The Gay Adventure: A Romance

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 nobody 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 nobody, 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 nobody; 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? Nobody in motors?" "I believe not. I should have heard,--it would have drifted round to me in the course of time." "Nobody 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 ambassador!" 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 unobtrusive 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. The vicarage lawn was big enough for two tennis-courts, with a little over for croquet in miniature or clock-golf. It took, theoretically, an able-bodied man an hour and a half to "run the machine over it." The optimistic phrase was the vicar's, who had not run the machine (or its predecessors) for twenty years. A succession of practical runners made the sum come out differently; and one rebellious soul--"of course, my dear, a radical chapel-goer"--had invited his employer to shove the qualified mower himself and see if 'e could do it in a qualified howerananarf. The sporting offer was not accepted, but the idealistic standard maintained. It was, in fact, a grass-cutting bogy who had never been beaten yet. "Be careful, Brown," said Mrs. Peters, preparatory to a departure indoors, "to gather up _all_ the grass and put it in the sack. It looks so untidy if you leave any lying about." "Yes, ma'am," said Brown respectfully; "I'll be sure to do so. I ought to finish in half an hour or so." "Less, if you _work_, Brown," said Mrs. Peters reprovingly. She knew he had been mowing for little over an hour, but discipline must be kept up. Besides, does not Browning say, "A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a Heaven for?" Without waiting for possible protests she went into the house. The odd-job man smiled. "She's all right," he said softly to no one in particular. "Oh, lor', _yes_!... _She's_ all right." He whistled softly, but without obvious discontent, and made a change in his labors. Giving the machine a well-earned rest, he began to gather up the cut grass from a square of canvas that lay extended on the ground and stuffed it into the sack referred to by Mrs. Peters. This task brought him near the tall privet-hedge, reinforced by a four-foot paling, which sheltered the vicarage garden from the road. He had hardly accounted for a dozen armfuls when a voice from the other side of the hedge said, "Good morning." Regardless of Mrs. Peters' late instructions, the odd-job man dropped a generous portion of grass and stood transfixed. "So you've come!" he said quietly but distinctly. "For goodness' sake let's have a look at your pretty face!" The privet-hedge parted, and a damsel of twenty-three smiled upon the gratified Brown. "Is that better?" she asked. "Lots," replied the odd-job man, pressing closer to the hedge. "But I tell you what would be better still----" "Yes?" "I shall have to whisper it...." The damsel, full of innocent curiosity, bent forward to listen. The odd-job man, congratulating himself on extraordinary cunning, bent forward and essayed a kiss of welcome. The intended recipient, however, seemed to be possessed of a sixth sense or instinct, for, when his lips were on the point of meeting hers, she drew back with a melodious cry of surprise. The kiss was too late to be checked, and unhappily was bestowed upon a bunch of privet. The odd-job man mildly whispered the equivalent of "How very annoying!" and then remonstrated in a louder tone. He pointed out that he had not seen his visitor for a week, and that under the circumstances the least she could do, etc. "Ye ... es," agreed the damsel, parting the hedge once more, "it is true, all that you say. But you forget that you have not earned it yet." "Holy Moses!" said the odd-job man, appealing to the heavens. "Here I chuck my job in London at a word--or, rather, a letter from you! I come down here got up as a laborer; I hang about the blessed village till I'm sick for the town and you again; I get taken on here to work--and, mind you, it _is_ work, though I don't grumble at that. And it's all for to keep an eye on a chap I've never seen." "And not for me?" "You silly chu--I beg your pardon, miss--that is, my dear! What I do mean is, who are you gettin' at? Of _course_, it's for you, and I'm going through with it. But I do think you might give me a bit of encouragement like, when you come at last----" He paused; there was the sound of steps coming down the road, and he had no wish to be overheard courting. Thus drawn back to real life, conscience pricked him, and he wondered if there was any danger of Mrs. Peters reappearing. In a panic he looked over his shoulder.... No! the lawn was deserted: he still had time. But when he turned to the hedge he was surprised to see his love with her head pushed right through the privet, scarlet from excitement. A hand, too, appeared, enjoining caution and silence. You must have recognized ere this that Brown, the odd-job man beneath the thrall of Mrs. Peters, was none other than Mr. Henry Brown, cab-proprietor, under different auspices. You will remember, then, the type of man he was but a few chapters ago, middle-aged, reserved, cautious and a little unenterprising. But you will not forget that love had made a change in his habits, outlook and elan. He was younger now, more alert, audacious and full of guile. So you must not be surprised that when he saw his lady beckoning, appealing to him to come closer, be careful, not talk, but observe--when he saw her head (and it was a very pretty head) framed in harmonious privet--when he saw this gift of fortune, you must not be surprised that he accepted it. He drew near and kissed her very quietly but very heartily. She, for some obscure reason wishing to remain unseen, did not dare to withdraw her head or box his ears. All she could do was to bite her lip and stamp her dainty heel, while she remained, ostrich-like, in the hedge. The footsteps passed, but before they began to grow fainter Henry Brown repeated the salutation. "Couldn't help it!" he said meekly, answering the sparkle in her eyes. "You shouldn't tempt a man. Now, what's the row?" She was too excited to rebuke him; the moment was too precious to be lost. "You see him?" she queried, pointing to the retreating figure of Lionel, who was on the road to The Quiet House. "Well, that is the man