About this book

The Gay Adventure: A Romance

Richard Bird

"I say," observed Tony with a most engaging smile, "you're a blind ass, old yoke fellow of my youth; but you're no end of a sportsman. One more question--I promise that I'm quite a decent chap, though appearances are against me--is she engaged to any one else?" "Not that I know of." "The planet Jupiter is in conjunction with Saturn, or words to that effect. Whatever the stars are, I seem to be in luck. Oh, of course she mayn't look at me, I know. We must give her time to appreciate my many excellences--not dream of rushing things. But she has made my few days' stay so pleasant, that common gratitude----" "No: don't spoil it!" said Lionel, reading something beneath Tony's idle chatter; "you don't mean that." Tony looked at him and changed his tone. "What I do mean," he said sincerely, "is that she's a perfectly top-hole creature. She's taught me a few things--not excluding work, in which she must share the credit with others--during the last few days. I want to extend the lessons. Well, I think a little soap and water might be rather a promising start. Where am I to see her? Up-stairs?" He strolled off whistling cheerfully, bearing Lionel's good wishes. The latter was in a good humor with all the world to-day: he felt like giving a sovereign to every child, and a five-pound note to every grown-up. "If ever I make a hit with my plays," he thought, "I'll give the vicar a peal of bells and Mrs. Peters--what on earth could I give to Mrs. Peters? I suppose a calf-bound set of her husband's sermons would be the most acceptable souvenir, unless she's human enough to enjoy diamonds. Yes, I think it might be diamonds." He smiled at his happy visions, and walked back to the hammock-chair to wait till Beatrice should appear. He did not know, of course, whether she was coming by rail or motor, and therefore did not trouble to look out possible trains. He was quite content to wait patiently for her in that delightful garden, knowing now that he loved her, and hoping she might love, or learn to love him. But though he was content and patient, he could not distract himself, or spend the lagging hours with books or newspapers. He tried, indeed, but failed. After reading a few lines he found his attention wandering: he could not compel his brain to follow the paltry adventures of Mudie's heroines, or the stupendous feats chronicled in the daily press. Instead, his thoughts flew back to that lucky rescue in the Strand, to the wondrous hours with Beatrice in the theater or in the Bloomsbury flat, to the mad adventure of the magnanimous churchwarden, to the thousand incidents of the past adventurous month. He could not read, but tobacco was no hindrance to the brave play of memory and imagination, and with a luxurious smile he lighted a pipe and drowsed. Presently, between the nicotian clouds, he thought, "I must make Winifred be friends. What scheme shall I try? Winifred is a dear, too, though she has a woman's resentment. What can I do to make them all happy--to make every one happy? Winifred ... Beatrice...." The besotted lover, overcome with his soul's reaction, the June sun and a crowded morning, fell asleep.... He was roused by a touch upon the shoulder. He awoke and blinked lazily toward heaven. Beside him stood an angel in a lavender linen frock, and a lavender hat with a daring touch of black, carrying a lavender parasol with a white handle. It was Beatrice at last! CHAPTER XXV THE GOD OF THE MACHINE Lionel stared dumbly for a moment, not completely realizing what had happened. Then he jumped up with a wry smile. "You must think me a poor watcher," he said, inwardly cursing his sleepiness. "I was so busy waiting and thinking of you that I suppose I must have--I imagine I have--that is, I fell asleep. Did you come by train?" "Yes," she said. It would be idle to say "in the well-remembered tones." Her voice was identical with Winifred's: her appearance, gesture, carriage--all were Winifred's; but the telepathy of love told Lionel the myriad differences between the sisters, differences impalpable, impossible to define or even hint at, but differences that were real, if psychological. "I came by the four-thirty, and walked from the station." "Then--good heavens! what time is it?" "Six o'clock," she said with a smile. "How long have you been asleep?" "It must be at least three hours," said Lionel in rueful amazement. "Fancy wasting three hours of a day like this in sleep! But don't let us waste any more. Tell me all about yourself, your plans, everything. You are well?" he added anxiously, though the question was needless. "Perfectly. And you?" "Quite fit, thanks." And a silence fell between them. It seemed odd that there should be a silence, for so much had happened since they last met. Lionel had been living in a penny novelette, and her fate could not have been much more fortunate. Yet now they seemed to have nothing to say beyond the commonplaces of friendly acquaintanceship. It was Lionel who broke the silence. "You must let me say that...." He stopped. He could not honestly say he was sorry for the death of Lukos, so he changed the form of his statement: "--that I am sorry for your trouble. You know it already, but I should like to tell it you.... I suppose it must be true?" "Thank you," Beatrice replied evenly. "Yes, I expect it is true; but, as I wrote to you, I am going to make sure." "Is that wise?" "Perhaps not, but I mean to go." Lionel did not attempt to argue with her, to reason or persuade. The finality of tone and his knowledge of the woman made him give up at once any thought of such a useless effort. "But I go with her," he resolved, "either as husband or servant. And if she won't take me, I'll go on my own if I have to steal a ride under the train!" "Did you call at the house?" he asked. "I came straight across here, seeing you the moment I entered the gate. Perhaps I had better see my sister before we begin to talk. Our conversation may be long." Lionel moved uneasily. "I am sorry to say," he began, "that your sister feels anything but well-disposed toward you. She resents your suspicion, and ... and...." he stuck fast. "Refuses to see me?" she suggested. He nodded. "I have hopes of winning her over yet, but...." "If she has said 'No' she will stick to it," said Beatrice, digging her parasol into the lawn. "She can be a darling, but she can also be pig-headed. What do you think of her?" she added quickly, turning upon him. "Charming," said Lionel. "Except for this unfortunate weakness. And there is some excuse even for that." "Do you consider her pretty?" It sounded an odd question, but oddities were lost on him now. "Yes; very pretty." "As pretty as I?" asked Beatrice. "Quite," he laughed, beginning to feel more at home, "but in a different way. And I prefer your way," he added with sincerity. "That is a little crude," she smiled. "I expected a more delicate compliment from a man of your education. Please pay me one at once." To be asked for a delicate compliment at a moment's notice must be much the same as if the _Punch_ editor were asked for a joke instanter. You can imagine Mr. Seaman being introduced with, "This is Mr. Seaman--_Punch_, you know." "How charming! Please, Mr. Seaman, be good enough to be funny," and the resulting _debacle_ of Mr. Seaman. Lionel felt empty of all wit and ideas. He simply looked at her and shook his head. "I am sorry ... you have silenced me." She smiled provokingly. "Try!" He shook his head again with a sudden sadness. As he observed her, devotedly absorbing every detail of her dress, her charming attitude, her delicate color, the dainty foot in the lavender stocking and trim black shoe pushed seductively forward, the glorious hair, and brilliance of her eyes, the incarnation of youth and joy (and he excused her that, remember, for the compulsion of her marriage), he groaningly realized that his late logic would not hold. He loved her and wanted her: he knew that he would not be mercenary in asking, but he felt he could not after all. To think of asking for such a lovely creature, without a penny of his own--he could not do it. He was wrong, he told himself, and felt that his ideals were true, but it was impossible. His face grew grim as he looked at her. The smile faded from her lips. "What is it?" she said softly. "Is anything the matter, my ... friend?" He was near the breaking-point, and had that moment continued he might have told her all. But an interruption--a twentieth-century interruption--saved him. From the deeps of the air was heard a dull humming. The noise increased every moment, and Beatrice looked perplexedly about her. "Do you hear it," she asked, "that curious noise?... Like a gigantic bee...." Lionel had heard a similar noise before and was not perplexed. "It must be an aeroplane," he said reassuringly: "it sounds as if it were quite close. Perhaps that clump of trees hides its approach." His surmise proved correct, for in a brief space the machine soared into view like some beautiful bird. "There it is!" they cried together, standing like two delighted children watching a kindly rock from the _Arabian Nights_. "Why! what is it going to do?" continued Beatrice, speaking as if the monoplane were a living creature. "See! it has changed its course ... it is circling round like a bird of prey." "It looks as if he meant to land," said Lionel, "and was seeking for a suitable place. Yes, by jove! he's found it. Now watch!" The air-man had shut off his engine, for the buzzing ceased, and he came down to earth, with a graceful swoop that enchanted Beatrice, on a bit of level pasture two fields away. "Come on!" cried Beatrice excitedly. "Let's go and have a look! I've never seen an aeroplane close to." Lionel smiled at her enthusiasm, and they set off at a brisk pace. Leaving the garden by the little wicket at the back, they crossed the tiny stream, dignified by the name of Shere, and walked on, chatting happily till they were close upon the air-man. They could see him walking round his machine, examining it with a parent's care, pulling here, patting there, testing the tension of a wire, inspecting the engine. Suddenly Beatrice stopped short. "Bother!" she said impatiently. "I've left my hanky in the garden. I wonder if you'd mind----" "Of course," said Lionel, glad, you may be sure, of the lightest service. "You go on and learn to fly. I'll join you in five minutes." He left Beatrice and ran back to the garden. But in spite of the most careful search he could not see any trace of the handkerchief. He searched the lawn, the chairs, the drive, but no handkerchief was visible. "She must have lost it in the train," he thought, "or dropped it on the road. Well, that's soon remedied." Going into the house, he rang the dining-room bell. It was answered by Forbes. "Get me a clean handkerchief, please," said Lionel. To his utter amazement Forbes said "Yes, sir," and prepared to leave the room. "Hi!" said Lionel, and Forbes stopped, flushing a dull red. Lionel pulled himself together with an effort. "Excuse me, Forbes," said he, striving to speak calmly: "I understood you were dumb. Has the age of miracles revived, or what?" Forbes bowed discreetly. "Our local doctor is a very clever surgeon, sir," he replied blandly. "I think you said a handkerchief, sir?" He disappeared.... "Cleverness, Forbes," said Lionel when the footman returned, "is not confined to doctors. I congratulate you ... on the recovery of speech." "Thank you, sir," said Forbes with a well-bred humility. "I find it a great blessing, I own. It opens out a new world." He held the door, and Lionel passed out, his brain sagging heavily. A