The Gay Adventure Part 20

"It was a revival of the play," she said with a blush, and Lionel was glad to notice that she had at least one human trait. "I am thankful to say that I did not laugh."

"And you rest your condemnation on that?" he asked, disgusted that so pretty a creature could be so narrow.

"On that, on what I have been told, and on the ridiculous number of post-card favorites that I see--often in deplorable dishabille--in every stationer's shop. I have deliberately come to the conclusion that the stage is immoral. How, then, can I avoid condemning my sister's lamentable choice of a career?"

Lionel rose, pale with anger, forgetful of his errand.

"I am sorry to hear it," he said with absurd dignity. Of course, he ought to have laughed and talked about the garden. "I am sorry you persist in such a hasty condemnation of a n.o.ble profession----"

"And of Miss Blair," she put in with a sly jealousy.

"If you like," he flung out. "I can not allow any one--even you--to criticize her. I regret, therefore, that I shall not be able to stop the night."

"I was not aware," she said with an unmoved countenance, "that I had given you an invitation."

Lionel was so taken aback that he sat down abruptly in his chair. Then the humor of the situation came to his rescue and he laughed outright.

The lady, too, though she made a gallant effort to control herself, failed miserably. In a moment the pair of them were united by the most perfect bond (save one) that earth knows--the mutual appreciation of a jest.

Lionel, as the waves of their mirth broke gently into ripples and presently dissolved in the foam of smiles, realized how foolish he had been. When he set out first for The Quiet House he had taken it for granted that Beatrice had telegraphed to bespeak her sister's hospitality. It was only too clear now that she had not done this, either through forgetfulness, pressure of work, or procrastination. He had simply a.s.sumed that Miss Arkwright would receive him as her guest, and the conversation had been too briskly controversial to allow him to think. Now he was doubly annoyed at his clumsiness: he had behaved like a boor and had sacrificed the interests of Beatrice to an ill-timed chivalry. His cue was submission at all costs for Beatrice's sake.

"I apologize," he said with a frank good humor. "I thought your sister had already engaged your good offices on my behalf." He noticed hopefully that Miss Arkwright's eyes still twinkled with amus.e.m.e.nt.

Clearly she was not all prunes and prisms.

"I have heard nothing," said the lady much more sweetly. "No doubt she meant to write, and forgot. Poor Beatrice! She was always harum-scarum."

To a sensitive man this might have implied a lack of confidence in the protege of Beatrice, and Lionel moved uneasily.

"I hope," he said humbly, "that you will forgive me. I trust that you will allow me to prove my good faith--that----"

"I shall ask you to dine and sleep?" she said bluntly, though a charming smile softened the crudity of her words. "Well, Mr.----?"

"Mortimer. Lionel Mortimer."

"Mr. Mortimer, I do not doubt your word for a moment. I should enjoy cultivating your acquaintance and hearing some first-hand news of my sister. But I fear it is impossible. You see there are the proprieties to be considered. I am a single lady, and perhaps...."

To Lionel this was an astonis.h.i.+ng view of the case. After his unconventional week at the Bloomsbury flat he was poorly qualified to appreciate the apprehensions of Miss Arkwright. His brain told him idly that she was perfectly right, but his heart merely insisted on the abyss between her outlook and her sister's. And, as usually happens, the heart found the readier audience.

"Quite so--quite so! But surely you----"

"Are old enough?" she suggested helpfully, plunging him deeper.

"No--no! I did not mean that! I only meant that surely you have a housekeeper--some person of mature age, much older--oh! _much_ older than yourself--who would save the situation?"

"Well," she admitted with an exasperating coyness, "I have such a domestic, it is true. Mrs. Wetherby is sixty. Do you think that would do?"

"Admirably!" cried Lionel in triumph, caring nothing for his recent buffets. "Admirably! Mrs. Wetherby shall protect you with the armor of a centurion--or of a Lord Nelson," he added scrupulously, remembering that the pre-dreadnought era would carry more conviction. "The thing is arranged! I shall stay after all!"

"Thank you," returned Miss Arkwright with a demure twinkle. ("Is she a prude? Oh, is she?" he reflected, watching.) "Of course, I shall be delighted to do all I can for a friend of Beatrice. You really _do_ know her?" she asked in pretty appeal, as if frightened at her own rashness.

"If you like," said Lionel, luxuriously recalling his wonderful week, "I shall paint a word-picture of her charms. I shall tell you how her eyes shame the starlight--how her hair can enmesh the hearts of all beholders--how her lips----"

"I do not think I need trouble you," interrupted his hostess rather distantly. "No doubt Beatrice is an attractive young person----"

"_Young person!_" he repeated, horror-struck. "Beatrice Blair a _young person_! Profanity! Please, please do not----"

"I shall leave you to think of a better description," she said, with a smile of pity that held no scorn. "I have some letters to write, and I fear you will have to dine alone. You must excuse me, but it is inevitable.... Do you mind ringing the bell?"

He obeyed, and a moment later the footman entered. "Take this gentleman to the blue room, Forbes," said Miss Arkwright. "See that he has everything he wants." The footman bowed and held the door open for Lionel. "Dinner is at half past seven. If you are dull before then, please go to the library. But perhaps you are not a reader? Perhaps you are of those 'whose only books are----'" She checked herself, as if remembering her own correctness or the immobile Forbes.

"They taught me only wisdom--the best wisdom of all," said Lionel, answering the unfinished quotation. Then he went out, wondering.

CHAPTER XVI

A LETTER AND SOME REFLECTIONS

"BLOOMSBURY, LONDON.

"DEAR MR. MORTIMER,--Long before this reaches you my sister will have received a telegram introducing you properly. I am so sorry that I forgot to wire before, but I have been so hara.s.sed and busy that I never thought about it. A true woman, you will say--I can almost see your superior smile as I sit writing here, yet I dare to hope that the smile will not be too superior, that a touch of pity will creep in when you remember that my worry is for a husband's freedom. If only I can save Lukos--but it is foolish to waste time on 'if's.' I _mean_ to succeed, and you have promised to help me. You have my heartfelt grat.i.tude already.

"Thank you for your letter telling me of your arrival at The Quiet House. Do not be discouraged that you have not seen Mizzi yet, and that you have been unable to approach the amba.s.sador again. I have been working very hard and am not dissatisfied with the results, though they would look paltry if I committed them to paper. My information leads me to think that we are on the right track--that Mizzi _is_ the guilty party--that sooner or later an attempt _will_ be made to sell the doc.u.ment--and lastly that we must suspect every one. Yes, _every one_! Even my sister, perhaps, and that brings me to the more important part of my letter.

"I have not seen Winifred for some years, but from the hints you gave me in your letter I gather that she is of distinctly prepossessing appearance. (Isn't that how the police reports usually describe it?) My pen hesitates whether to write 'Be on your guard' or not. Shall I?... may I?... But it is written and must stand. Oh! do not imagine that I am distrustful--I _know_ you can be relied on--I _know_ you can be true and firm and faithful: but my heart fails when I remember that you are a man; encompa.s.sed, too, by perils you hardly perceive, snares almost impalpable. Forgive me! I have no right to speak like this.... I know you are honorable ... but the greatness of the stake forces me to utter my warning--to foresee danger which may be remote--to leave no stone unturned to insure a triumph--to guard against any weakness, however venial or trivial, which may make my path--and the path of Lukos!--more difficult.

"This is a rambling letter. It is midnight, and I have had a tiring day. Forgive me and understand; or, if you can not understand, forgive! I urge you again to watch my sister carefully.... Heavens! it seems a perfidy; but the life of Lukos!... Watch her, I say again. I have grave cause for suspicion, though she does not guess I suspect. Why she, above all others, should betray me I can not tell. I had hoped that--but this is weak and futile. _Watch her carefully._

"You say that up to the present nothing has happened. It may well be that nothing will happen for a time. In any case, you are of the greatest service by remaining at The Quiet House--on guard! Stay there at all costs, till you hear from me again. Do what _she_ tells you--play the hypocrite if need be--strive to conciliate her, but _watch_. I have London under my eyes.

"So much for the chief business. As for news, the play ceases very shortly and I may be able to arrange a meeting, when we can talk things over. On the whole, I am happy, being busy,--at least as happy as I can expect to be until.... Oh! by the way, since we parted I have had another offer of marriage. Such a nice man, too. But if only men could be satisfied with being true _friends_.... Some men can, I know, but the rest ... I am tired. Good night, my friend.--Your friend,

"BEATRICE BLAIR."

Such was the letter that Lionel was reading for the fiftieth time since, a fortnight past, it had come to The Quiet House. It gave him little information and less comfort. From the formal "Dear Mr. Mortimer" ("Hang it! I couldn't _expect_ 'Lionel'!" he told himself savagely) to the distant intimacy of "Your friend Beatrice Blair," it was unsatisfying to a devoted adherent of romance. Yet what else could he ask for? He was not in love--no! he was not in love, for there was a husband! Besides, Beatrice would be the last person to lead him on when.... Stay! there had been temptation on her part in the cab and in the dressing-room.

Yes, there _had_; there was no sense in pretending to himself that there had been no encouragement: there _had_. Charity (a word, by the way, which the Revised Version has altered to "Love") on the instant said: "c.o.xcomb! She led you on to engage your services for Lukos. A pardonable deception." "Very well," grumbled Lionel, admitting the justice of the argument, "let it be so. But it seems a little rough on...?"

Leaving this, he turned to other items, trying to read some new shades of meaning into the too-well-remembered words. She was working hard--good: she was fairly happy--good: he must stay where he was--good: watching--good: Lukos--Lukos--again Lukos ... h'm ... yes, good--certainly good. The beggar was her husband, after all.

Good. The sister was pretty--a smile: he must be on his guard ... h'm ... perfidy ... a traitor ... of prepossessing appearance ... could she be ... jealous?

"c.o.xcomb!" said reason again: "look at the end--'Your _friend_.' Then, too, there is 'another proposal ... such a nice man.' Jealousy? Ha! ha!"

Lionel swallowed the pill with a bad grace and put the letter away.

He had been at The Quiet House for a little more than a fortnight, and up to the present he had achieved nothing. Mizzi had made no sign, the amba.s.sador was invisible, no further instructions had come from Beatrice. Yet he had been interested and amused, studying the character of his hostess and waiting, Micawber-like, for something to turn up.

His position was the oddest conceivable. Since Beatrice's telegram ("She introduces you," said Miss Arkwright, "at the price of five and threepence. You must be an exceptional man!") he had been more than a guest, almost an old acquaintance. He had been accepted without question, treated as an equal, hall-marked with the stamp of an Arkwright's approval, because the Arkwrights, it appeared, prided themselves on their hospitality. It was not for the sake of Beatrice alone that he received so warm a welcome: she was a lady to be mentioned with reserve, being "on the stage." But she was an Arkwright, and a guest vouched for (especially at five and threepence) by an Arkwright was a person to be considered.