The Gay Adventure: A Romance
him? Is it better to keep him with her longer, a cheerful gentleman who
seems quite content to waste his time in her company, despite the
chilling fact that he appears equally content to chaff their prisoner if
she is busy in the house? Or shall she send him away?
Winifred stole a glance at Lionel, pondering with knit brows, and
permitted herself a smile that was unseen by him. Was she thinking of
his pursuit in the garden, the hurled water-jug, or the exposure of
Mizzi? Perhaps the latter; for the smile was followed by a delectable
frown that did not mar the poetry of her face. It seemed, indeed, to act
but as a foil, enhancing the smile that followed again like a victor,--a
victor that has retreated, only to return.
As she wondered and smiled, Forbes came across the lawn and handed the
morning's letters on a tray. The post had just come in.
"Three for me," said Winifred, picking up the letters. "And one for
you."
Lionel took it with a lazy gratitude. What had letters to do with him
this heavenly morning, when he had had a wire to say that his mistress
was free? How much better to pursue the current of his thoughts and try
to make up his mind, once and for all, whether he loved Beatrice enough
to ask her to marry him! Without glancing at the postmark or handwriting
he murmured, "Excuse me!" and tore open the flap. The first few
sentences made him sit bolt upright in his chair. "Good heavens!" he
murmured, reading hastily on. His face grew dark, and the jaw set
ominously the more he read. Winifred, watching him with a stealthy
interest, had not yet opened her budget.
"I hope it is no bad news?" she said with a soft sympathy.
"The worst," said Lionel with a grim absence, not looking up. Presently
his face cleared and he smiled. "That is," he corrected himself, with a
hasty glance at her, "I mean the best. Yes, certainly the best."
Winifred bit her lip and looked away with a puzzled discontent. What did
he mean? The worst and the best ... strong words for a man of his age to
use. The "worst" and the "best" should only be applied to strong
emotions, such as are caused by love, money, or honor. Which of these
potent stimulants was at work?
"I am going in," she said suddenly. "Please don't get up. If I can be of
any help in any way, you must let me know. But I ... I am glad your news
is 'the best.'"
She went into the house, leaving Lionel to his letter. This was it.
"BLOOMSBURY, LONDON.
"MY DEAR FRIEND,--The cable announcing Lukos' death came
to-night at seven. As soon as I had recovered from the shock I
wired the news to you, but I do not expect that the telegram
will be delivered till to-morrow morning. And now, at half past
eight, I am sitting down to write very hurriedly, to tell you
of my plans.
"I mean to go straight to Constantinople within two days. Why?
To make sure, in the first instance--to find out for myself if
he is really dead, and if it was 'measles' or something worse.
I feel that the news must be true, but I must make certain. If
it _is_ true, then perhaps I can do something by way of
revenge. You, I hope, will still befriend me by trying to
regain the stolen papers. They may be of use to England yet. If
not to England, then to me--a woman who has lost her husband.
This is no time to assess my love for him, but I owe something
at least to his memory, and the debt shall be paid.
"I must see you before leaving, and I hope to come down to
Shereling to-morrow. Please tell my sister. You know our
differences, but I am sure she will sympathize and help me.
Yes; I am sure. I believe now that I was wrong in suspecting
her--my information was untrustworthy, but I had every excuse.
In haste.--Your friend,
"BEATRICE BLAIR."
Lionel's heart leaped as he read a second and a third time the words of
comfort. At the first casual glance he could only understand that
Beatrice was going out of his life, perhaps forever, and he plumbed
depths hitherto undreamed of. But after the blow came the reaction and a
saner grasp of the true importance of her news. He was on fire, yet
coldly logical. The white heat of his heart and brain told him that here
at last was hope realized, the goal reached, the attainment of
certainty. The knowledge that he could not bear to lose her told him
that he loved, and that his love was worthy of a declaration. He
breathed a prayer of thankfulness.
Doubt of a prosaic nature was swift to follow. He loved her and must ask
her to marry him. Yet, how could he ask her? He had not a penny in the
world save what she had given him as her paid employee. How could he ask
her to wed and coolly propose to live on her income? Lionel made short
work of that. "I know," he said to himself, thinking swiftly but with
honest logic, "that I am not mercenary. I would marry her in rags if
she'd have me. As she happens to have money, so much the better. If by
good luck she loves or learns to love me, she will not think me
mercenary. Why should a pair of lovers wait when the only obstacle is a
convention?--a convention good enough in itself (a proper discouragement
of the ordinary place-hunter and hypocrite)--but a convention none the
less. The exception shall prove the rule, for neither she nor I could be
accused of conventionality."
He laughed aloud. Still, there was a kind of discomfort in the laugh,
for the conventions of a thousand years or more can not be laughed away
in a moment, be the iconoclast never so hardy. In spite of his honesty
and brave words, Lionel, in the dim recesses of consciousness, knew that
he wished he could have said, "My dear, I love you and can afford to pay
for a home!" He knew that from the idealist's standpoint he was right,
but the purest cups of nectar may reveal an acid in the lees. Still, he
drank his nectar and was very glad.
Presently his face grew graver. "I must wait though," he reflected. "One
can't propose the moment one hears she is a widow--too indecent.
Besides, she may not love me.... I must give her time.... At least,
though, I'll go with her to Constantinople. If she won't think of me as
a husband or lover, by jove! I'll be her dragoman! She mustn't go there
alone.... And now, let's break the news to Winifred."
He found Miss Arkwright in the library and told her of her sister's
intention to come down to The Quiet House. To his disgust she began to
make difficulties.
"You know, Mr. Mortimer, that we do not agree on her choice of a
career----"
"Yes, yes," he said impatiently. "I know all that. But this is a serious
business. She is going to Turkey in a day or two, and wishes to see me
before leaving. Surely----"
"She does me the honor of suspecting me of conspiracy," returned Miss
Arkwright slowly, but with a resentful gleam. "I have told you that she
is mistaken. Why should a conspirator lend her hospitality?"
"She acknowledges her error," said Lionel. "You must forgive much to a
woman who has suffered so cruelly as she."
"I will not," said Winifred deliberately. "I have not said much to you
on the subject, but now I will not conceal from you that I have been
deeply wounded."
"Are you not great enough to forgive?" he urged, fair play telling him
that she had a right to feel indignation--if she were innocent! He tried
in vain to find a melting in her eye.
"No," said Winifred, still very deliberately and coldly. "I am a woman,
and can not forgive her lack of trust as yet. I will yield so far as to
allow her to come here and see you, as she is going abroad, but I will
not see her myself."
"Your sister?" he suggested, still hoping.
"No," repeated Winifred. "On that I am immovable. Be content and--leave
me!"
Her voice trembled over the concluding words, and the next moment she
buried her face in her hands, leaning forward over the table. There were
no sobs--no tears escaping from that indomitable lady, but her attitude
was eloquent of tragedy. Lionel was not so foolish as to attempt
consolation. He left the room, hoping to soften her before Beatrice came
down.
The morning dragged wearily, but at last the luncheon-gong sounded, and
Lionel went to the dining-room. Winifred joined him at the meal, but
neither had much to say. Lionel, though understanding her resentment,
could not excuse it, and his attitude in consequence was chilly.
Winifred, reading his condemnation, made no effort further to justify
herself, and both were glad when the meal came to an end. Before leaving
the room she said, "If you prefer to see my sister in the house, the
library will be at your disposal."
"I prefer the garden," he replied stiffly, and he thought he caught a
smile.
"Suppose it rains?"
"There is The Happy Heart."
"But your promise still holds," she reminded him.
"If Miss Blair prefers the inn," said Lionel with polite determination,
"we go there. That, of course, will cancel the promise, and you will not
see me again. In case she does," he added more softly, "I had better say
good-by now. Thank you for many kindnesses."
"There is nothing to thank me for," she replied, looking confused.
"There is. And I wish you would give me one thing more for which to
thank you," said Lionel, taking her hand. Her eyes dropped. She blushed,
but did not free herself.
"And that is----?" she murmured.
"It would be a great happiness to see you and your sister reconciled."
She wrenched her hand away.
"Do not ask me that again," she replied, seeming both disappointed and
pettish. "I have given you my answer already. Now, please, will you be
kind enough to tell the prisoner I wish to see him. He can stop work and
change. I will wait for him in my sitting-room up-stairs."
Lionel went in search of Tony. He found the latter pocketing his pipe,
preparatory to a fresh attack upon the mound of earth. "Miss Arkwright
says you can stop," said Lionel genially. "You may go and get clean; she
wishes to see you."
"What about my work?" objected Tony. "You know, old friend--forgive me,
but I seem to have known you for years--I am making quite a good job of
that bed. _Exegi monumentum aere perennius!_ What? That's about all I
have left of a thousand-pound education. What I mean to say is that
future generations may come and look at my flower bed as being the
beau-ideal--the standard--the Super-bed, and so forth. Honestly, I'm
beginning to be quite proud of the little chap--it's a most promising
child. I say, between old schoolmates and that sort of jolly palaver,
what does she want me for?"
"Haven't a notion, friend of my youth," said Lionel sympathetically.
Knowing nothing of Tony, he felt nevertheless an attraction and a mutual
bond. "You'd better do as she tells you."
The bed-builder arose.
"Of course. I say, do you think she'll let me stay here for a bit
longer? What I mean is, has she any intention of carting me at once?"
"I haven't a notion."
"You see ... here's the bed ... some one must finish it. I should hate
to think of another artist putting in his oar. The bed, in short,
worries me."
"Ask her to take you on as gardener," suggested Lionel, smiling at the
absurd creature.
"I wonder...." Tony moved off with dragging dissatisfied steps. After
progressing a few yards he turned. There was hesitation in his voice and
manner.
"I--I say, oh, companion of my infancy, I wonder if you'd mind me asking
you a question? Of course, we've not been introduced and all that, and I
hope you'll not regard it as a liberty, faux pas, double entendre, or
what-not. But do you mind telling me if you're engaged to her?"
"Lord, no!" said Lionel, mightily surprised. "Not the least intention of
trying. If that's all your trouble, go in and win. And good luck to
you!"