The Gay Adventure: A Romance
conveyed so much. The words danced before him in the sunlight:
"Lukos has died of measles. Stay where you are and keep
watching. Beatrice."
Lukos dead! Then the path was clear, and he was free to hope, free to
pursue, to strive with all his heart and soul to ... to do what? Why,
make love to her, of course, and presently ask her to marry him.
"Marry" ... The word came on him with a stunning shock, as it does to
every free bachelor when he sees the wedding-ring as a reality within
his grasp. However much we long to persuade the beloved object to the
vow--however much we have striven, hoped, schemed and waited--still, when
the time comes of a verity, and at last we can confidently say, "I am to
be married to-morrow!" or next week, or a year hence--then, in the midst
of our ecstasy, there comes a whisper, "_Married! Tied! Shackled!_" We
welcome our chains, of course,--we would barter our souls for the lovely
fetters; but there always comes, if but for the briefest of seconds, the
appalling thought, "Freedom has gone forever!" Is there a single husband
who, during the period of courtship, has never been "afraid with any
amazement"?
The thought, the fear, came to Lionel as to the rest of us, and for an
instant he felt like taking to his heels. Then he smiled as a grown-up
upon a child, naturally timid and ignorant. Next, his face fell, as he
harped back to his theme. He was to "make love" to her.
To a man of his stamp making love is not a difficult matter. To a man
like Tony it is a second nature--the breath of life--a perennial
pastime. But making love is not the same as loving, and to make love to
Beatrice would be an insult. He admired Beatrice so much--respected
her--was anxious to serve her, to obey her slightest whim,--thought her
the best and most desirable creature he had ever known. But if he did
not love her, it would be a base thing to pretend, to use her as a toy.
Did he love her or not? He wanted her--oh, yes! he wanted her as he had
never wanted any one else in his life. There had been others, of course,
with whom he had dallied--for instance, Mizzi. There had been one or two
in whom he had taken a more serious interest, like Miss Arkwright. With
the latter he had more than once imagined himself to be in love--he had
dwelt delightfully upon the possibility--had gone to bed reflecting,
"Dash it! Beatrice has forgotten me. Winifred's a darling! Why not?" And
then when the kiss had been offered, he had refused. Well, in that lay
hope of a greater certainty. He had refused the kiss--had he
not?--because of Beatrice. Therefore he loved her. Therefore he must
make love to her. Therefore he must ask her to marry him. Marriage!
Whew--w--w!
"Oh, you vacillating ass!" he groaned to himself, getting up and
stretching his arms as if to free himself from the enmeshing subtleties.
"Why can't you be content to believe yourself in love and go straight
ahead now that the path is clear? Why can't you be an ordinary, sane,
matter-of-fact lover, and ask the dear woman if she'll marry you and
help you to help her, the world and yourself? Yourself, who need it
badly. Why--why--why can't you be reasonable?" He shook his fist
savagely at the heavens. "Why worry your brain about these intricate
analyses? Why? _Because_, my boy, she deserves certainly, and, by
George, she shall have it!"
He sat down and read the telegram once more. "Poor old chap!" he
thought. "Dead ... and of measles. Lord! it's hard not to laugh. A man
who plotted and shook the chancelleries, in daily danger of poison or
the sword, to die of _measles_! What a world of oddities! Poor
devil ... I wonder how she takes it?"
The remembrance of the forced marriage led him to think that she could
not feel it too cruelly. No doubt she had liked him--had even felt
affection for him. But the compulsion of wedlock and the death of her
only son would not but make the tie more light than usual. "Let's hope
so, anyway," he growled to himself, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
"Lionel, you were selfish to talk of love so soon. More especially when
you don't know yet if you love her or not."
Miss Arkwright came across the lawn. There had been no more talk of his
departure. Since his noble rescue--five nights agone--it had been
impossible to be harsh. There had been an interview next morning in
which considerable frankness had been displayed on both sides. Miss
Arkwright had asked him to repeat his explanation of Mizzi's presence in
his bedroom, and this he had done cheerfully enough. In return, he had
inquired what Mizzi was doing there, and had accused his hostess of
conspiracy. "I feel," he had said, "that it is time we understand each
other. Cards on the table, please. As you may know or guess, I came here
to watch you, believing you to be in the service of the Turks."
"Absurd!" Winifred had replied. "I can not explain all now, but my
sister is mistaken. Mizzi applied for a situation through a registry
office, and only came the night you discovered her. I have questioned
her, and though I believe your explanation of her presence, it is best
for us all that she should not stay.--Oh, I have taken care that she
shall not suffer financially.--I am sure your suspicions of her are as
groundless as my sister's of me. In any case, I have no intention of
conducting an inquiry into so flimsy a charge. Now we know where we are.
If you will be pleased to prolong your stay, I shall be glad. Perhaps
you will learn to believe in me at last." He did not believe her in the
least, but the knowledge that he was no longer there on false pretenses
was no small solace, and he stayed on.
"Well," said Miss Arkwright, approaching, "let us go and look at our
prisoner. Have you seen him this morning?"
"Not since breakfast," said Lionel, rising. "What is his job to-day?"
"Digging and wheeling," answered Miss Arkwright with a smile. "I am told
that he shapes well."
They walked round the back of the house, and presently came upon a
second lawn. Across this was laid a narrow footway of planks. As they
approached a figure was seen wheeling a small barrow of earth toward an
embryonic flower bed. The figure came to the end of the causeway, upset
his load with a professional side-twist, and then wiped his brow. "I
believe that is always done," he said apologetically to the lady, who
had halted with her cavalier: "one picks up a wrinkle here and there.
Your gardener, for instance, showed me how the navvies unload their
barrows, correcting my natural impulse to upset it straight ahead."
"Do you feel tired?" asked Miss Arkwright critically: there was no
sympathy in her tone.
"The masses are used to that," answered Tony. "In time, no doubt, I
shall learn the trick of doing the maximum of work with the minimum of
effort. No, I can't say I am especially tired; it's rather a healthy
feeling on the whole."
"You're making a bit of a mess of the lawn," observed Lionel, his glance
falling on a scarred patch.
"Ah! that was in the apprentice stage," said Tony airily. "The barrow
ran off the plank, and this narrow wheel cuts. Of course I am always
open to learn, and if you----"
"Mr. Mortimer is a guest, not a serf," Miss Arkwright reminded him. Tony
bowed.
"I apologize. For a moment I had forgotten class distinctions. Beg
pardon, mum! By your leave, sir! I must be gettin' back to my job."
He trundled the barrow briskly out of sight to where a mound of soil
awaited his efforts. He was soon back, however, and another load of soil
was deposited dexterously upon the growing bed.
"You're still obstinate," said the lady, smiling.
"Meaning----?" He paused, shovel in hand.
"That you won't give any account of yourself."
"Why should I?" asked Tony innocently. "I am the slave of a perfectly
charming despot"--he bowed again with grace, despite his costume and the
mud stains. "I am well housed and fed. I have nothing special to do. I
am regaining the rude health of youth----"
"But you have to _work_!" Lionel reminded him with a laugh. "And judging
from your hands I don't think you've done much of that in your life."
Tony waved one of the despised hands.
"It is a popular error to speak of manual laborers as 'the working
classes.' There is such a thing as brain-work--no! I don't press the
point. As a matter of fact, I am rather attracted by this kind of
work--for a change. Perhaps, when I regain my freedom, I shall then take
up some sort of work as a hobby."
"You can be free as soon as you like," said Miss Arkwright carelessly.
"Ah! but at a price! You want the secret of my life. I shall only tell
you the tragic story when you tell me something of yours. Meanwhile I am
quite content to labor here on parole. It is true that I am forbidden
the village--I am not even near enough the wall to pass the time of day
(is that the local phrase?) with the outside world. But until I know
more I am not anxious to leave the most delightful tyrant I have ever
met."
"You ought to think yourself lucky," said Lionel, "that you're not
cooling your heels in jail."
"By all accounts," said Tony blandly, "I might retort with a _tu
quoque_."
"What do you mean?" asked Lionel, puzzled. "What do you know of me?"
Tony shrugged.
"That is part of the feuilleton," he said. "As soon as you like, we
shall exchange stories. Meanwhile, permit the horny-handed aristocrat to
pass along."
He went off again, whistling, leaving his questioners unsatisfied. In
spite of the mystery of his presence, in spite of the recent struggle,
both Lionel and his hostess felt an instinctive liking for Tony. It had
been Miss Arkwright's idea to set him to work. After the capture Lionel
suggested a medieval treatment of bread-and-water in a locked chamber.
Police proceedings were naturally out of the question. But Miss
Arkwright was original in her methods, and after an interview with the
unabashed intruder, had given him a choice of penalties. Either he might
elect for the modern equivalent of the deepest dungeon beneath the moat,
or he might work in the garden on parole. She saw he was a gentleman,
and suspected him of being an interesting addition to The Quiet House.
So Tony was admitted to the drawing-room on an equality with themselves.
The mornings and afternoons he spent in forced labor, a victim of the
_corvee_; his mid-day meal and "four o'clocks" were harmoniously eaten
in the potting-shed. It was curious to observe a grimy navvy enter by
the back door, to appear in the drawing-room later dressed in a lounge
suit, with hair carefully parted. When he played or sang to them it
seemed still more incongruous, but they were all adaptable creatures and
there was no constraint.
This morning it was very hot, and Lionel and Winifred went back to the
hammock-chairs in the shade. The heat made the air flicker like waves,
and even the midges seemed too lazy to come out. A universal torpor hung
heavily in the atmosphere; one thought regretfully of slaves in offices,
clerks on stools, perspiring operators in factories. For, whether it be
hot or cold, work has to be done by all save the leisured classes. And
even they are sometimes compelled to exert themselves either by force of
circumstances or a sense of duty.
It was the latter spur that roused the Reverend Charles Peters to get to
work on his sermon for next Sunday. True, there were still three days'
grace; but it had been his immemorial custom to begin to write his
sermon on a Wednesday, and nothing short of a new heresy in the
morning's newspaper could have kept him from his desk. Whether the
garden tempted him to dally amid roses, or a keen frost suggested the
pleasures of a brisk walk--whether he felt _disponiert_ and stored with
telling phrases, or empty as a sieve with the wind blowing