CHAPTER XVII

OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE

It is all very well to be urged to suspect, for, within reason, nothing

is easier. The world, in the process of our education, deals out so many

hard knocks that speedily we begin to look with dubious eyes on every

stranger--sometimes, alas! even upon our friends. We suspect the motives

of Smith, who recommends a first-rate cigar: does he get a commission?

We suspect Brown, who asks us to drop in any evening: has he a

marriageable daughter? Jones lauds the latest novel: is he the anonymous

author? Robinson advises the purchase of Consolidated Stumers: is he

trying to make us "hold the baby"? Suspicion is epidemic. What the world

wants is a host of missionary spirits to say, "For goodness' sake do

drop suspicion for a while and believe in your fellow man! Smith really

does imagine himself a judge of tobacco; Brown, as a matter of fact,

thinks you quite a pleasant chap, and his daughter is engaged; Jones

never wrote a line in his life, save on a check; and Robinson for once

has inside information. Give suspicion a rest!" Ah! if only the other

fellow would!

Lionel had been told to suspect, and at first found the task no harder

than you or I should find it. But apart from the strong inducement to

forego suspicion--viz., the physical and mental attractions of Miss

Arkwright--every day made it more difficult to sustain the suspicious

attitude. The early surprises--the "out of bounds" rule, the dumb

servants, the seclusion of his hostess and the like--gave him plenty to

wonder at, rich food for a seeker of garbage. But usage made the odd

seem ordinary, and Miss Arkwright always had an explanation. The

servants had already been accounted for; the prohibition of the village

might be a whim (though of course he was not satisfied with this), her

own seclusion he guessed, from a hint here and there, was due to a

disappointment in early youth. But it was really custom that staled the

infinite variety of the first surprises; he had to accept the routine of

The Quiet House, and could not be expected to whip up a daily supply of

suspicions. One can imagine, perhaps, a Jew in a medieval baron's

dungeon waking peacefully and asking his jailer, "What is it to-day,

Cedric? A tooth out, the strappado, or the rack? Just a tooth? Good."

The analogy is anything but exact, for Lionel did not get a succession

of thrills. The daily wonder as to _why_ she forbade him the village;

_why_ she did not receive any local god, parson, squire, or doctor;

_why_ she did this or that, dwindled imperceptibly. He did not

consciously relax: he had to adjust himself to the new conditions; but

the effort at adjustment grew less laborious, and soon was in some

danger of ceasing altogether.

Not that he abandoned his vigilance. Beatrice had enjoined him with

unnecessary and vain repetition to watch her sister. He gladly obeyed.

The English language is susceptible of many interpretations, and who

could dogmatize on the precise value to be attached to the word

"watch!"? Lionel "watched" all the time, but his watching at the end of

a fortnight was very different from the early vigils. He learned nothing

from watching, save that Winifred Arkwright was a delightful creature,

with hair of such and such a color and softness--eyes of such and such a

sweetness, and so forth. Things, you observe, of no importance from

Lukos' point of view, though a chronicler is bound to state them,

however briefly.

They became good friends. There was no hint of boredom on either side,

no suggestion that the visit was being prolonged a little queerly.

Lionel, you may be sure, did not offer to go: he was obeying Beatrice

(who had not written again, though he sent a daily bulletin to London),

and was in no hurry to study fresh characters. It was no ill reward of

virtue to find a replica of Beatrice to keep his devotion alive. A

brutal phrase,--too brutal. His devotion was there, hidden below the

surface, but necessarily quiescent as long as Lukos lived. That might be

for years; therefore, why not sun himself in Beatrice's rays by proxy?

A statue can partly compensate for the loss of an adored: even a

photograph is better than nothing. But a real woman,--a living

replica ... Lionel thought himself in luck. He mentioned this in one of

his letters, hoping to show how strong and faithful he was. He did not

mention it to Winifred. Even a lay figure has feelings.

A lay figure ... was she merely that? The question came to him more than

once during that peaceful fortnight. He faced it without a blush, and up

to the present had always been able to give an affirmative answer. His

memory of Beatrice and the unnecessary warning in her letter enabled him

to watch, admire and lightly dally with the rose-weaved chains. He

laughed at the warning: he was a man, of course, and no stronger than

his fellows; but fancy being in danger of falling in love with Miss

Arkwright! In love--real, genuine love ... absurd! Why, he was not in

love with Beatrice. Was he? N ... no.... He was a free man--hurrah!

At the end of ten days he could utter the mental hurrah with a braver

note: Beatrice was a darling, whom he hoped to see again soon. But in

love? No. In love with Miss Arkwright, then? (In his mind he now called

her Winifred.) No. Of course not. Absurd. Was she not a lay figure?....

Stay!--that was hardly the choicest of expressions, hardly respectful or

considerate. She was a delightful lady whom it was his painful duty to

watch. But one must not speak of her as a lay figure: that is crude,

elementary ... containing a grain of truth, one admits, but likely to be

misinterpreted by the vulgar herd. "A peerless proxy" would be more in

keeping.

And the proxy, what of her? How had she fared during her unusual

fortnight? Patently, anything but ill. Under the sun of Lionel's

sympathetic kindliness her virgin coldness melted. They talked together

on every subject--men and women, books, art, music. Their views often

clashed, but interest is sustained by conflict; complete agreement makes

conversation a superfluity. Their conversation rarely descended to small

talk, though more than once it became almost a quarrel.

A quarrel of friends, be it understood,--a quarrel that left no

bitterness behind, but made the next meeting more stored with interest,

explanation, withdrawal, even partial conversion. Their chief debatable

country was the stage; and at last Lionel had the happiness of winning

the admission that the stage had possibly improved of recent years. A

great admission for her! He paid his debt handsomely by a promise to

read a book (five hundred and thirty-seven pages, eight volumes) on

Christian Science. She gave him the book next day. Alas! it now reposes

in the present historian's drawer, the leaves still innocent of the

paper-knife.

So a pretty comradeship sprang up between a cloistered lady and an

ineligible worldling. The latter had never a penny, had not so long ago

vowed himself to the service of another, declared upon his honor that

his heart was no one's, lived for the moment on a false-won hospitality.

What would be the end of such a revolting character? A queer sort of

hero, in very truth; but the world is an asylum of lunatics seeking

happiness by a host of roads. You who condemn the road of Lionel are

asked to remember the stony paths he had trodden without complaint. Let

him settle any difficulties of conscience for himself, and be not too

hasty in your judgments. Let him at least have his fortnight of

so-called happiness. If it be not in accordance with your ideas of the

summum bonum, remember that it is not his. A fortnight in an oasis need

not be grudged when the desert lies behind and before. If he has not

learned wisdom you may be sure that he will ere long. Rub your hands,

gentlemen, and look forward to a rare feast of disillusion and

disenchantment! Possibly there may be an exposure, disgrace, even a

prison if we are lucky and have patience. And if you can spare a little

pickle for the rod, be good enough to pass it up!

As for the other characters in this rural comedy--or melodrama if you

prefer it--their lives have been equally uneventful during the last

fortnight. Tony Wild and Mr. "Bangs" are still occupying rooms at The

Happy Heart, chafing at the lack of events. They have allowed it to be

understood that they are on a holiday, seeking peace. They have

thoroughly explored the neighborhood, and failed to find a hint of

interest in any of the Shereling inhabitants. Even the tap-room yokels

have not produced a stimulating curiosity, and higher society is lacking

in the village. The squire is away, and medical and legal needs, it

appears, are supplied from Dallingham. There is Mr. "Beckett," it is

true; but he plays golf, spending the rest of his time in his bedroom,

repulsing all overtures of friendship. There is the vicarage, of course,

and Mrs. Peters has been prevailed upon to invite them to dinner, for

the vicar is a friendly soul, anxious to make the most of the social

crumbs dropped rarely in his path. Tony and Robert have dined there,

and been round two or three times to smoke a pipe and inspect the roses;

but Mrs. Peters does not diffuse an atmosphere of comfort, and the vicar

himself is an exhausted fountain after an hour. A kindly, cheerful

little man; but sixty minutes' prattle is as much as Tony can bear.

Robert might find a longer period congenial, but he is perpetually

ill-at-ease under his cognomen of Bangs, fearful of betraying himself,

inclined to blush without apparent cause. Indeed, if it were not for

Tony, Robert might have given up the pursuit already. Not that he means

to go back home as yet: liberty is still precious; and adventures, or at

least unfettered repose, may be sought at Brighton or Eastbourne before

he returns to nonentity. But is it worth while waiting at Shereling,

where the mysterious Billy is never seen, where the remembrance of the

strange lady is daily growing fainter? It looks very much as if that

bright spark of romance has been extinguished: how can he hope to blow

it into flame once more? Tony, the incomparable Tony, the man of many

schemes, has nothing to suggest: he only says "Patience," and Robert is

growing restive.

But why does Tony depart so far from his usual attitude as to say

"Patience"? As a rule, an adventure or an experience can hold him but

for a day or two,--a week is almost unthinkable. And now, at the end of

a fortnight, he still says "Patience"--unruffled, imperturbable,

productive of threadbare platitudes as to the building of Rome,

apparently hopeful. The simple reason is that Tony has not seen his

card-dropping divinity again, and he hates being balked.

In a word, the pair of them had waited, watched and spied for fourteen

days without result. There had been night vigils as well as by day, but

nothing had been learned. After dusk set in they had sometimes watched

for hours, Tony hiding in a ditch near the front gate, Robert at the

back. The gossip of Miss Arkwright's nocturnal motoring had reached

their ears, and they had built something on this. But never a motor had

they seen approach The Quiet House. One dreadful night they watched till

dawn broke clear and stark, but two colds in the head were all that came

to birth. Their watchings were a failure.

Miss Arkwright and "Billy" might never have existed. The servants were

useless. Only Forbes and the gardener issued from The Quiet House,

after their day's work was over: both were dumb. Incorruptible, too, for

when the ingenious Tony produced a pencil and paper, meeting the

gardener on the road as if by chance, holding half-a-crown for a lure,

the man made signs that he could not use a pencil. Forbes was of stouter

stuff. Tony waylaid him one evening at half past nine. Thoroughly

disheartened by this time, regretting that he had offered the gardener

so small a sum (for he had afterward imagined that the man might have

been playing a part), Tony unmasked his batteries. "Look here, my man,"

he said bluntly, "you are a servant at The Quiet House. I want some

information and am willing to pay for it. If you'll just write down

answers to a few questions I'll give you a five-pound note." Forbes'

eyes glistened, and he took the pencil. Tony's heart leaped as he saw

him diligently scribing. He snatched the paper and read, "I am sorry,

sir, but I can not write." Tony swore, as Forbes passed meekly on. He

was not used to being beaten by a servant.

To-day they were at the vicarage for tea, and tea alone. The hospitable

vicar had suggested dinner--lunch as a _pis-aller_. But his wife said,

"No," and he was obliged to submit. The previous dinner had caused

domestic friction, and Mrs. Peters did not mean to run any further

risks. She was a lady who had the not wholly unworthy wish to make a

fair show in the flesh: they entertained seldom, but when they did

entertain she was resolved to do things well. Soup, chicken (boiled or

roast), cold lamb (palpably uncut and not an economical remnant to bring

the blush), at least three sweets, and certainly cheese-straws,--these

were the least a self-respecting woman could offer to the vicarage

guests. The vicar, being a sensible man, would have been quite pleased

to "present" (like Mr. Frohman) a simple meal. Soup, a joint with the

usual supporters of potatoes and boiled celery--his own failing--a

bramble tart, and a bit of Stilton,--these were the cates he deemed

worthy of kings. But the housekeeping pride of his lady forbade so

inelegant a repast. "I like my guests to see that I know how things

_ought_ to be done and _are_ done, Charles," she said in a final tone:

"I will _not_ have people saying that the vicarage ..." and the rest.

The vicar had given way with a sigh, reserving himself for the battle he

knew must follow.

It had come at once. Mrs. Peters, profuse to lavishness over the more

solid items, betrayed a feminine false economy over the wine. There

ought to be wine, of course. Though she was a teetotaler herself, still

she knew that her guests should be offered the juice of the grape. But

on the desirability of spending large sums for liquid that would vanish

in a twinkling she held strong views. "You need not _dream_, Charles, of

wasting money on expensive brands. I saw some invalid port at the

grocer's this morning...." But here her husband showed himself unusually

pig-headed. He grew rigid at the words "invalid port." "No, Clara," he

said resolutely; "I won't have that at any price--even the grocer's. I

believe in good things, or none at all. I'd sooner drink water than poor

wine. We can't afford good port, but we _can_ afford good whisky or

cider. Those it shall be." He was deaf to reason, though his wife begged

him, with tears in her eyes, not to be so inconsiderate.

Cider it had been, and Mrs. Peters had felt ashamed. The sight of three

men quaffing deeply of the plebeian beverage gave no comfort: they were

doing it to spare her feelings, of course, and she resented the unspoken

charity. Besides, she did not greatly care about her guests. Mr. Wild

seemed singularly purposeless for a young man, and there was a

half-veiled mockery in his speech that grated. Mr. Bangs was clearly of

inferior breeding and did not seem at ease. He talked little and

nervously, starting at the mention of his name. "He can not have a

past," thought Mrs. Peters grudgingly, "but he is certainly not used to

the society of gentle-people. I do wish Charles would not ..." The

dinner was not a success, though the vicar enjoyed the post-prandial

smoke and small-talk.

So (leaving our muttons to return to them) they were at tea to-day. Or

rather, they had finished tea and were taking idly on the lawn. The

vicar was lying comfortably in a basket-chair, trying to color a

meerschaum. Mrs. Peters was busy with embroidery. Tony and Robert in

deck-chairs were smoking too, contributing their quota to the

conversation. To complete the picture, Brown, the odd-job man, was

delving holes destined to receive the posts of a pergola. Mrs. Peters'

eye wandered from her work and dwelt frigidly on him.

"By the way, Charles," she said, "did you ever speak to Brown about that

young woman?"

"What young woman?" asked the vicar lazily. Mrs. Peters recounted the

incident.

"No, my dear," said the vicar. "You could not tell me her name: all you

had to go on was a voice, and I could hardly catechize him on that.

Besides, it may be a worthy attachment."

"Very possibly," agreed his wife, though her tone was skeptical. "I have

no objections to that. But while he is at work ..."

"Awful word!" said Tony, for the sake of saying something. "I wonder

what work is like--real continuous work, I mean."

"We can offer you plenty," said the vicar cheerfully. "The lawn wants

cutting. You could trim the hedge, too, and----"

"No thanks," said Tony with a shudder. "Any other time I'd be glad, but

just now I'm too busy."

"Of course, Mr. Wild, my husband was joking. But don't you think that an

idle life...? Would not work--literary work, for example--be a good

thing for a young man?"

"I'm too old to begin," said Tony wearily. "Now, a hearty young spark

like my friend Bangs----"

The spark flickered into a feeble flame of protest and died away.

"You're wrong, Mr. Wild," said the vicar, taking his pipe out. "Work is

the best thing. You'd realize it if you tried it. Of course, now you're

on a holiday----"

"_Am_ I?" said Tony. "I'm a kind of bear-leader to Bangs. I'm simply

full-up with work, looking after him--arranging schemes for his

comfort--keeping him out of mischief. Aren't I, Bangs?"

Robert smiled in a deprecating way. "You--you exaggerate a little.

But--but----"

Mrs. Peters disliked the cynical frivolity Tony imparted to the

conversation. "Would you mind telling us the nature of some of these

arduous duties?" she asked coldly.

"Oh, there's a gay lot," said Tony, reflecting. "I've had to order

lunch, for example: Bangs has no ideas. Then I organize walks ... and

deal the hands at piquet in the evenings ... and ... by jove, yes! I

promised to help him telephone to-day, if you wouldn't mind?"

"Not a bit," said the vicar, the sole possessor of a telephone in

Shereling. He rose and stretched himself. "Come along now."

But Robert remained in his chair, looking decidedly uneasy. "No, no!" he

said with a frightened manner. "It is nothing. It will keep for a day or

two. There is really no necessity...." He began to stammer and blush,

aware of the eye of Mrs. Peters.

"You promised!" said Tony reproachfully. Then turning to the lady he

said, "Come, Mrs. Peters! You can't say that I lack energy now! Here am

I, thirsting to get work, and old Bangs keeps me back. And only

yesterday he said that nothing on earth should prevent him from at

last--at long last----"

"All right," interrupted Robert, in terror of what Tony would say next.

"Come along! Come along! Where is the telephone, Mr. Peters?"

"In the dining-room," replied the vicar, wondering. "I'll show you the

way."

They went into the house, leaving Mrs. Peters on the lawn, deeply

stirred. "That man _has_ a past," she determined. "He looked simply

terrified. I wonder if I ought to ask Charles.... I wonder if it would

be right to.... And they are strangers ... one never knows...." She

thought sternly for a moment and then got up, resolution in her

countenance. "It's a duty," she murmured--"a positive duty. And Charles

is so weak."

The martyr to duty was going to listen at the door.