The Gay Adventure: A Romance
cherish in my memory a brave man who is not too brave to be a
gentleman."
He moved uneasily, reflecting that _noblesse_ sometimes finds it
difficult to _oblige_.
"I am called Lionel Mortimer."
"I am called Beatrice Blair. Lionel ..." she went on with a reflective
sweetness, and he started as if stung. Her hand restrained while it
aroused him. "No: you must not mind that. I call you Lionel
because"--she turned aside as if struggling with her feelings--"I am a
mother. My little boy is called--was called Lionel."
"I am sorry," he said sincerely. "Go on."
"You must think hardly of me." He shook his head. "Yes, you must--it is
only natural. But I should like you to know the reason why I asked you
to----"
By this time Lionel was in a very good humor with himself. Warned by his
recent heroism and virtue, flattered by the interest shown in him by
this delightful creature, he was prepared for anything.
"I never ask a woman for a reason," he said, smiling. "I have the most
complete faith."
"How old are you?" she asked; and when he answered "Twenty-seven," she
laughed.
They drove in silence for a space; presently she asked what time it was.
He put his hand to his pocket and then withdrew it. She had observed the
action--"Your pocket has been picked?"
"No," he said frankly. "As a matter of fact, I pawned my watch a week
ago."
"Then you are poor!" she cried impulsively. "Oh! I beg your pardon,--I
did not mean----"
Lionel was never disconcerted by his lack of means, and the chuckle was
perfectly honest as he replied, "Distinctly poor. I am glad to think I
can still create an illusion of wealth in an artificial light, but
really I am worth very little."
"You do not mind?" she said, her eyes dancing.
"I admit," he said, "that I should prefer to be well off. But, being
poor, I see no use in making myself unhappy. I should prefer to pay half
a guinea for a stall rather than a shilling for the gallery. Still, I
contrive pretty tolerably to enjoy the play."
"You are a philosopher," she approved.
"A poor man can't afford to be anything else."
After a pause she said, "It must be getting late. Will you please tell
the man to drive to the Macready Theater?--the stage-door."
He opened the window, smiling to himself. "An actress!" he thought; "the
young man's dream of an adventure! This is absurdly conventional." After
directing the chauffeur, he sat back, wondering what the end would be,
content to wait on fortune. The lady, too, did not speak again until
they had almost reached their destination. Then she took a purse from
her satchel and said with friendly good-humor, "This is my frolic, and I
wish to pay for it. Please!"
Lionel was too well-bred to interpose bourgeois objections. Besides, it
was a case of necessity: his sixpence-ha'penny had been burning a hole
in his pocket for the last ten minutes.
"Fair lady," he said lightly, "I would if I could, but I can not. Five
shillings will be more than enough."
She gave him half a sovereign, and he wished he had been a street arab
to whom she could have said, "And keep the change." This, however, was
clearly impossible, nor did it appear to enter the lady's head. After he
had paid the man she received the balance with a careless gravity. He
raised his hat.
"You are not going?" she asked in surprise.
"Unless I can be of further service."
"But that is why I have brought you here! You have not heard my reason
yet, and you must--at least in justice to myself. This is only the
beginning: you can be of the greatest service if you will. Come!"
Lionel followed her through the stage-door. Adventure beckoned, and he
was not the man to disobey the seductive finger. True, the lady had a
husband--a scurvy thought--but he had proved himself as strong as she.
And she was deucedly pretty.
They passed the janitor, who touched his hat to the lady, and went along
a passage. Then up a flight of stairs and down another corridor, where
sundry couples were lounging and chatting between their entrances. It
was evidently a costume play, and the sight of doublets, rapiers and
helmets was a pleasant thing after the drabness of the threshold.
Illusion again threw her veil over the crudities of life; romance
sounded the horn of hope and hallooed Lionel to the pursuit.
The lady stopped suddenly before a door. This she opened and entered the
room beyond. Lionel followed, closed the door, and looked about him. He
was no stranger to the regions "behind," for in his younger days he had
been the friend of many actors and actresses not a few. With the
dressing-rooms of the men he was well acquainted,--those dingy
color-washed chambers, lighted by flaring gas, divided by racks for
dresses, equipped at times with but the washing-basin, stifling of
atmosphere, with little room to turn about in. In his younger days, as
has been observed, he had savored the delights of these unromantic
barracks, and had thoroughly enjoyed the experience; now he was blase.
Of the women's dressing-rooms he was ignorant, but in truth he was far
from curious. He supposed they were something of a replica of what he
had seen already,--four or five creatures herded in a bare loose-box, in
the intervals of painting and dressing, engaged with talk of frills or
scandal. The private dressing-rooms of those great creatures, the
leading men and ladies, were still a sealed book. He had never known
(oh, horrid thought!) a "lead," and he surveyed the present room with
interest.
There was little to reward him, for it was a very ordinary room, quietly
furnished with two or three easy chairs, a dressing-table covered with
"making-up" apparatus, a number of photographs scattered about in
various coigns of vantage, a wall-paper of a warm terra-cotta tint, a
soft carpet to correspond. A brass curtain-rod divided the room in two,
but the curtain was not drawn. "Will you sit down?" said the hostess; "I
must leave you for a moment. Try that chair in the corner,--it is the
best. And do smoke--the cigarettes are close to you on that little
table."
With a swift movement she pulled the curtain along its rod and
disappeared behind it. There followed a slight clicking as if she was
switching on more light; then a soft rustling and the sound of her voice
humming an air from _Carmen_. Lionel obediently lighted a cigarette and
patiently awaited events.
In less than ten minutes she drew the curtain and stood before him
again. But now she was a different creature. Her Bond Street costume had
disappeared, the twentieth-century had gone. The piquant head was
covered only with the dark masses of hair that gleamed seductively. She
was clad in a sort of peignoir, a loose flowing robe of Oriental
texture, crimson of hue, with dull gold braiding and tassels. Her face
was rouged and powdered, but in the brilliant electric glare it seemed
neither out of keeping nor meretricious. As she stood, holding the drawn
curtain with one hand, she looked as if she had stepped straight out of
the pages of the _Arabian Nights_.
"Do you like it?" she asked carelessly, sure of the effect. Poor Lionel,
on most occasions ready of tongue, who took a pride in never showing
surprise, could only murmur "Admirable!" With this, however, she seemed
content, and sat down in a convenient chair.
"Luckily, it is a straight make-up," she said, taking a cigarette and
lighting it. "As a rule I use grease-paint, but to-night I was in a
hurry and made-up dry. I want to talk. I am not on for a while, and my
dress can be slipped on in five minutes. I mean to tell you as briefly
as I can my history. It is your due."
Lionel made a noble gesture of dissent. "I am sure," he said
chivalrously, "it is all it should have been--"
She interrupted with some acerbity. "That is not my reason. I have
nothing either to excuse or condone. But as I have already put you to
considerable trouble, and mean (if you are willing to help, me) to put
you to still more, it is but fair that you should know all."
Lionel bowed as gracefully as he could.
"I will make it as short as I can," she continued. "There is much that
is strange and improbable in it, but I beg you to keep silent and
forbear to question me until the end. I was born in a little village on
the southeast coast. I was a twin, the other child being a sister, the
replica of myself. My mother died when I was only two years old. When I
was seventeen I was kidnaped by a tribe of Rumanian gipsies who wished
to be revenged on my father. He had prosecuted some of them for
poaching on his land. I was smuggled to the coast, and then across to
the continent.
"I do not mean to waste time in lingering over details immaterial to my
purpose. Were I writing a book I could fill a volume with the strange
incidents of my abduction and wanderings. But as time is short I will
come to the point at once. We journeyed by slow stages across the
continent, and of course I was jealously guarded the whole time. My
English dress was burned, my skin stained a brownish hue. Whenever
observation threatened I was immured in a small black hole, made at the
end of one of the caravans by a false partition. The police failed to
trace me, for the gipsies had been cunning enough to stay some weeks in
England after my capture to throw my relatives off the scent, keeping a
strict watch upon me. So with this inadequate resume you must realize
that we have passed through Germany, Austria, Rumania, Bulgaria and
Rumelia. We crossed the Turkish frontier, and I still had no plan of
escape. Oh, yes! I had tried--once! The threats they used on my
detection were more than enough to prevent me trying a second time.
"At last we reached Constantinople, where we stayed a night in a huge
caravansary. I was too well watched to be able to write a letter. The
next evening I was sold to a Turkish officer of the sultan's body-guard.
Blindfolded and gagged, I was put into a kind of sedan-chair under cover
of darkness and carried to his palace. I was escorted to a fine suite of
apartments, furnished in the eastern manner, but lit with electric
light. By this time I was so inured to tribulation that I slept
peacefully the whole night.
"The next morning the lord of the household arrived. He salaamed
profoundly and plunged at once into the business of the day. 'Fair
lady,' he began--and I was surprised at his excellent English and
supreme courtesy--'believe me when I say that I regret your sufferings.
But as I am not the man to beat about the bush, I make bold to inform
you, with all possible respect and determination, that you are destined
to become my wife.'
"I was not unprepared for this, but replied firmly that I would never
marry any one against my will. I added that I was a British subject, and
that as soon as my plight was known I should be rescued and vengeance
exacted.
"He laughed pleasantly. 'This is not England,' he said, 'and you will
never be rescued. Let me put the matter plainly. I have bought you to
satisfy a whim. I have long wished for an English wife, because I
happen to admire English women more than any others. I have made efforts
to contract an alliance by orthodox methods, but have not succeeded. Set
your mind at rest, however; I intend no violence against your lovely
person. If you refuse me, you will remain a prisoner in a gilded cage,
but no harm shall come to you.'
"'But why----' I began. He waved his hand.
"'Because I could wish that you might learn to love me. At present I can
not expect it; for the future, who knows? I am a bachelor by choice--you
need have no western fears of polygamy. I am rich, young and powerful.
And I hope that you will find out that, though of another civilization,
I can fulfil your idea of a gentleman. For the present your jailer and
lover bids you farewell.'