his cap and advanced to Beatrice. "Good-by!" he said brightly. "Thanks a thousand times. I'll send you a picture post-card announcing my safe arrival."
"And another to say when you've started work!" said Beatrice, smiling a little mistily. "Don't forget that!"
"I start on Monday," he replied. "Don't know what it will be yet—perhaps aeroplanes, perhaps politics, possibly poultry farming. But it's going to materialize. Good-by, and—the very best!"
Billing, who had said good-by, was already in the pilot's seat. "Come on!" he grunted mournfully, knowing he was bidding farewell to hopes managerial as well as amatory. Tony climbed up behind him and tucked the rug well round. "Let her go!" he said cheerfully. In obedience to the order Lionel gave the propeller a swing, the engine started, and in a few seconds the aeroplane began to run swiftly over the ground. Beatrice drew close to Lionel and put her arm through his. It seemed such a natural thing that he felt no surprise whatever, but only a tumultuous happiness. Together they stood watching the machine as it took the air and soared up in the magic of mechanical flight. They waved a final adieu, and Tony flourished his cap.
"What would you say," shouted Billing when they had risen a hundred feet, "if I let her drop suddenly?"
"Shouldn't have cared a week ago," shouted Tony in return; "you mustn't now."
Billing grunted unintelligibly and gave his undivided attention to the pilotage....
On the dull earth below Beatrice and Lionel were walking silently toward the house. They were still arm in arm, but no word was spoken till they had reached the shelter of the garden. Then Lionel stopped and took her by the hands. "Ah, Beatrice!" he said.
"Not yet! Not yet!" she breathed, holding back and inflaming his passion the more. "Wait a little! You mustn't say anything yet! Let us approach it sensibly and in a rational balanced mood if we can." She broke from him and laughed merrily. "Let us go in and have dinner first. Afterward, we can talk in the garden."
"Tell me one thing," he said impetuously, "and I will be patient. Was there ever a Lukos?"
"I will tell you two things," she said, laughing a little wildly. "You ought to know them before you speak. With them you must be content for an hour. There was no Lukos, and Miss Arkwright and I are the same creature."
He had suspected it a hundred times, and a hundred times he had found fresh evidence to discredit the suspicion. He knew it must be true, though he could not grasp it yet. But he did not care. The fact that he had been hoodwinked and made a plaything did not trouble him in the least. All he was conscious of was that she was free. He laughed quietly, now completely master of himself.
"That will do to go on with," he said; "now let us be sensible, as you suggest, and have dinner."
The meal was a great success, despite the presence of Forbes, who hovered about them like a benignant and sympathetic butterfly. Lionel could hardly help smiling at him, remembering his recent slip and the sudden recovery of speech. Forbes seemed entirely unconscious, handing the plates with an air that was almost fatherly; and Lionel regretted the obvious necessity of his dismissal in the roseate and fast-approaching millennium. He was not impatient now, perfectly disposed to laugh, eat, drink, be merry and take a fair share in the conversation that sparkled between them. It was a talk as of old, when they spoke freely and lightly of surface themes—the play, the latest book, the morning's news—the clash of wit and opinion sounding bravely through the room.
They smoked a cigarette each over their coffee, but still the talk was of mundane matters, though neither was ill at ease. There is a telepathy of souls that can send true messages beneath the cover of human speech.
At last Beatrice said, "Let us go into the garden," and he rose briskly at the command. She allowed him to help her with her cloak, and then said, laughing: "But Tony has your coat! What will you do?"
"I shan't need one," he replied. "It's a lovely night."
"You will," she insisted. "I can't have you catching cold. I'll tell Forbes——"
"No, really," he protested, and threw open the door. "See, what a glorious night it is! There's not the least need."
She did not press the point, for indeed it was a night for lovers. There was not a breath of wind in the air, no sound of the works of man to mar the stillness. From a distant field came the dim wheezing of a corn-crake; nearer at hand a nightingale was beginning his epithalamic welcome. A light dew was falling, but nothing to hurt a lover and his lass, full of health and joyousness. The trees did not even sigh a greeting: the solemn hush made them imagine that nature herself was holding her breath in friendly expectation, waiting to hear the old tale in the newest words, ready to break out into a chorus of free congratulation. Already Lionel could hear the leaves whispering the gay tidings, every blade of grass passing on the news, the grasshoppers and glowworms waking their more sleepy fellows to tell them Beatrice was here and had said she loved him, the birds waiting happily in their nests till the first kiss sounded, and then tucking in their heads with a jolly "Sothat'sall right at last!" He wanted to say "Thank you" to the world of beasts and trees and flowers, and presently to the world of men and women.
"Smoke, do!" said Beatrice, as he dragged a couple of the chairs upon the gravel. "And don't interrupt more than you can help. I'll tell you the essential facts as shortly as I can. Details we can talk over later ... if there is to be a 'later.'"
He lighted a cigarette and was silent.
"Most of the tale I told you," she began abruptly, "was all lies. Some was true. I was, for instance, well-off as regards money, when I was left an orphan at sixteen. I was brought up by some hateful relations and launched two years later. I got sick of society in a couple of years, and cut it for pleasanter paths. I tried painting, but it bored me. Then the stage—that part was true—and made a success....
"It wasn't enough. I wanted more interest, more reality in life. I didn't find it—I haven't quite found it yet, but I think I'm on the way to it. I wanted romance, too. I also wanted fun. Oh, yes! I wanted a lot, there's no doubt about that.... Presently I determined I wanted a husband....
"Does that sound odd from a girl's lips? Well, it's true, and I don't care much about anything except truth just now. I set to work deliberately to find some one I could love and who would love me. Are you shocked?" she asked quickly.
"No," he said quietly, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "Go on."
"So I went husband-hunting. Not much need, you may say, for a girl on the stage to do that. Of course I had plenty of men running after me—some beasts, some good sorts. They didn't do. I wanted something worth loving; a man who was strong, but human; a man with a sense of humor and not too grown-up for romance—a kind of Admirable Crichton, in fact. I didn't find him—at all events, not at first.
"This Turkish tale I made up for two reasons,—one, the purely irresponsible childish enjoyment of a fairy tale—a lark, if you like! Two, for a test. If my projected benedict could swallow that—believe it, if possible, but at all events not refuse it because it looked so silly—well, he would do on the romantic side. But he had to be a man and a strong man, too; hence the invention of Lukos for a further test."
"A pretty hard one," he interposed.
"Pretty hard," she agreed, "but I meant to have the best. I tried the tale on two or three men who seemed good sorts, during a period of three months or so. They all failed for ... one reason or another. Then, by a lucky chance, you came and succeeded. That's all."
"And Mizzi?"
"My faithful helper and plagiarist. She got bitten with the romantic notion too, and set her lover a somewhat similar task. She invented the burglary."
"Tony Wild?"
"Luck," she confessed. "I worked the broad outlines of the scheme, but added to it as circumstances helped. The ambassador was an old friend, and I used his presence here to give verisimilitude. He didn't know, of course, and the day he caught you here I was afraid my schemes would be blurted out by his calling me 'Miss Blair.' Luck helped me there."
"Hedderwick?"
"Sheer madness. I wanted a new adventure that night, and risked the police court. I trusted to my wits to get us out if caught. If not, well, 'the papers have been stolen!'"
"The dumb servants?"
"The gardener really is dumb. Forbes I gave five pounds a week to sham, for safety's sake. I couldn't risk his talking in the village. I've only had this house two months—I wanted it for perfect rest. I didn't come down here every day—just when the mood took me. I used to motor up to London at night, sometimes sending the car back empty (Forbes drove), sometimes coming myself. When you were here I used to leave the car a mile away and walk."
"Alone!"
"Oh, yes," she smiled. "I always carried the revolver for protection. That was true in a sense. I was never interfered with, though I had some trouble at times dodging Tony, Brown and Mr. Hedderwick. It was exciting work."
He laughed, at her courage and his ignorance of her. She laughed gaily in return.
"Is that enough?"
"Not quite," he demurred. "Why were you so angry with Mizzi that night you caught us?"
She blushed.
"Ah! I am ashamed to tell you that. One day perhaps I shall ... not now."
"I kissed her, you know," he said frankly. She sat up.
"When?"
"In London, the first night."
"Not since?"
"Never."
She sat down again.
"A proof of humanity," she smiled. "She's quite charming, I know. Is that all?"
"Not yet. Wasn't it very hard to keep up the two rôles?"
"Hard, but, not so very hard to a woman who has brains and is an actress. It was interesting, and I enjoyed watching you."
"Tell me; suppose I had kissed Miss Arkwright. Would you have forgiven me?"
The answer came quickly.
"Yes. But I'm so glad you didn't!"
"I, too," he confessed. And then, "I think that's all."
There was a complete silence for half a minute, while he struggled to find words to say to this most lovely woman. He could find none. Each knew the other's heart already, and words seemed vain and meaningless. "Oh, Beatrice darling!" he said, almost with a sob, "don't keep me waiting any longer! I want you! I want you!"
"Lal, dearest!" she said.
"And this is the end," she said presently with a little sigh. "We shall just get married and settle into stodgy conventional people. It sounds flat, doesn't it?"
"Why should it be the end? We can be happy and ourselves, too. We can still have romance, adventures, though youth passes——"
She shook her head.
"No; we shall have happiness, but never the same as this. We have been lucky and had the most splendid fun. But now, whether we wish it or not, we shall have to grow up and try to find out what life is."
"Well, we'll bargain for one adventure a year, at least," he stipulated. "Old or young, we'll have that!"
"We must earn it, Lal!" she said with a wise smile. "We've no right to such happiness unless——"
"Make me your debtor now!" he said, clasping her more closely. "Beatrice, darling, I love you! Do you realize it? I love you!"
She breathed one word, the most perfect pledge a man could hope for.
"Egotist!"