CHAPTER XV

A CHANGE OF LODGING

At the club-house Lionel put his name down for a week's membership,

thinking it might be useful. He learned from the local professional in

the course of a short chat that there were only some half-dozen players

out that afternoon, all being men. Mizzi, therefore, had not assumed the

disguise of a golfer, though she might be waiting somewhere on the

horizon at an appointed trysting-place. The ambassador drove from the

first tee while they were talking: he was playing a solitary game

against bogey, who--judging from the first three shots--appeared likely

to win. The fact that he did not take a caddy might mean anything--a

sense of shame or an expected meeting with Mizzi. Lionel, that he might

have a reasonable excuse for keeping him under observation, borrowed

some clubs from the pro. on the plea that his own had not yet arrived.

He had not played golf for years, but trusted that some of his ancient

skill might still remain,--enough, at least, to justify his appearance

on the links.

The scheme, however, produced little, for there was no sign of Mizzi.

Lionel played slowly, keeping a methodical hole behind all the way. At

the fifteenth, however, he caught up with his quarry. In a moment of

ill-judged enthusiasm, and fired by the thrill of a superlative

brassie-shot, he went all out for his third. It was a long hole--bogey

five--and there was a deep bunker guarding the green. Lionel, after some

consideration, took the mashie in preference to the iron. It was a

mistake, for the green was farther than he thought. He made a beautiful

full shot that flew straight but fell short, deep in the heart of the

bunker. "Spoilt it!" thought Lionel with natural melancholy. "Ah! well!

Not so bad, considering I haven't played for so long."

As he walked on he remembered with a pang that he had forgotten the

ambassador. In the pleasure excited by a perfect drive, a perfect

brassie-shot, and an ill-fated, ill-judged, but clean full mashie, he

had lost sight of the other's existence. Now he was nowhere to be seen.

"Confound it!" thought Lionel uneasily; "what a kid I am to get carried

away by the game! Has he holed out and gone on, or is he by any chance

in that bunker?"

He hurried forward, now thinking only of the chase; and as he drew

nearer he heard curious sounds proceeding from the grave of so many

hopes. Voluble, emphatic and distinct utterance in an alien tongue

floated through the abashed ether, and with a sigh of relief Lionel

approached and stood on the brink of the pit.

It was a deep sandy hollow, shored up on the farther side with stout

banks of timber, and at the bottom stood the ambassador cursing his

ball. So intent was he on this futile but human act, that he did not

observe his audience above. Lionel stood and watched, not ill-pleased

that an aged arbiter of the peace of nations could on occasion show some

feeling, real if regrettable. Presently the exasperated diplomat ceased

his objurgations, swung his niblick once more and tried to get out. He

struck once and the ball bounded heartily against the timbers, falling

back at his very feet. He smote again and a shower of stinging sand

whipped sharply in his face. "_Whee!_" he said distinctly, and Lionel's

cheek tingled in sympathy. He swung a third time and with neat precision

played a flint-stone well on the green, laying it dead. Being a man of

obvious determination, though limited skill, he tried again, and yet

once more. Then, with uncouth barbaric cries, which Lionel rightly

guessed to be in the Turkish language, he lashed flail-wise at the ball.

It rolled, leaped, hopped--grew vivid with excitement, but still it

never left the bunker.

He gave it up at last. This cunning diplomat, this indomitable

statesman, was obliged to own himself defeated. Picking up the ball, he

deliberately took a knife from his pocket and tried to cut it in half.

This proving impossible, he flung it away, resolved that nevermore

should he be troubled with this particular disturber of the peace. Then

with a resolute quiet action, he broke his niblick across his knee.

Lionel, hoping to get into conversation, left his eyrie and joined him

in the pit.

"My turn now, sir!" he said with a fictitious cheerfulness. "I hoped the

green was twenty yards closer. This is a beastly place to get out of."

It was a false move. Had he waited till the other had done a hole in

three, or at least made one good approach, Lionel might have found him

good-humored, conversational, entertaining. But at the moment he was not

himself. With a contemptuous "_Allez au diable!_" the ambassador looked

sourly on Lionel and climbed slowly up the hill. Lionel, disappointed

but not resentful, watched him drive from the next tee.

He followed him round without result, and in the fulness of time saw him

leave the golf-house and walk dejectedly home. After watching him enter

The Happy Heart, Lionel made his way peacefully to The Quiet House,

hoping Miss Arkwright would have returned. In this he was not

disappointed, for the silent footman bowed in answer to his question and

held the door invitingly open. Lionel accepted the unspoken welcome,

entered and was shown into the drawing-room. The footman placed a chair

and motioned that he should sit down. Lionel obeyed with a vague feeling

that something was amiss. Was it the silence of the footman that gave

him an uncanny impression, or was it the atmosphere of the house? He had

heard of presentiments of ill under similar circumstances and had

disbelieved them all, but now it was different ... he was uneasy. After

sitting uncomfortably in his chair, half expecting it to play some

goblin trick upon him, he got up and began to look at a picture hanging

above the mantelpiece.

He was still busy with his scrutiny when he heard the door open and

close again behind him. Turning at the sound, he saw a lady standing

perfectly still in the middle of the room. Lionel gasped, and almost

fell. "_You!_" he quavered, sure now that wizardry was at work. "_You!_"

"Please sit down," said a grave voice. "I am Miss Arkwright."

Lionel pulled himself together with an effort, but he did not sit down.

"No," he objected steadily. "I am sorry to contradict you, but that is

not true. You are playing a trick on me for some reason that I can not

understand. But I swear that you are not Miss Arkwright."

The lady smiled, as one who soothes a maniac.

"Indeed?" she said courteously. "Then perhaps you will tell me who I

am?"

"You are Miss Beatrice Blair," said Lionel in a hard voice. He was

bitterly disappointed, and no wonder.

"Beatrice Blair?" repeated the other, with an astonishment that could

not but be genuine. "Whom do you mean? Who is Beatrice Blair?"

"She was playing last night at the Macready Theater," returned Lionel

with a patient dignity. "How she contrives to be at Shereling at this

hour, mystifying a poor wretch whose only fault is a too ardent

devotion, I can not explain."

This he thought rather a fine speech, and he was relieved to see the

clearing of her brow. But he was mistaken as to the cause.

"The Macready Theater!" cried the lady in a tone of satisfaction. "Ah! I

can guess now. You must mean my sister, of course. There can be no

other explanation. I know she is"--she shuddered daintily--"an actress,

but I had quite forgotten her nom de guerre."

"Her ... sister ..." repeated Lionel dully. "Why, yes ... I thought I

was calling on her sister ... I wished to see her--not Miss Blair

again...."

He sat down, unable to realize it yet.

"Did you not know we were twins?" she asked, clearly anxious to help

him.

"I had heard ... but I did not expect...."

"To find the resemblance so striking? I have not seen my sister for

years, but when we were younger strangers often mistook us. We were

mutual replicas. I imagine from your surprise that the resemblance is

still very marked."

"That is the feeblest way of putting it," he answered, still staring as

if fascinated. "You are identical in every feature--eyes--hair--even the

voice...."

"Perhaps you might find that we differ in disposition--in character----"

He interrupted bruskly, forcing himself to accept the incredible.

"Excuse me; but I can not imagine any one so perfect as Miss Blair."

The lady sighed. "She is on the stage."

"Good heavens, madam!" said Lionel with scornful candor. "Does the stage

spell infamy to you? I thought that attitude was _vieux jeu_ now."

"I may be old-fashioned," she said primly, "but I am under few

illusions. Of course I would not even hint that my sister is likely to

tread the downward path" ("Oh, _lord_!" he groaned in spirit)--"one of

our family must have sufficient firmness of character to rise above even

_her_ environment. But we know the old proverb of pitch and defilement;

can she honestly hope to retain her bloom unsullied?"

"Have you ever--I won't say 'met an actor or actress,'" asked Lionel in

polite wrath, "but, been to a theater?"

"Certainly. Three pantomimes and _Our Boys_."

"But that is--how many years ago?"

"It was a revival of the play," she said with a blush, and Lionel was

glad to notice that she had at least one human trait. "I am thankful to

say that I did not laugh."

"And you rest your condemnation on that?" he asked, disgusted that so

pretty a creature could be so narrow.

"On that, on what I have been told, and on the ridiculous number of

post-card favorites that I see--often in deplorable dishabille--in every

stationer's shop. I have deliberately come to the conclusion that the

stage is immoral. How, then, can I avoid condemning my sister's

lamentable choice of a career?"

Lionel rose, pale with anger, forgetful of his errand.

"I am sorry to hear it," he said with absurd dignity. Of course, he

ought to have laughed and talked about the garden. "I am sorry you

persist in such a hasty condemnation of a noble profession----"

"And of Miss Blair," she put in with a sly jealousy.

"If you like," he flung out. "I can not allow any one--even you--to

criticize her. I regret, therefore, that I shall not be able to stop the

night."

"I was not aware," she said with an unmoved countenance, "that I had

given you an invitation."

Lionel was so taken aback that he sat down abruptly in his chair. Then

the humor of the situation came to his rescue and he laughed outright.

The lady, too, though she made a gallant effort to control herself,

failed miserably. In a moment the pair of them were united by the most

perfect bond (save one) that earth knows--the mutual appreciation of a

jest.

Lionel, as the waves of their mirth broke gently into ripples and

presently dissolved in the foam of smiles, realized how foolish he had

been. When he set out first for The Quiet House he had taken it for

granted that Beatrice had telegraphed to bespeak her sister's

hospitality. It was only too clear now that she had not done this,

either through forgetfulness, pressure of work, or procrastination. He

had simply assumed that Miss Arkwright would receive him as her guest,

and the conversation had been too briskly controversial to allow him to

think. Now he was doubly annoyed at his clumsiness: he had behaved like

a boor and had sacrificed the interests of Beatrice to an ill-timed

chivalry. His cue was submission at all costs for Beatrice's sake.

"I apologize," he said with a frank good humor. "I thought your sister

had already engaged your good offices on my behalf." He noticed

hopefully that Miss Arkwright's eyes still twinkled with amusement.

Clearly she was not all prunes and prisms.

"I have heard nothing," said the lady much more sweetly. "No doubt she

meant to write, and forgot. Poor Beatrice! She was always harum-scarum."

To a sensitive man this might have implied a lack of confidence in the

protege of Beatrice, and Lionel moved uneasily.

"I hope," he said humbly, "that you will forgive me. I trust that you

will allow me to prove my good faith--that----"

"I shall ask you to dine and sleep?" she said bluntly, though a charming

smile softened the crudity of her words. "Well, Mr.----?"

"Mortimer. Lionel Mortimer."

"Mr. Mortimer, I do not doubt your word for a moment. I should enjoy

cultivating your acquaintance and hearing some first-hand news of my

sister. But I fear it is impossible. You see there are the proprieties

to be considered. I am a single lady, and perhaps...."

To Lionel this was an astonishing view of the case. After his

unconventional week at the Bloomsbury flat he was poorly qualified to

appreciate the apprehensions of Miss Arkwright. His brain told him idly

that she was perfectly right, but his heart merely insisted on the abyss

between her outlook and her sister's. And, as usually happens, the heart

found the readier audience.

"Quite so--quite so! But surely you----"

"Are old enough?" she suggested helpfully, plunging him deeper.

"No--no! I did not mean that! I only meant that surely you have a

housekeeper--some person of mature age, much older--oh! _much_ older

than yourself--who would save the situation?"

"Well," she admitted with an exasperating coyness, "I have such a

domestic, it is true. Mrs. Wetherby is sixty. Do you think that would

do?"

"Admirably!" cried Lionel in triumph, caring nothing for his recent

buffets. "Admirably! Mrs. Wetherby shall protect you with the armor of a

centurion--or of a Lord Nelson," he added scrupulously, remembering that

the pre-dreadnought era would carry more conviction. "The thing is

arranged! I shall stay after all!"

"Thank you," returned Miss Arkwright with a demure twinkle. ("Is she a

prude? Oh, is she?" he reflected, watching.) "Of course, I shall be

delighted to do all I can for a friend of Beatrice. You really _do_ know

her?" she asked in pretty appeal, as if frightened at her own rashness.

"If you like," said Lionel, luxuriously recalling his wonderful week, "I

shall paint a word-picture of her charms. I shall tell you how her eyes

shame the starlight--how her hair can enmesh the hearts of all

beholders--how her lips----"

"I do not think I need trouble you," interrupted his hostess rather

distantly. "No doubt Beatrice is an attractive young person----"

"_Young person!_" he repeated, horror-struck. "Beatrice Blair a _young

person_! Profanity! Please, please do not----"

"I shall leave you to think of a better description," she said, with a

smile of pity that held no scorn. "I have some letters to write, and I

fear you will have to dine alone. You must excuse me, but it is

inevitable.... Do you mind ringing the bell?"

He obeyed, and a moment later the footman entered. "Take this gentleman

to the blue room, Forbes," said Miss Arkwright. "See that he has

everything he wants." The footman bowed and held the door open for

Lionel. "Dinner is at half past seven. If you are dull before then,

please go to the library. But perhaps you are not a reader? Perhaps you

are of those 'whose only books are----'" She checked herself, as if

remembering her own correctness or the immobile Forbes.

"They taught me only wisdom--the best wisdom of all," said Lionel,

answering the unfinished quotation. Then he went out, wondering.