The Gay Adventure: A Romance

Mizzi: not only had he tried to kiss her--the feat had been successfully accomplished. "Do you think," he asked reproachfully, "that the moment your back was turned I could transfer my worship to another?" "I think it quite possible," said the lady with a twinkle he did not see. "Then, madam," returned Lionel in his best wounded manner, "let me tell you what happened. I rang for tea. Your maid served it with a certain coldness of manner. I asked the reason, and she accused me of folly in being devoted to you. She even hinted that your words were not wholly to be relied on. I at once led her from the room." "Without a kiss?" "I held her at arm's length," said Lionel proudly. Beatrice said "H'm" in a meditative manner, and then, more briskly, "Please ring the bell." Lionel obeyed, and waited in some distress. Suppose Mizzi were to excuse herself by relating the incident in which he had been a partner! Would he be cast into darkness on the instant? What a Nemesis for how trivial a misdemeanor! He heard the bell ring again, as the impatient Beatrice pressed the electric button, and sweat broke out upon his forehead. A crisis was imminent. Still a third time the relentless tinkle sounded, and he was without plan, excuse, or counterplot. He woke from his anguish to hear the lady speak. "She must have gone out, I suppose ... but we must make sure ... perhaps ... will you come?" He followed her, grateful for the respite, and at a loss for the meaning. They went into the hall, and thence to the kitchen. No one was there. In silence they knocked on the bedroom door, but received no answer. Beatrice opened the door and peered within. She switched on the electric light and they advanced. In the center of the floor stood a portmanteau, strapped and labeled. Lionel lifted the label and read the inscription aloud. It was to a warehouse in Camden Town. "She has gone!" said the lady in a whisper of tragedy. "_She has gone!_" "And a good riddance, too!" returned Lionel with a vast cheerfulness. "But she might at least have laid supper first." "You do not understand," said Beatrice tensely. "This is no ordinary desertion. It means, I fear, that she has joined my enemies." Lionel's good breeding was not proof against the suddenness of this. He sat down abruptly on a convenient chair and laughed. "No, no!" he cried. "That will not do, madam. That is--forgive me--too crude, unworthy of your talents. Reflect! Your servant runs off in a petulant fit, and lo! you exclaim that she has been suborned by the Ottoman Empire! That is sheer melodrama." Beatrice gave a smile that was grave and reproachful. "You forget," she said gently, "that I am an actress." The sweetness of the reproof, the ironical self-criticism, convinced him of her sincerity more than any rhetoric could have done. "I beg your pardon," he said humbly, taking her hand; "tell me more." "She has deserted me," said Beatrice quietly. "With her I made my one great mistake--natural, but irreparable. I thought her true, and one day, when I was in need of a woman's sympathy and help, I told her all ... all, even to the hiding-place of the treaty. It is too late for regrets or fears. Now we must act." CHAPTER VI THE HISTORY OF HENRY BROWN Mr. Henry Brown was a man of forty, an age that is supposed to be the prime of life, though most of us would prefer to be ten years younger. At forty one has shed most illusions, but at least there is the consolation of having arrived at a workable philosophy. For some of us this philosophy may mean simple acquiescence; for others an attitude of pleased contemplation, like a yokel smoking his pipe, leaning on the gate of a summer evening. Those of us who are married and without the philosophy of our own are fortunate in having one--if not several--provided by a wife. And her philosophy, grounded on practical common sense rather than a study of the metaphysicians, is of much more value to the world than abstract thought. She is, in short, better adapted for keeping us up to the mark. Henry Brown was unlucky enough to be a bachelor. This was through no fault of his own, for as a young man he had dreamed his dreams of a snug little home, a cheerful wife, and chubby children, who were always to remain at an age not exceeding nine. His dreams, with their usual perversity, had not been realized, though on more than one occasion he had made efforts to find his ideal. There had been, for instance, the daughter of a chimney-sweep, a virtuous and charming creature. There had been a policeman's niece, whose boast it was that she could "slip the bracelets"--her own expression--on a refractory subject as quickly as a professional thief-taker. There had been the relict of a fish-and-chips salesman, and quite a number of others, equally alluring and disappointing. In his early youth he had dallied with them all, but he had never got beyond the dallying stage. The reason had been always the same. It was not that he had failed to find the ideal: not at all! The quarry of the moment had always seemed the most peerless of her sex--with a mental reservation giving the policeman's niece the pride of place. It was simply because he could not afford to marry. Girls would "walk out" with him with pleasure. They would give him every encouragement until ... until the fatal truth became known. It was not that his immediate supply of cash was pitiable: it was because he had no "prospects." He had no trade, being merely the driver of a cab. Now it is possible for a cab-driver to marry and bring up a family, but it was a perverse fate that all the girls to whom he paid attention looked somewhat higher in life. And Henry Brown was unable to satisfy their aspirations. He was deep in the groove of cab-driving by the time he was twenty-three, and could conceive no other calling at which he might succeed. Of course he might have tried to win a wife with less social ambition, but he made only one effort in this direction. At twenty-five he fluttered after a lady who seemed a promising helpmeet. She was a milliner's assistant, and swore to wait till Henry Brown had saved enough to start a home. She waited six weeks, and then, in a fit of romance or madness, married a scavenger. This, in a commercial sense, had been the making of Henry Brown. Soured by his experiences, he had resolved to hold aloof from Woman and devote himself to Thrift. Some men might have taken to drink; but a strain of Scottish or Jewish blood, coupled with a human desire to show the world he could do something, compelled Mr. Brown to save. For something like thirteen years he lived carefully and put money by. Then came a chance legacy of five hundred pounds. With this and his savings he determined to hazard all, cease to be a wage-slave, and start in business as a cab-proprietor on his own account. He had the luck to start just as taxicabs came in, so he had no old stock left on his hands. He bought two taxis at first and learned the business thoroughly, driving one himself for three months to save money and get experience. Gradually he extended his operations, and by the end of four years he had twenty taxicabs under his command. He still lived carefully, though in comfort, and when he arrived at his fortieth year he rubbed his hands. "Well," he said to himself one day, "I've done it. I might begin to think about choosing a wife now." It was significant that he said "choose": in his youth he would have said "seek" or possibly "sue for." Mr. Brown went about the business with a methodical earnestness, buying in the first instance a new lounge suit and an appropriate tie. He also discarded pipes as being vulgar, and took to threepenny cigars instead. Thus habited, if the expression may be allowed, he would take his walks abroad after office hours or on a Sunday afternoon, wondering where and how he should meet his future wife. Business, which naturally had tended to harden him, had left, nevertheless, a good deal of shyness untouched. His uneventful bachelor life, too, had done nothing to eradicate this; and it is a painful fact that he had spoken almost to no woman, save his housekeeper or customers, for a dozen years. This may read oddly, but it is not so odd as it looks. A man with little money, his way to make, and a sense of disappointment, is not anxious at first to extend his circle of friends. When he has made some progress, then it will be time enough, or so he thinks. But it is not always time enough, as Henry Brown found to his cost. His few friends were bachelors like himself, and when he began seriously to think of marrying he was puzzled how to set about it. He despised the idea of using a matrimonial agency, and he felt himself too old and respectable to pick up chance acquaintances in the street. But Cupid, who disdains no servitor, however aged, gave him his chance at last, and a better chance than he had any right to expect. An attractive young woman, apparently foreign but speaking good English, called one day to order a taxi. Mr. Brown, who booked the order himself, was distinctly struck by her appearance. He was not so absurd as to fall in love at first sight--an unusual proceeding, _pace_ the penny-a-liners,--for the cautious routine of years is a fetter not lightly to be broken. But being, so to speak, on the alert for a possible mate, he now took more than a business interest in his customers. He noticed, therefore, that this young woman was certainly pretty, neat and decided, and he put her down as a lady's maid in a "superior" house. He made no advances on this, their first meeting, but he could not help wishing that she would come again soon. "She has a Way with her," mused the cab-proprietor after she had gone, "and I must say I like her; and her dress was nice, though plain. Well, a plain dress doesn't run a husband into debt." He was painfully ignorant. She came again a fortnight later on a similar errand, and this time Mr. Brown dared to unbend from his official attitude and remark that it was fine weather. The young woman agreed with a charming smile, and Mr. Brown caught himself thinking quite seriously about her more than once during the day. He wondered if he might ask her the next time she came to go for a walk one day. Would it be proper--the Thing? Would she be pleased to look on him as a mature Don Juan, laying snares for her pretty feet? Would it be "rushing it" too much, and would she build extravagant hopes thereon? For Henry Brown was careful and, remembering his early love, did not intend to commit himself until he knew a little more about her. He was most certainly not in love, but he was thinking about it. And when a man of his age and in his position thinks about it, any nice presentable girl who comes his way may safely speculate on a formal proposal, provided sufficient opportunities offer themselves or ... are offered. This may not be romance according to the rules of fiction, but it is life. However, for three weeks there were no opportunities, and the pretty damsel did not bring her sunshine into the cab-office. This did not plunge Mr. Brown into the depths of despair or anything so foolish. He went about his business as usual, a little distrait it may be, hoping occasionally that he would meet her again, and in idle moments revolving schemes to achieve this end. The difficulty was that he did not know where she lived, for on both occasions the taxi had been ordered to be at a hotel, and had driven once to another hotel and once to a theater. (He had casually questioned his drivers on the subject.) Hence he had nothing to go on, and had to wait on the chances of fortune. But a third meeting came at last, for he had the luck to meet her in a