CHAPTER XIV

A RISE IN THE WORLD

The Happy Heart was an ideal resting-place for a tired man, whether town

or country-bred. To the former it made the stronger appeal, for there

could be no greater contrast than between The Happy Heart and the

flaring brazen public-houses which offer solace to the dwellers of the

pavement. These attract by their fierce pledges of light, warmth and the

stimulated oblivion of the moment; The Happy Heart draws the

heart-strings alike of the physically tired and mentally jaded. Apart

from the promise of good liquor--and all who go to Shereling can rely on

the promise being fulfilled--it makes an esthetic appeal. For it is

still an old-fashioned country tavern of the prettiest type, destined to

make even the total abstainer wonder whether he be so absolutely in the

right after all. It boasts a porch, over which a Virginia creeper

spreads its amorous leaves; rose-bushes waft a welcome and the sure hope

of peace to plowman or golfer after the day's striving. A meditative

cow, apparently an artistic fixture, chews the cud in a field hard by

from day to day. Smoke curls lazily from a huge and ancient chimney, as

much as to say, "Be of good cheer! I come from the kitchen!" And there

is, too, one of those signposts you see sometimes in the south,--a

pillar placed separate from the inn itself with a swinging board above.

The superscription, by the way, was due to the fancy of the squire's

wife. When the squire entered into his inheritance and married he had

had dreams. He wished to be like Dogberry and have everything handsome

about him. His wife, a pretty imaginative creature, had imbued him with

ideas for the betterment of his dependents, and he had tried to fulfil

her wishes. He inclined to the practical side, and to him was due at

least half the credit for the improved housing and sanitation of

Shereling. She, practical enough, thought that estheticism should show

an equal growth; and to her shade the visitor does reverence when he

admires the profuse planting of trees, the village library with its good

pictures, the addition of a tower to the church, and a fine organ. Last,

but not least, she persuaded her husband to have the inn called The

Happy Heart, instead of The Bull and Dog.

In this desirable residence Tony and Robert Hedderwick sat at two

o'clock, enjoying their cigars after a copious lunch. Robert had slept

the whole morning, and now felt a new man. Tony was tired, but

disinclined for bed,--there had been too much to interest him up to the

present, and he felt there might be more to come. This was such a new

sensation that he had no trouble in propping his eyelids till the

evening, and he listened with zest while Robert prattled cheerfully of

his incredible adventures. They had, of course, agreed to work as

partners, so long as tedium kept away: they were mutually attracted, and

already more than friendly. Confidences had been exchanged: Tony had

repeated to the envious churchwarden some of the tamer episodes of his

dilettante existence; Robert had tried to cap them with his burglars and

Alicia.

"But you ought to let your wife know something," suggested Tony. "She

may be worrying."

The churchwarden looked a little uneasy. "If I write I might be traced

by the postmark," he objected. "I suppose I might send a letter saying

I'm all right to a friend, and get him to readdress it. But even then

there's a danger...."

"There's danger any way," said Tony, smoking thoughtfully. "From what

you tell me, I should think Mrs. Hedderwick would not hesitate to use

detectives if she thought it necessary. I should hardly think it would

be long before they picked up your trail, unless you communicate with

her. Really, you know----" He broke off suddenly and laughed. "No! don't

write; I've got a better plan. I won't tell you now, but keep it for a

little--till a dull hour comes and we are hard up for something to do."

Robert, naturally curious, begged for enlightenment, but Tony was

adamant. Changing his ground, he declared that there was no hurry for a

day or two,--or at least for a few hours. Mrs. Hedderwick would probably

take a couple of days to make up her mind to use the police, and

meanwhile they were better employed in seizing the thrills of the

moment. Tony got his way, of course: he was accustomed to lead and exact

obedience. Personality and class-consciousness, coupled with a humor

that appealed to his victims, made the task easy.

"I haven't told you yet," said he, after silencing Robert's objections,

"what I did with my morning. Well, I looked round and got the general

hang of the village. More, I followed our mysterious friend--let's call

him Billy,--and from a distance saw him enter The Quiet House. (Queer

place that, by the way. Surrounded by a brick wall ten feet

high,--couldn't get a glimpse inside except through a gate.) The

landlord tells me that he hasn't booked a bed here, so it looks either

as if he meant to leave Shereling or stay at The Quiet House."

"A good job, too," commented Robert. "It wouldn't do for him to see me.

Of course I should be recognized at once, and that would make him

suspicious."

"Quite so," agreed Tony. "If he hung about here you'd have to stay in

bed all day,--rather a depressing prospect when fun is promised. But if

I were you I'd give a false name to the landlord. If Billy heard of Mr.

Hedderwick it would make him think of things."

Robert had an instinctive repugnance to the plan. In some obscure way it

savored of criminality, and the shackles of convention were still not

wholly broken. But in the end Tony again triumphed, and the blameless

Hedderwick was dubbed Bangs. He did not particularly care for the

choice; but as Tony said he looked the perfect essential Bangs and that

any other name would be unthinkable, Robert gave way.

"Oh, and I saw some one else," continued Tony when the point was

settled. "A remarkably pretty girl. She, too, entered The Quiet

House--some time after Billy. I had seen him safely in, and was waiting

by the roadside when she came along. She snubbed me--quite

properly,--but was kindly careless enough to drop a card. It bore the

name of Miss Arkwright, who, I understand, owns The Quiet House. But

somehow I don't feel sure that the card is hers."

"Why?"

"Dunno," said Tony with a dissatisfied air. "I haven't any reasonable

evidence. A kind of intuition, I suppose, more than anything else.

Somehow she doesn't _look_ an Arkwright,--she hasn't got an Arkwright

personality. Now, you simply exude Bangs at every pore,--_you're_ all

right."

"What was she like?"

"Bangs being a respectable married man, mere good looks have no interest

for him." ("Oh, but they have!" interrupted Robert with a naif

eagerness.) "Well, they oughtn't to, then. As a matter of fact, she was

deucedly pretty, and--good lord!"

He broke off and jumped to his feet in a listening attitude. Robert did

the same, for in the porch they heard the voice of Lionel--or "Billy,"

as they had named their anonymous friend--in conversation with the

landlord. The two men were discussing the weather, and Tony and his

partner looked frantically at each other for a plan. In another minute

Lionel might enter the parlor, and there was no escape. The door was but

a yard distant from the porch: the window opened on the road. To leave

the room by either egress might mean discovery, and for Robert to be

recognized by Lionel would ruin all. That is, it might effectively put

an end to the development of the adventure, for if "Billy's" suspicions

were awakened he might take the first train back to town. At least he

would be put on his guard, and that would make things more difficult

than ever. It was imperative that Robert should be hidden from sight.

But where? He could not be concealed under the table, for no cloth lay

upon it, drooping decorously over the edges. There was no cupboard large

enough to contain the bulk of Bangs. No friendly screen, the

time-honored refuge of the dramatist, stood in any corner. No

Falstaffian basket was there to promise aid. The room was a Sahara in

view of the unhappy arrival of "Billy," and beads of perspiration stood

out on Robert's brow as he waited, without a plan, helpless as a trapped

rabbit.

Tony's friends used sometimes to complain that he put them in impossible

situations. The charge was not unjust; but, as Tony would point out when

accused, he was equally ready to sacrifice himself if circumstances

demanded it. It was unfortunate, no doubt, that Fate seemed to prefer

the immolation of a friend, but that was not his fault,--it was Fate who

should be reviled. This was an occasion calling for presence of mind,

resource and unflinching discipline. If the adventure of his life was

to be carried through successfully, no minor considerations--such as

friendship or soot--could be allowed to weigh. With a strong gesture he

pointed to the old-fashioned hearth and capacious chimney. "Up you go!"

he whispered. "Look sharp!"

Robert recoiled. "No! no!" he whispered piteously. "Not that!

Surely----"

He was not allowed to argue. In another moment Robert felt himself led,

as in a dream, to the fireplace. The next, and he had a foot upon the

massive iron bars. Luckily there was no fire laid, no coal to disturb

and proclaim his bid for obscurity. He looked up into the cavernous

darkness and groaned in spirit; that was the first time he regretted his

mad flight. Then, helping himself by projecting bricks, searching for

insecure crevices with his toes, he began to climb the few feet

necessary to safety.

By the time his ankles were the only visible evidence the hearth was

covered with soot, and Tony looked anxiously round for something to

remove it. As chance would have it, a broom stood in the corner of the

parlor, left there by a careless servant after the morning's tidy-up.

Triumph in his eye, Tony seized it and approached the hearth. But on

getting there his purpose changed; temptation was too strong. Pushing

the broom up the chimney, he used it as one uses a ramrod, helping the

murmurous Robert in his upward path. "Excelsior, old friend!" whispered

Tony, for an ankle could still be seen. "Excelsior!" and he thrust with

frenzy. The only response was a muffled sound that floated down, a

subdued kind of blasphemous choke. It filtered into the parlor as

"Orpgh," but Tony did not relax his efforts till the ankle had

disappeared. The next moment Lionel entered the room, followed by the

landlord. The latter gave an astonished grunt as he surveyed Tony, hands

and face smudged like a Christy Minstrel, and even Lionel's breeding

found it hard to restrain a laugh.

"There has been a fall of soot, Mr. Glew," observed Tony blandly. "I

found this broom, and was just going----"

"Lor', sir, don't you trouble," said Glew, scandalized that a guest

could so demean himself. "The servant'll do that presently. I was just

saying to the missus a week ago come Thursday that we should 'ave to get

our chimneys cleaned soon. We'll 'ave to set about it in earnest now,

and no mistake."

"I suppose you send over to Dallingham for a sweep?" suggested Lionel,

sitting down. The landlord chuckled.

"Yes, sir, when the squire's at 'ome. 'E makes us. But when 'e's abroad,

why, we do the old-fashioned way--light a batten of straw and burn the

flue clear."

A slight scuffle proceeding from the chimney seemed to hint that Mr.

Bangs had heard. Could it be that he feared lest they were going to

clean the flue in the old-fashioned way now, or was he merely suffering

from cramp? Whichever it was, he shifted: the noise was unmistakable,

and the fall of more soot made the landlord shake his head.

"I doubt there's a bird got down the chimney," he said, scratching his

chin. "Those jackdaws or young rooks do sometimes. Give me the broom,

sir, and I'll soon have him down."

Tony's hand tightened on the broom.

"Let me," he said suavely. "There's no need for two people to get

black." Without waiting for a reply he approached the fireplace and

thrust his weapon strenuously aloft. It was no time for half measures,

and Tony felt obliged to be as realistic as possible in the interests of

his friend. Realism, however, may be carried to excess (as Mr. Bangs

pointed out later with no little heat), and the fluttering of the

mythical bird would have drawn tears to the eyes of humanitarians.

"It's no good, sir," said the landlord, dismally observing the soot;

"it's out o' reach. I fancy I'd better get that straw and ha' done with

it."

"That's rather too cruel, landlord," said Lionel from his seat. "I don't

like the idea of smothering the poor beast."

"Put it this way, sir," said Glew, who was an amiable fellow; "is it

better to smother it or leave it there to starve? My way 'ud take five

minutes--yours a couple o' days. Well, sir?"

"I suppose you're right," said the soft-hearted Lionel, "but I don't

half like----"

"Don't you worry," struck in Tony, who was beginning to get anxious. "I

tell you what! It's a big chimney and I'm pretty slim. If you'll let me

go up to-night after the pub's closed, Mr. Glew, I'll strip and climb.

Of course we mustn't leave it there, and smothering doesn't appeal to

me."

"You're a decent chap," said Lionel, moved to admiration. Tony modestly

murmured "Not at all," and hoped the landlord was satisfied. But he was

not. The very ideer! One o' his guests a-climbin' the chimney! No! he'd

send the boy up. Hi!

Things were now looking very black in more than one sense, and the

disciple of romance in the chimney had serious thoughts of a descent.

But as the landlord opened his mouth to bellow for the boy, the man from

up-stairs--"Mr. Beckett"--passed the door with his golf-clubs slung over

his shoulder. He looked in and said, "I'm going up to the links, Mr.

Glew. Dinner at seven-thirty, please," in a polished voice that carried

a hint of an alien accent. Then he went on.

Lionel determined to follow. He had been to The Quiet House that morning

and had learned that Miss Arkwright was away. She would be back,

however, about four. The door had been answered by the dumb footman

spoken of by the vicar, who had exhibited one of those dials that stand

on hall tables--"Out--in at...." So Lionel had come back, meaning to

kill a couple of hours at the inn. But when he saw the man "Beckett" it

struck him that he might as well waste those hours on the links. He

might possibly get into conversation with this man, whom he felt sure

was the Turkish ambassador. Every thing pointed to it,--the newspaper

paragraph--the accent--the assumed name (for he had confessed it to the

vicar)--the age. Supposing this to be so, he might be worth watching. If

Beatrice were right in her suspicions and conjectures, it was quite

possible Mizzi would follow him to Shereling and seek an interview.

Mizzi, in point of fact might have already made an assignation--she

might even be waiting on the links! Supposing he found them ... well, at

least he would have verified suspicions, and could chart his course by

certain knowledge. Yes, he would follow on the off chance.

He did not take as long to make up his mind as we have taken to describe

it. The reader, if kindly-hearted, should be glad of this; for meanwhile

the unhappy Bangs has risked exceeding the proverbial allowance of "a

peck of dirt" to be swallowed in a lifetime. Lionel, then, went out,

leaving Tony to deal with the landlord. He sighed with relief, for at

least the most important character had disappeared.

"Mr. Glew," he said winningly, "I have a little surprise for you. May I

close the door for a moment?"

"Cert'n'y, sir," said the other, staring. His bovine gaze followed Tony

as he walked to the fireplace, stooped down, and said gently, "_Come,

birdie, come!_"--a song of his childhood flitting suddenly across his

brain. To make his meaning perfectly clear, he added, "It's all right,

Bangs. You may get down from the table!" Then he discreetly retired a

few paces and waited. He had not to wait long.

"_Mygoard!_" said the landlord explosively, and indeed there was excuse

for the expression. It was caused by the extraordinary entrance of Mr.

Bangs. He clambered down painfully for a few feet, but just as he

reached the bottom his foot slipped and he sat down emphatically, facing

them, in the grate. The appearance of this gnome, silent, save for a

strange wheezing that rasped its way through a soot-slaked windpipe,

baffled description. Tony looked at the figure with a mournful

compassion, and the landlord rocked drunkenly against the door.

"You see, Mr. Glew," said Tony soothingly, "it happened like this. My

friend--who, I am sure, will corroborate me as soon as he has had a

drink,--my friend and I had a dispute about chimneys. He averred that

they often concealed a 'priest's hole,'--one of those hiding-places for

Popish priests we read about. I disagreed, and our dispute became so

heated that we even staked money--Mr. Bangs, on the probable existence

of such a chamber here, I on the negative side. He is an enthusiast, and

nothing would content him but the immediate settlement of the question.

So, despite my protests, up he climbed. Just as he was about to descend,

you and the other gentleman entered. Conceive the position! He naturally

had no wish to be discovered in such a situation, and waited, hoping the

parlor would soon be empty. Your suggestion of the batten upset all

calculations. Now, I am sure you will spare his feelings and say nothing

of this. All he requires is a hot bath. You quite understand?"

The landlord gave a crow of assent. But as he went down the passage a

deep rumbling, suppressed but distinct, betokened that he could not

regard the situation seriously. When the door was closed Tony turned

apologetically to his companion-in-arms.

"Awfully sorry, old chap," he said, "but it was one of those things that

had to be. You quite see that, I hope?"

"_Krwx!_" said the gnome, weeping. "_Krwx! airp--krwx!_"