THE PLOT AGAIN THICKENS
At the end of three more days Lionel was feeling a little ill-used.
There was still no word from Beatrice, and the watching brief he held
began to look like a permanency. A sinecure, you remark disparagingly,
or (with an envious inflection) a soft job. Lionel had a roof above him,
luxurious food, money in his pocket and a pretty hostess: he would be a
churl who grumbled, a witless being who did not know when he was well
off.
But nevertheless he grumbled. He wanted to be up and doing. Dalliance
was delightful, no doubt, and he could thoroughly enjoy so pleasant a
pastime. But he required a soupcon of the serious to edge his palate for
frivolity, and not a single olive had been sent him from headquarters.
Beatrice might have written, surely: not necessarily a letter, but a
note, a telegram, even a picture post-card was not too much to have
expected. After all, he was a human being trying to do her a good turn.
She might, if she liked, consider him in the light of a dog; but even a
dog demands an occasional pat.
Yes, Beatrice had been a little inconsiderate. When they met again he
would subtly convey that she had not been quite so perfect in her
handling of the case as she might have been. Not blame--oh, no! that
would be too severe. But a touch of respectful and adoring frigidity--a
hint of polite and ardent disappointment, that was the note to be
struck. It would add to the subsequent reconciliation, or rather
readjustment. Iced champagne, in short, followed by liquor brandy.
Finally (perhaps ... who knows?) a mixture of the two, compounding that
exhilarating beverage, king's peg.
But that could only be drunk post-mortem.... Poor, dear old Lukos....
Well, for the present he must sport the blue ribbon....
But a dog will have its pat: if the mistress will not give it, another
may; and who can blame the devoted creature if it lingers piteously hard
by a stranger? Again, why blame the stranger, moved doubtless by a
kindly and an unselfish impulse? Why blame Miss Arkwright, in short, for
growing daily more cordial, more appreciative, more anxious to oblige
with the pat? Lionel was obeying the orders of Beatrice, to watch and do
the bidding of his hostess; he could not be expected to damp her
graciousness, check her enthusiasm: had he done so, he might have sealed
the source of some important information. He must endure the pat, suffer
it, permit, accept, not refuse; but ... welcome?
He was talking to her in the garden one afternoon. They had begun the
conversation on some trivial theme, soon tossed aside for a subject of
substance. It was not long before they were on the time-worn topic, the
war of the sexes. Miss Arkwright, it appeared, was a suffragette--not
militant, certainly, but convinced and ardent. She expressed surprise
that Lionel did not take similar views. "For you," she said sweetly,
"are a reasonable fair-minded man. And I should think," she added
mischievously, "that you have many friends who might convert you."
"It isn't my brain that wants conversion," he replied meditatively.
"Most of the arguments are on the women's side. Logic tells me they
should have the vote; feeling--and by feeling I don't mean prejudice or
bigotry, but something deeper--recoils from the idea of women in
parliament. And it would mean that in the long-run. Let us keep them out
of the dirty work."
"They might cleanse the stables."
"I'd rather not. We're cleansing them gradually, one hopes: at any rate,
it's not a woman's job."
"Our view is that _all_ jobs should be women's."
"Impossible." He shook his head. "I'm one of the old-fashioned believers
in the home as woman's sphere----"
"And the thousands of unmarried workers? You forget them."
"Hard, I grant you, but they're a minority. Most women have the home
sphere. Mind, I don't believe in inequality as regards laws: they should
be the same for both."
"Yes," she said with a bitterness that surprised him, "look at the
inequalities of divorce, for instance."
"We'll discuss that presently. Look for a moment at the reverse of the
medal. Hasn't woman got the pull in influence? Can't she sway men
without the vote?"
"A pretty woman or a clever woman can. Not the others."
"Ye--es. Sex counts."
"So you leave us the weapon of the coquette? That's what it amounts to.
Is that a desirable weapon? Besides, it's double-edged."
"Rather a crude way of putting it," he said a little uncomfortably.
"Nature has given you a power you can use for good. Why not use it?"
"But is it so powerful?"
"On dit."
"What do _you_ think?" She bent forward, leaning to him, smiling
audaciously in his eyes. Lionel would have been more than human if he
had not felt flattered. This delightful creature, whom at a first
meeting he had thought prudish and narrow, had developed amazingly.
Companionship for a fortnight with a gay man of spirit and address, who
did not lack a generous nature, had brought the bud to blossom. Now as
she smiled on him with inviting eyes he felt strongly tempted to
complete her education with a kiss. He temporized.
"What does it matter what I think?"
"It may matter a good deal," she said with a meaning he could not
fathom.
"Tell me."
She explained herself curiously. Instead of speaking she was silent for
a moment, as if choosing a course. Then with a friendly abandon she
rested her hands lightly on his shoulders and said, "No. You shall tell
me." Then she waited for the inevitable kiss.
Man is a strange animal. (I apologize for this truism, but, really,
Lionel himself must be my excuse.) A man may be a savage, a knave, a
brute, but beneath every human bosom there lurk some seeds of nobility,
however few and atrophied. Juvenile literature abounds with _loci
classici_. The thief who breaks into the night nursery is subdued by the
innocent prattle of Baby Tumkins; the drunken osler in the "Pig and
Whistle" is sobered by the consumptive angel who lisps, "Daddy, dear
daddy, do come home!" The blasphemous ravisher, mad in the hour of
victory, is tamed by the sight of a locket ("Heavens! how came this
here? Tell me, girl!") and drops his prey with an oath that is half a
prayer. And so on ... one need not accumulate examples.
Lionel did not kiss Miss Arkwright. Though he had dwelt on the
possibility, hoped for it, almost schemed and certainly desired; though
he had decided that his grass-bachelorship permitted such a kiss as was
now offered, he refused. Why? Partly, no doubt, because a kiss won by
half-forceful methods is worth more than a tribute freely offered;
partly because the offer tends to congeal the blood and curb the
desire--the ideal has stooped and taken a few inches off her goddess
statue; partly, too (the moralist will be glad to note), because he
remembered Beatrice.
Seeds of nobility? One must suppose it. Perhaps a sense, dim-recognized,
that the cheapening of ideals by frequent draughts at wayside fountains
lessens the value and appreciation of the ultimate prize. Men find it
hard to resist a drink. If they could look forward with assurance to
the final realization of their hopes there would be fewer loveless
marriages, fewer abandoned maidens, fewer degenerate men. But they feel
that youth slips by--the ideal woman is hard to find, harder to win: why
not sip the pleasant fountain that will slake them for a moment? So,
_vogue la galere_! We will have one swig before we die--a good swig to
drown regret: if we find it is not Veuve Clicquot but only muddy ale, at
least we can get drunk on one as well as the other.
These profound reflections did not present themselves so lucidly to
Lionel as to the temperate reader who never gets drunk--never so much as
sips. He comprehended them vaguely, unconsciously almost, in the
thought, "Oh, damn! she's not Beatrice--she's not Beatrice--I can't." A
man of unsettled purpose, you perceive, who had mapped his course of
pleasure and then forsaken it, vacillating, lukewarm, halting between
two opinions. "The evil that I would, I do not!" he thought in humorous
astonishment at himself; and then aloud, "I am at a loss for words."
He felt rather a fool, but was pleased to note that Miss Arkwright
looked neither ill-at-ease nor disappointed. He searched her countenance
for a hint of contempt, but found none. Dropping her hands with an
unaffected laugh she said, "You are duller than I thought, Mr. Mortimer.
Come! let us go and see if they have brought tea out yet." They turned,
and suddenly her face flushed scarlet. She drew in her breath sharply.
Forbes was coming across the lawn, followed by the ambassador.
She ran forward and shook hands, murmuring something Lionel did not
hear. Then, as Forbes retired, she introduced the two men: "Mr.
Mortimer--Mr. Beckett." Lionel surveyed the ambassador with curiosity,
his late-lulled suspicions once more awake. What was he doing here? Mr.
Beckett returned the scrutiny something in the manner of a jealous lover
who would like an explanation of a stranger's presence. But he was a
diplomatic gentleman, and it was with a slight laugh, merry and sincere,
that he held out his hand.
"We have met before," he said in a friendly fashion, "but under less
happy auspices. Mr. Mortimer, you saw me under a cloud. I was
exceedingly rude. You who are a golfer will readily find excuses, I
hope. I am very sorry."
Miss Arkwright's eyes looked anxiously upon them. When had they met and
where? How odd that he had never mentioned it once! She must hear the
story of their meeting; and "rude"--what did he mean by that?
Lionel smiled and referred her to the ambassador. He, genuinely anxious
to atone for a foolish contretemps, did not spare himself in the
recital. Miss Arkwright laughed gaily over the tale.
"Men are so silly," she said merrily as he finished. "Fancy getting
angry over a game of golf! And all by yourself, too! If there had been
some one to vent your rage upon----"
"Alas, there was!" said Mr. Beckett, with a whimsical glance at Lionel,
who, despite himself and his suspicions, felt drawn toward the enemy. It
was a friendly party of three that walked toward the summer-house.
On the whole, tea was a successful meal. Miss Arkwright led the
conversation--monopolized it, almost; hardly pausing for replies,
agreement, or contradiction. She looked splendid, her color heightened
with pleasure, excitement, or kindred emotions. Lionel, who had studied
her attentively for no short period, had never seen her in such a mood.
She was gay and charming, unusually ready with the froth of sparkling
small-talk. Any one meeting her for the first time would have believed
her a clever _flaneuse_, a butterfly with brains and beauty, living
solely for the moment. But Lionel, who knew her better and had some
secret knowledge of her possibilities for intrigue and conspiracy, found
himself questioning. Was she nervous? And if so, of what?
Mr. Beckett had little opportunity to display his social gifts. The
abilities, doubtless great to secure his present office, perforce lay
hidden. But the few sentences he uttered, by way of confirmation or its
opposite, were enough to show him as a man of original thought, some
wit, and in close touch with the affairs of nations. An old man, he bore
his years lightly; though the mask of frivolity he assumed out of
compliment to his environment was occasionally dropped in moments of
repose. At such moments he appeared tired--not physically, but of
mundane trivialities.
At last Winifred rose. "You know my routine," she said brightly to
Lionel: "I must vanish speedily. No! don't move. Stay here and smoke. I
shall escort Mr. Beckett----"
"You still, then----" began the ambassador, rising at the hint. She
interrupted him bruskly.
"Still--still--still! Are we not always 'stilling'? I wonder that a man
of your experience finds anything remarkable in that. Oh, do not
interrupt!"--for he made a deprecating gesture, opening his mouth to
speak--"I will hear no excuses for banality. 'The ringing grooves of
change' is pure fallacy; change is absent; only the grooves remain. We
are what we are. As it was in the beginning, is now, and--do I shock
you?" she asked abruptly, turning to Lionel.
"Surprise; not shock," he smiled.
"Then you owe me a debt of gratitude. Surprise is one of nature's best
gifts, but at our mature age she is parsimonious. Don't you agree, Mr.
Beckett?"
He, too, smiled, but mournfully.
"I have more need to count my birthdays than you," he said. "If your
surprises are few, how many can I hope for?"
"_Nil desperandum!_" she said cheerfully and less self-consciously,
taking him, comrade-like, by the arm. "Come and find your motor: perhaps
a surprise is waiting--some ragamuffin may have put a penknife through
the tire!"
"I hope not!" he said more briskly. "As it has only just come from
London this afternoon to take me back after my holiday, I don't want to
be balked at the outset. Well, good-by, Mr. Mortimer."
"Good-by," said Lionel, shaking hands. "No chance of seeing you down
here again presently, I suppose?"
"Who knows?" said Miss Arkwright vivaciously, taking the words from his
lips. "A dashing adventurer like Mr. Beckett, whose only serious
business is golf----"
She did not finish the sentence, but led him off, protesting that the
slander was ill-deserved. Lionel watched them disappear, heavy with
thought.
Miss Arkwright did not come back. He was glad of her absence, for he
could only think, and think, and think again what it all meant, trying
to find some key to the perpetual problem. There were Beatrice, Winifred
and the ambassador forever whirling through his brain, suggesting,
perplexing, questioning. Where was the clew? If only he could put his
hand on some definite idea, some shred of coherence in the whole amazing
scheme! Beatrice had warned him that her sister and "Mr. Beckett" were
conspiring. Good: that was definite, and the ambassador's visit was
proof of fellowship--in what? High politics? The life of Lukos? It
seemed so unlikely in this pleasant English garden, but the facts were
stubborn. Then he had not heard from Beatrice. He had thought she and
Winifred might be identical.... Stay! he had discarded that.... Let us
begin again from another point. Why had Winifred invited his amorous
interest? She--but Beatrice had warned him--unnecessarily, had been his
foolish thought--against the wiles of Winifred. Her seductive friendship
had been simply a trap ... but, no! the remembrance of his recent
delectable danger, the sincerity of her--love? the faith of her
eyes--all denied a trap. Winifred could not be a conspirator; at worst
she must be a half-hearted conspirator who had begun to sympathize with
her enemies. But if that were so, she must soon be on the side of
Beatrice, of whom she would speedily be jealous! His brain reeled.
The sum of his perplexed musings was that he must keep his eyes open,--a
poor result for so much mental effort. That, however, was all he
achieved by dinner-time, and he sucked small comfort therefrom. "I am
not made for detective work," he reflected gloomily as he played with
dinner. "I went into this adventure too light-heartedly. I thought it a
game.... So it is, and deucedly exciting now, but I don't seem to have
mastered the rules. A blind man in a total eclipse looking for
something that isn't there,--that's Lionel Mortimer, Esquire. Old man,
you'd better have a drink."
Sensations were crowding thick upon him. His uneventful fortnight was to
bear a heavy interest within a few brief hours. In the library, after
further futile pondering, he tried to distract his thoughts with books.
It was a failure; he could not concentrate his attention on printed
words for more than five minutes together. Always he came back to
Beatrice and the ramifications reaching from Constantinople to London
and thence to Shereling. With a grunt of dissatisfaction, he got up at
last at eleven o'clock and knocked out his pipe upon the hearth. As he
did this he heard a slight crunch as of a foot upon the gravel. He
turned quickly toward the French window and saw that he had forgotten to
draw down the blind. He saw something else as well. For a brief second
Lionel had a glimpse--the barest glimpse--of a white face pressed
against the pane, _watching_. The face vanished almost before the retina
had time to record the impression, but he knew two things at once--it
was a man's face, and a man he had never seen before.
Lionel did exactly what you and I would have done. He stood stock-still
for a moment, his heart clop-clopping against his ribs as if intent on
bursting its way through to the light, hammering a Morse message--"You
are badly frightened, you are badly frightened, you are badly
frightened." "Yes," said Lionel, after three seconds' pardonable
collapse, "I _am_; but I'll try to frighten the other chap!" And with
laudable swiftness he ran to the window, threw it open and called,
"Who's there?"
Of course there was no answer. With a thawing of the faculties he ran
back, seized the poker and turned off the light. Then he stepped outside
to look for the night-prowler, longing for some tangible flesh to beat
into a pulp.
The night was starless. Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves. Not a
bird twittered a hint of ambush. Not a sound on gravel or swish of
dew-laden grass brushed by a spy's foot promised vengeance. Aglow with
eagerness now that action was possible and a clew at hand, he walked
round the house, eyes and ears alert for the marauder. There was nothing
to be seen. It was only too clear that the watcher by night had escaped
the moment he was seen, and no good purpose could be served by a random
pursuit in the dark. Lionel went back to the library, secured the
windows and lighted a fresh pipe.
Of course he could not arouse the house. If, as seemed certain, this
watcher were a Turkish spy, it would be absurd to enlist Miss
Arkwright's aid. Better to say nothing, still watch--but even more
narrowly--and ... go to bed.
It was a quarter to twelve when he went up-stairs, still smoking. His
bedroom lay at the end of a short passage. Anxious not to disturb any
one at that unseasonable hour, he took off his slippers at the foot of
the stairs and advanced in his "stocking-feet." Without the slightest
noise he tiptoed along the corridor. Just before he reached his room
another door was opened, very quietly indeed, upon his right. A line of
light cut the blackness, and Lionel stood still involuntarily, without
purpose, waiting, expectant of something, he knew not what. The door
opened wide, and a girl in a pretty pink dressing-gown came out. It was
not Winifred who threw up her hands at the sight of the waiting Lionel.
It was Mizzi.