The Gay Adventure Part 14

Presently there had been some suspense, for when the time came for him to leave the flat, at half past four, Beatrice had peeped from the window and imagined that she saw a man watching the house. Lionel peeped too, but could see nothing. Nevertheless they had waited another ten minutes, as long as they dared if he was to catch the first train.

But at length he resolved to risk a spy, and after a brief, tense, but outwardly calm "good-by" he had left the house. By taking a cab he reached Euston in time, and at last was established in the train. So far as he knew, he had not been followed: the only stranger he had noticed had been a man who was in the train before he was on the platform, so from him there could be nothing to fear.

And now he was in The Happy Heart, resting after a dusty three-mile walk from Shereling station, drinking good English beer, far from all thought of Oriental craft and scheming. He was in Shereling, on the second stage of his fond adventure. What was to be the first step?

In spite of the rest and beer he felt discontented, and glumly wished that Beatrice were at hand. To what end? To advise, direct, console, or soothe? He hardly knew, but darkly suspected that it was for the weaker reason. Idly he allowed himself to remember the touch of her delightful fingers, cool, nervous and alluring: the seduction of her hair, the brilliant command of her eyes. But it was not these only that inspired his grateful remembrance: it was also her lovely personality, her courage, her charm, herself. Of course it could not be love; that was absurd. It was a flame kindled by the sympathy of a comrade--the kind of comrade he had never known. Possibly the fact that he had not enjoyed any extensive woman-friends.h.i.+ps during the recent years had made him exaggerate her qualities: she might be rare, but could she be so rare as he thought her? Supposing he met some other delightful woman soon, might not the pleasant image of Beatrice lose something of its l.u.s.ter? He shook himself impatiently; it was a foolish thought. Other women might be delightful, charming, desirable, but there could only be a single Beatrice. How pretty she was! How--and here the figure of Lukos beckoned a grim warning: "It is time you put your shoulder to the wheel, my ...

_friends_!"

"All right, old chap--_all right_!" said Lionel petulantly to the shade.

"Don't be in such a beastly hurry. It's not love ... it's not love, I tell you. Just a superlative esteem for your splendid wife.... Your _wife_," he added with a martyr's sigh. And then he raised the tankard, feeling that it ought to hold Tokay. "Here's to her!" he murmured, drinking deep. He put the pewter down, but raised it again. "And to you, old chap!" he added generously. "... Hullo! there's none left. Beg pardon."

As he finished, the door opened and admitted a chubby little clergyman, who sat down with a courteous "Good morning!" Lionel made haste to remove his legs from the bench. The landlord followed close upon the heels of the newcomer. "Morning, sir," said the landlord respectfully.

"Will you take anything?"

"Draught cider. Half a pint," said the clergyman briskly. The landlord disappeared, and he turned, smiling. "You should try the cider of The Happy Heart," he said--"that is, if you have not done so already. I allow myself that as a concession to the flesh."

"And a sensible concession, too," replied Lionel heartily. He was pleased that a gentleman in Holy Orders did not think it undignified to drink in a common "pub." "I have been drinking beer, and very good it is--or was. But I must try the cider, if I remain here."

"Staying long?" asked the other pleasantly. And when Lionel said, guardedly, that he had not quite settled yet, the clergyman did not pursue the question, but pa.s.sed on to other themes. "I am the local parson," he said chattily. "My name is Peters." As he spoke the landlord came back with the clerical cider and a telegram.

"Does your name happen to be Mortimer, sir?" he asked. "Because if so, this here telegram is for you."

"It is," said Lionel in some surprise. The wire could only be from Beatrice, but he had not expected any communication from her as yet.

With a brief apology he opened the yellow envelope and read its contents. It was all he could do to keep from betraying his astonishment. The wire read as follows:--

"Hope you had pleasant journey. My suspicions deepen. Try stay Arkwright twin. Suspect even her. Wait further wire.--BLAIR."

He read the telegram three times, but it was not till the third reading that he grasped the import of "Arkwright twin." He knew no one of the name of Arkwright, nor had he ever claimed acquaintance with a twin.

"The nearest I could do is triplets," he thought. "Johnson of the House was a triplet, I remember, but that's no good to me.... Who on earth...?" And then he recalled Beatrice saying that she had a twin sister who had disapproved of her stage career. Of course it must be she. He had been so accustomed to think of his preceptress as Beatrice Blair that he had almost forgotten it must be a stage name. And so she was really an Arkwright--rather a pretty name on the whole, though unworthy of her high claims; failing Beatrice Blair, it ought to have been Rosalind ... Rosalind what? Rosalind Roy ... Rosalind Gay ...

Rosalind Ebbsfleet ... Rosalind Wise.... He smiled as his thoughts played with a score of dainty conceits. He was roused to common sense and depression by the remembrance that she was really Mrs. Lukos. But was Lukos a surname? "Let's hope not," he reflected sourly.

"No bad news, I trust," said the chubby clergyman, with a polite but ecclesiastical inflection.

"No--no," answered Lionel abruptly. He abandoned Rosalind completely and tried to arrange his thoughts. "By the way, do you happen to know any one of the name of Arkwright in the neighborhood?"

The chubby clergyman looked interested.

"I do and I don't," he said, pulling his chair close to the table and leaning on his elbows. "A Miss Arkwright lives at The Quiet House. She has been the tenant for only two months, and n.o.body has seen her yet."

"What!"

"It sounds odd," said the clergyman with the smile of one who has an interesting story for a virgin audience, "but it is true. She calls on n.o.body, and denies herself to every caller. She is never seen in the village except when driving in her motor, and I am sorry to say that she does not come to church."

"But surely something is known of her,--through the servants, for instance----"

"She has a housekeeper, I believe, who makes friends with n.o.body; a dumb gardener and a dumb footman. A little extraordinary, eh?" He rubbed his hands with zest. "But it is true none the less. Of course, all sorts of gossip have been greedily accepted. I never listen to gossip--one has to think of one's position--but some things can not be hid.... They say she takes motor drives at night,--every night. I do not credit the 'every'--exaggeration is so prevalent. I always believe less than half what the villagers tell me--that is, what drifts round to my ears."

"But what does she do all day?" asked Lionel. Clearly this was a queer state of affairs.

"I do not know. Her grounds are large. Perhaps she gardens."

"You do not think there is any fear of ... of a scandal?" asked Lionel in a pained voice, anxious not to wound.

"I trust not ... I trust not. I have no reason to think.... Of course, things _do_ look odd, and my wife says ... but, no! I am sure she must be wrong. I ... I hope so."

"Mrs. Peters has heard----?" hazarded Lionel. The clergyman shook his head with dignity.

"Nothing. Nothing. My wife called, but was refused admittance. Naturally she, as the vicar's wife, felt a little hurt...."

"Of course," agreed Lionel. "But no other friends come? n.o.body in motors?"

"I believe not. I should have heard,--it would have drifted round to me in the course of time."

"n.o.body stays here, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes--golfers. One is here now--an excellent man,--old and of foreign origin, I believe. He calls himself Beckett; but he has told me (in confidence) that he is here for rest, incognito. He may be somebody of importance--an excellent man, however. He gave me a guinea for our restoration fund the day I showed him the church."

"The amba.s.sador!" was Lionel's swift conclusion; and then aloud, "Has he been here long?"

"Three days. For golf. We have played a few rounds." He smiled at some hidden joy. "He is not very good, for even I can give him a stroke a hole. Uncommunicative--very, but interesting, a gentleman, and I should say a seeker."

"Ah!" said Lionel, getting up. "Well, I must go on. Can you tell me how to find The Quiet House?"

The other gasped.

"You are going to _call_!" He recollected himself and apologized. "I beg your pardon, but ... go straight down the road ... the prettiest house on the right. By the way, if you are staying here I should be happy to take you round the links. Or show you the church----"

"Thank you," said Lionel. "You are very good, but I don't know how long I shall be staying."

"Well, come round and smoke a pipe after dinner," suggested the clergyman. His eagerness to secure one who knew Miss Arkwright was poorly disguised. "I would say, come and dine, but Mrs. Peters...."

He left it to be understood that Mrs. Peters' permission must first be obtained. Lionel could hardly restrain a smile. "Thank you," he said; "I can not promise yet, but I will remember. Good-by."

He left Mr. Peters rejoicing over a fresh piece of news that had "drifted round," which he meant to retail to his wife at the earliest opportunity. As he sat down again to finish his modest allowance, Tony Wild and Mr. Hedderwick made an un.o.btrusive appearance. They had watched Lionel turn the corner before approaching, for Robert was not anxious to meet his late visitor by daylight.

"Good morning, sir," said Tony. He turned to his friend,--"What's yours?

Mine is beer, and lots of it!"

"Mine's bed," said Robert, and sat down with a yawn.

CHAPTER XII

CROSSED ORBITS

There are few things more restful than watching other people working hard, and the sensation is doubly piquant when one is sitting in the shade watching the worker toiling beneath the sun. Mrs. Peters was sitting in the shade; and though she would have denied the suggestion of idleness (for was she not picking the names of likely helpers for the imminent bazaar?), it was not unpleasant to observe Brown, the odd-job man, mowing the lawn. He seemed willing, though of course you must remember he had been taken on only two days ago, and besides, knew that the mistress had her eye on him; sober, too, refusing beer in favor of lemonade--but there! that might be hypocrisy, for there is always something, and these quiet men are often worse than the patently unsteady. Probably he gambled.... Still, at present he was undeniably working, and he had sense enough to oil the machine every quarter of an hour.