The Gay Adventure: A Romance

one talked about the actor-manager-air-man. When I found how exciting it was, I couldn't stop. That's all." "You're odd creatures, you men," said Beatrice, musing. "I should have thought that managing theaters was exciting enough." "Change of excitement--just like falling in love with a new sweetheart," he smiled. "Ah! that sounds like a man! Tell me, Ashford, do all men run after every pretty face they see?" "You want me to give away trade secrets, eh? Well, I suppose most men do ... until they're hooked." "Ashford! _Hooked!_ How loathsome!" "I beg your pardon ... I was thinking as a cynical bachelor. What I mean is that I suppose most men swear off the pursuit once they've promised." "And never relapse?" He shrugged his shoulders. "The decent ones don't, but even they sometimes have a bit of a struggle. Take an extreme case: suppose a decent chap gets engaged, and force of circumstances keeps him apart from his divinity for ... years...." "He ought to feel bound in honor not even to think of another!" flashed Beatrice. Billing sighed. "He ought, but he's up against a tough proposition. At least, the decent one tries...." "Men are horrible," she said wearily. "Pretty horrible," he agreed, "but there's an amazing lot of unseen goodness hidden in the dirt.... Men aren't so bad ... some men. But we're getting too serious. I must be off. It's been a bad morning's work for me." He smiled--not very whole-heartedly, but still he smiled. "You refuse both my offers. But you'll let me know if I can ever do anything, won't you? That's merely friendly." Beatrice did not smile, but she looked appreciatively at him. "Thanks, Ashford," she said. "Yes; I've just remembered one thing you can do. Read a play by a friend of mine." He groaned in comic despair. "All right!" he said, "but don't make me promise to produce it. Remember this is my living!" "No; I only want you to read it. If it's bad, say so like a man: don't put the poor wretch off with the usual sugary criticism. And don't let it lie for months with all the rest of the lumber. You managers are cruel to authors, and you've had this one lying idle a long time." He did not deny the charge, save by a smile. "I'll read it this week, sure," he said. "What's it called, and who's the author?" "I forget the name of the play. The author is a Mr. Mortimer." She said the name quite easily and without a blush, but Billing on the instant thought, "Who the devil is he? And what does she want to push his play for?" But he did not allow his face even to hint at surprise. He just held out his hand and said good-by, as naturally as if he had not been rejected without any hope of a future recantation. For though he professed optimism, in his heart he felt that Beatrice was not for him, and the knowledge hurt. "Good-by," he said cheerily. "Mind you have a good holiday, and come back to work soon." "Good-by, Ashford," she said, trying to keep back some unnecessary tears. She had known him for some time and guessed what he was thinking. He, she was sure, was at least one of the men who tried. "You're a good sort. Good-by." Then she telephoned to a garage: "I want my car at two o'clock!" CHAPTER XIV A RISE IN THE WORLD The Happy Heart was an ideal resting-place for a tired man, whether town or country-bred. To the former it made the stronger appeal, for there could be no greater contrast than between The Happy Heart and the flaring brazen public-houses which offer solace to the dwellers of the pavement. These attract by their fierce pledges of light, warmth and the stimulated oblivion of the moment; The Happy Heart draws the heart-strings alike of the physically tired and mentally jaded. Apart from the promise of good liquor--and all who go to Shereling can rely on the promise being fulfilled--it makes an esthetic appeal. For it is still an old-fashioned country tavern of the prettiest type, destined to make even the total abstainer wonder whether he be so absolutely in the right after all. It boasts a porch, over which a Virginia creeper spreads its amorous leaves; rose-bushes waft a welcome and the sure hope of peace to plowman or golfer after the day's striving. A meditative cow, apparently an artistic fixture, chews the cud in a field hard by from day to day. Smoke curls lazily from a huge and ancient chimney, as much as to say, "Be of good cheer! I come from the kitchen!" And there is, too, one of those signposts you see sometimes in the south,--a pillar placed separate from the inn itself with a swinging board above. The superscription, by the way, was due to the fancy of the squire's wife. When the squire entered into his inheritance and married he had had dreams. He wished to be like Dogberry and have everything handsome about him. His wife, a pretty imaginative creature, had imbued him with ideas for the betterment of his dependents, and he had tried to fulfil her wishes. He inclined to the practical side, and to him was due at least half the credit for the improved housing and sanitation of Shereling. She, practical enough, thought that estheticism should show an equal growth; and to her shade the visitor does reverence when he admires the profuse planting of trees, the village library with its good pictures, the addition of a tower to the church, and a fine organ. Last, but not least, she persuaded her husband to have the inn called The Happy Heart, instead of The Bull and Dog. In this desirable residence Tony and Robert Hedderwick sat at two o'clock, enjoying their cigars after a copious lunch. Robert had slept the whole morning, and now felt a new man. Tony was tired, but disinclined for bed,--there had been too much to interest him up to the present, and he felt there might be more to come. This was such a new sensation that he had no trouble in propping his eyelids till the evening, and he listened with zest while Robert prattled cheerfully of his incredible adventures. They had, of course, agreed to work as partners, so long as tedium kept away: they were mutually attracted, and already more than friendly. Confidences had been exchanged: Tony had repeated to the envious churchwarden some of the tamer episodes of his dilettante existence; Robert had tried to cap them with his burglars and Alicia. "But you ought to let your wife know something," suggested Tony. "She may be worrying." The churchwarden looked a little uneasy. "If I write I might be traced by the postmark," he objected. "I suppose I might send a letter saying I'm all right to a friend, and get him to readdress it. But even then there's a danger...." "There's danger any way," said Tony, smoking thoughtfully. "From what you tell me, I should think Mrs. Hedderwick would not hesitate to use detectives if she thought it necessary. I should hardly think it would be long before they picked up your trail, unless you communicate with her. Really, you know----" He broke off suddenly and laughed. "No! don't write; I've got a better plan. I won't tell you now, but keep it for a little--till a dull hour comes and we are hard up for something to do." Robert, naturally curious, begged for enlightenment, but Tony was adamant. Changing his ground, he declared that there was no hurry for a day or two,--or at least for a few hours. Mrs. Hedderwick would probably take a couple of days to make up her mind to use the police, and meanwhile they were better employed in seizing the thrills of the moment. Tony got his way, of course: he was accustomed to lead and exact obedience. Personality and class-consciousness, coupled with a humor that appealed to his victims, made the task easy. "I haven't told you yet," said he, after silencing Robert's objections, "what I did with my morning. Well, I looked round and got the general hang of the village. More, I followed our mysterious friend--let's call him Billy,--and from a distance saw him enter The Quiet House. (Queer place that, by the way. Surrounded by a brick wall ten feet high,--couldn't get a glimpse inside except through a gate.) The landlord tells me that he hasn't booked a bed here, so it looks either as if he meant to leave Shereling or stay at The Quiet House." "A good job, too," commented Robert. "It wouldn't do for him to see me. Of course I should be recognized at once, and that would make him suspicious." "Quite so," agreed Tony. "If he hung about here you'd have to stay in bed all day,--rather a depressing prospect when fun is promised. But if I were you I'd give a false name to the landlord. If Billy heard of Mr. Hedderwick it would make him think of things." Robert had an instinctive repugnance to the plan. In some obscure way it savored of criminality, and the shackles of convention were still not wholly broken. But in the end Tony again triumphed, and the blameless Hedderwick was dubbed Bangs. He did not particularly care for the choice; but as Tony said he looked the perfect essential Bangs and that any other name would be unthinkable, Robert gave way. "Oh, and I saw some one else," continued Tony when the point was settled. "A remarkably pretty girl. She, too, entered The Quiet House--some time after Billy. I had seen him safely in, and was waiting by the roadside when she came along. She snubbed me--quite properly,--but was kindly careless enough to drop a card. It bore the name of Miss Arkwright, who, I understand, owns The Quiet House. But somehow I don't feel sure that the card is hers." "Why?" "Dunno," said Tony with a dissatisfied air. "I haven't any reasonable evidence. A kind of intuition, I suppose, more than anything else. Somehow she doesn't _look_ an Arkwright,--she hasn't got an Arkwright personality. Now, you simply exude Bangs at every pore,--_you're_ all right." "What was she like?" "Bangs being a respectable married man, mere good looks have no interest for him." ("Oh, but they have!" interrupted Robert with a naif eagerness.) "Well, they oughtn't to, then. As a matter of fact, she was deucedly pretty, and--good lord!" He broke off and jumped to his feet in a listening attitude. Robert did the same, for in the porch they heard the voice of Lionel--or "Billy," as they had named their anonymous friend--in conversation with the landlord. The two men were discussing the weather, and Tony and his partner looked frantically at each other for a plan. In another minute Lionel might enter the parlor, and there was no escape. The door was but a yard distant from the porch: the window opened on the road. To leave the room by either egress might mean discovery, and for Robert to be recognized by Lionel would ruin all. That is, it might effectively put an end to the development of the adventure, for if "Billy's" suspicions were awakened he might take the first train back to town. At least he would be put on his guard, and that would make things more difficult than ever. It was imperative that Robert should be hidden from sight. But where? He could not be concealed under the table, for no cloth lay upon it, drooping decorously over the edges. There was no cupboard large enough to contain the bulk of Bangs. No friendly screen, the time-honored refuge of the dramatist, stood in any corner. No Falstaffian basket was there to promise aid. The room was a Sahara in view of the unhappy arrival of "Billy," and beads of perspiration stood out on Robert's brow as he waited, without a plan, helpless as a trapped rabbit. Tony's friends used sometimes to complain that he put them in impossible situations. The charge was not unjust; but, as Tony would point out when accused, he was equally ready to sacrifice himself if circumstances demanded it. It was unfortunate, no doubt, that Fate seemed to prefer