About this book

The Gay Adventure: A Romance

Richard Bird

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 harassed 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 gratitude 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 ambassador 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 document--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; encompassed, 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: "Coxcomb! 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? "Coxcomb!" 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 ambassador 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. This at a price, and a curious price at that. "In some things I am a faddist," Miss Arkwright had said the morning after his arrival. "I admit it freely. I am glad to welcome you here, Mr. Mortimer, but if you stay you must give me your word not to go outside my grounds during your visit. The garden is large--the village uninteresting, so your curtailed liberty will not be much of a deprivation. You think me insane, perhaps? Well, I have reasons for my wish,--personal reasons into which I can not enter. That is the only stipulation I make: can you accept it?" He said yes, for refusal meant a lodging at the inn, where he could not watch her. In his letter to Beatrice he told her of this extraordinary whim, and asked whether she thought it better to agree or to pack up and go. Her "stay at all costs" was sufficient answer, and though he hoped this did not mean "If need arise, break bounds and your word," still he meant to do it if necessary. The life of Lukos and her happiness were worth more than a detective's honor. But up to the present there had been no question of breaking bounds. He could see nothing of Mr. "Beckett" nor Mizzi, but he was obeying Beatrice. And it was not unpleasant even for a detective to enjoy luxurious idleness, a perfect garden and the society of a charming woman. For she was charming, despite her fads and bigotry. She was well read, exceedingly pretty, and could talk. The mornings she spent in writing and arranging her household affairs. After lunch she gave herself up to him entirely. Tea they usually had together in the summer-house. About five she always excused herself, and Lionel dined alone. He was given to understand that she was busy on a history of the Arkwright family and could work best at night. Consequently he never saw anything of her again till breakfast. This naturally struck him as one of the most suspicious features of the case. Suspicious--not in the sense that Miss Arkwright was an Ottoman conspirator, for that he had been instructed to expect; but suspicious for a deeper reason. More than once during the first week of his stay he had caught himself wondering, "Can she be, by any chance, Beatrice herself, masquerading as her own sister?" It was a solution that suggested itself to a mind seeking explanation of extraordinary things, extraordinary people. It was the most natural suspicion in the world, considering what he had gone through. He rejected it at first as being preposterous and disloyal, but common sense and a dislike of being victimized made him return to the idea and weigh it from day to day. In the end he discarded the theory. It was, he thought, too enormous a deception to be carried through with success: even Beatrice, actress though she was, could not have the histrionic powers necessary to the feat; such a _tour de force_, continued from day to day, was impossible. Besides, Miss Arkwright and her sister were different in many points. They were, it is true, identical in voice, feature and carriage, but their outlook and ideas were far asunder. Winifred Arkwright obviously hated the stage, while Beatrice Blair was an actress; Winifred seemed timid in some respects, Beatrice radiated courage; the latter had never mentioned religion; the former was a Christian Scientist; Beatrice adored asparagus; Winifred's weakness was kidney beans. These, and a hundred other variations, trivial in themselves but overwhelming in the mass, gave him heart of grace and a fresh faith in his lady of the stage. But despite all this he claimed that Winifred _might_ be Beatrice. It was almost unthinkable, but still it _might_ be so. What gave the coup de grace, at least for a time, to his vain imaginings was a copy of _The Times_. It has been said that Miss Arkwright always left him after five: this would have given her time to motor to London and play at the theater if she had been Beatrice Blair. But Beatrice herself had written