The Gay Adventure: A Romance
tea-shop. She happened to sit down at the same table, and with a
desperate diffidence Mr. Brown recalled himself to her. The young woman
was very obliging and perfectly at her ease. Oh, but yes! She remembered
him perfectly--his cabs were so much nicer than other people's--and
after a becoming hesitation she allowed him to pay for an ice.
From that time he was in the toils. In the course of their conversation
he ventured to ask where she lived. She did not take any notice of the
question, and he was too shy to press her. But on parting, a casual
whisper thrilled his receptive ear: "I always promenade on a Sunday. If
you really wish, I shall meet you at the steps of the National Gallery
at half past two. You are discreet, _nicht wahr_?" Mr. Brown, who
translated the concluding phrase as a term of endearment or at least
friendliness, began to feel that life was well worth living. He met her
on Sunday, and they had a decorous but wholly satisfying promenade in
the park. Tea followed, and he escorted her part of the way home. From
that date the Sunday walk became an institution, and even an occasional
visit to the theater of an evening was allowed.
It would be tedious to follow the affair in detail. Suffice it to say
that at the end of three months Henry Brown found himself sincerely in
love. He had not made a formal offer as yet, fearing that the lady's
heart was not sufficiently _intrigue_. He was immensely satisfied with
the change in his life and new comradeship, which he hoped would develop
into something warmer. But, afraid of being too precipitate, he
contented himself with making her presents of flowers, chocolates, or an
occasional piece of jewelry of the Mizpah type. He trusted that his
personality, generous handling of the case, and time ("Giving her rope
enough to hang herself" was his well-meant but unfortunate metaphor)
would dispose her to favor his suit. The lady appeared perfectly content
with the situation; she accepted his gifts with careless thanks and a
charming smile, enjoyed the promenades, but was sedulous to keep him
away from a definite statement or even a plain-spoken hint of his
feelings. Was she a designing creature who wished to get as much as she
could from him before saying "No"? Or did a nobler emotion possess her?
Was she judiciously probing his character and sounding the depths of her
own feelings?
However this may have been, there is no doubt that both were content
with the present. And on a night in June, some three weeks before the
events of the last chapter, Henry Brown might have been seen seated
opposite his friend in a cheap Soho restaurant. They had just finished
supper, and both were smoking. To be honest, Mr. Brown did not
altogether approve of the cigarette, but he had never dared to object.
"Besides," he thought tolerantly, "these foreigners.... But what I
wonder is, when they marry do they take to a pipe? If so, good lord!..."
His distress vanished as he looked again upon her: she was too pretty to
disapprove of. "A bit of Orl right," he reflected; "if only I dared ask
her and she said 'Yes.'"
The time for separation came at last, and Mr. Brown sighed as he helped
her put on her coat. On the steps of the restaurant they paused, for it
was raining. "You must have a cab," he said decisively; and then,
hesitating, "I wish you would let me see you home for once."
She glanced up.
"For this once, just a little way."
Her partial acquiescence surprised him, for hitherto he had never been
permitted to escort her home in a cab. As a hansom drove up in answer to
the whistle, he wondered if it might be taken as a sign. With bounding
pulses he thought, "Shall I risk it and ask her?" And then, with a
return of sanity, "No; better wait and not spoil it." He handed her in
carefully, stepped in beside her, and asked what address he should give.
"Oh, Trafalgar Square," she replied carelessly, "and then St. Paul's if
necessary."
He obeyed, wondering what she could mean.
The cab had scarcely started before she turned to him and said demurely,
"You must think this strange--immodest, almost. But I have a reason.
First of all, I wish to thank you for your many kindnesses."
She paused, and he was understood to murmur, "Not at all. An honor." She
continued:
"But there is a question I must ask, and I beg a truthful answer. Why
have you so befriended a poor and humble girl like myself?"
At this question Henry Brown performed a _volte-face_. A moment before
he had resolved to wait. But being in love, encouraged by an excellent
supper and some Chianti, and fired by the graciousness of his divinity,
he threw caution to the winds. Though in the privacy of his office he
had more than once rehearsed the scene and prepared effective orations,
beginning "Miss," "Honored Ma'amselle," and "My dear Miss," he merely
said, "Well, it's this way, you see: I love you."
The age of "This is so sudden" has passed away; hence it was not
unconventional for the girl to affect no surprise at the announcement.
She was conventional enough to turn her head for a moment and appear to
be thinking deeply. She also obeyed the rules by observing presently,
"But that is foolish." Mr. Brown, his devotion crystallizing into a
sensible effort to win her, forgot his shyness and enlarged on the
pleasing theme.
"I beg to differ," he said steadily, though his heart was beating fast
and the roof of his mouth was curiously parched. "I don't consider it
foolish at all. I have loved you for a goodish time, and I want you to
be my wife. I am not a boy, miss, as you know. I'm a serious man of
forty, for it's no use trying to hide my age or my seriousness. I have
enough to keep us both in comfort, and--and I really love you very
much."
She was looking at him with an expression that was kind and not at all
embarrassed.
"Listen!" she said, more steadily than he. "I thank you very much. I
guessed that you liked me, but--but I am not quite sure of you."
"Of me!" he repeated in amazement. "Why, I--I swear that I love you.
What are you not sure of? My income? (Excuse me for mentioning it,
miss.) You can look at my books if you like. My character? Any of the
neighbors would speak for me----"
She waved her hand impatiently.
"It is not that. Only I am not sure that you love Romance."
He started.
"Romance! I dunno ..." he said blankly. "What are the symptoms? I know I
love you right enough, but Romance...."
"Exactly. I do not know. I like you--oh! very much indeed. Sometimes I
think I love you, but then a doubt creeps in. Suppose, I say, he has not
a soul!"
"Oh, come!" remonstrated the other. "You ought to know better than that.
Why, that's pretty near atheism! I go to church----"
"It is not that kind of soul," she explained. "I mean, a sense of
adventure--of excitement--in a word, romance! To marry a man without
romance would be insupportable; life would be too dull. If only I could
be sure that you had romance, I might...."
"Try me," said the practical Henry. "I must say, miss, I don't exactly
see what you mean. But I'd do anything to please you. Tell me how to set
about this romance idea and I'll do my best."
"You mean that?" she asked, her eyes sparkling.
"Yes," he replied stoutly. "Anything in reason."
"Or unreason? The true romance knows no reason."
Mr. Brown, against his better judgment, but compelled by her
attractions, said, "It's a bet!"
After this momentous decision there was a silence. The lady sank back in
her seat and began to meditate with a pleased smile. Henry Brown, a
whirl of conflicting emotions, looked gaily out into the street. It was
depressing to the view, wet, dirty and forbidding; but to him it was the
antechamber of Paradise. At last he was by way of realizing his ideal:
his frequent failures and persistent struggles were presently to be
crowned with fulfilment. In a burst of noble emotion he resolved to give
the cabman a sovereign. He turned his head once more to look at his
charmer and caught sight of a little white hand lying carelessly on the
seat. It suggested a happy idea; and with a respectful tenderness he
lifted it and pressed it warmly.
"Oh! you must not!"
"Beg pardon!" he said, though he was sensible enough not to drop the
hand; "it was this romance idea that put it into my head. I hope you
don't mind."
"But we are not promised!"
"On Trust, eh?" he said cheerfully. "Well, I suppose I must wait till I
can say Paid For. You've been thinking of some scheme to try me, haven't
you?"
"The scheme is ready," she replied gravely. "I was wondering whether you
are strong enough to obey. It may mean danger...."
"Fourteen stone and in fair training," he said complacently.
"Ridicule...."
"I shan't be laughed at more than once."
"Perhaps ... prison."
"Crumbs!" observed Henry Brown, stiffening. "My dear--beg pardon--miss,
I mean. You're not one of them anarchists?"
"No. I have done nothing wrong. Only, events might put you in a false
position. You might be accused and be obliged to be silent. Would you
flinch from prison in a good cause?"
For a disgraceful moment Henry Brown wished to say, "The cause be
blowed," but happily his eyes met hers. Innocence, reinforced by pretty
features, has an easy prey in besotted experience. She lowered her
lashes in virginal confusion and appeal. "I'll do it!" said Henry Brown,
setting his teeth. "That is, if you're on the square."
She clapped her hands.
"Oh, thank you! thank you! I promise that I am on the square. Really, I
am a victim.... What I want you to do is to become, for a short time, a
kind of detective."
"A detective!"
"An amateur. If you can leave the guidance of your business to another
for a time."
Her hand touched his again, possibly by accident.
"N--yes," he said, determined. "Yes, I mean--yes."
"I shall tell you the story another time. For the present I shall say
that it has to do with some papers. I may ask you to follow and watch a
man. I may ask you to get back for me the documents. I may--I do not
know. It may even be necessary for you to leave London for a brief
space. For the present we can do nothing, but will you hold yourself in
readiness to act at a word--a sign--a telegram from me?"
Things were developing more rapidly than Henry Brown liked, but he was a
man of his word and--she was a delightful creature.
"I will."
"Thank you," she breathed, and this time plainly pressed his hand. He
seized it and returned the pressure, feeling like a knight of the middle
ages. (Or a middle-aged knight?) "And you are content to do this without
reasons--explanations?"
"If you'll give me one excuse," he said craftily.
"_Bitte?_"
"I don't know what they call it in your language," said Henry, and
hesitated. A shred of bashfulness still hung about him, but he was
growing up fast--expanding like a flower beneath the sun. "May I
explain?" he asked courageously.
"But certainly!"
So Henry kissed her.
"For that excuse," he whispered with a new-found eloquence, "I'd do more
than you ask."
She laughed and imprinted a feather upon his cheek.
"So you have a soul after all!" she said happily. "I congratulate you
and ... myself."
The last word was inaudible; indeed it was not meant for the new
henchman of Romance.
CHAPTER VII
MR. HEDDERWICK'S FIRST ADVENTURE
"Alicia, my dear," said Robert Hedderwick to his wife, as he was smoking
after dinner, "shall we talk about our annual holiday?"
His wife, a determined lady of forty-five--six years younger than
he,--put down her knitting.
"By all means, Robert, if you wish. But I do not know what there is to
discuss. It is not yet July and we never go away till August, so there
is plenty of time."
"But why should we not go away in July this year?" he suggested,
somewhat diffidently.