But while we have been indulging in cheap philosophy Mr. Brown's sweetheart has got well down the road, following at a considerable distance the footsteps of Lionel. Evidently she is in a good humor with the world, for she hums an air that has a sprightly sound as of the boulevards or cabarets, and she stops to pick a wild rose. She is smiling at her thoughts--possibly at the lamentable lack of self-control exhibited by her lover, possibly at the remembrance of the gra.s.s still to be mown and neatly gathered. And as she is in a good humor, self-possessed, and the air is of the balmiest, is it wonderful that she should smile absently on a good-looking stranger sitting by the roadside, smoking a cigarette? Surely not, as the stranger is Tony Wild, who has left Mr. Hedderwick exhausted at The Happy Heart, while he strolls out to examine the lie of the land.

"Good morning," says Tony courteously, raising his cap. He does not get up, for that might frighten her away. "Can you tell me which is the road to Hetton-le-Hole? Forgive me asking, but...."

"I have never heard of it," says the lady, with a smile that shows she penetrates Tony's elementary artifice. "I am sorry.... Good morning."

Tony deliberately flicks the ash from his cigarette.

"What a bore!" he observes with a fluent laziness in his voice, and of course the lady can not continue her progress while he is speaking. It would look so prudish. "I was awfully keen on seeing Hetton-le-Hole, but n.o.body here seems to know the road, so I suppose I shall have to give up the idea. I say, don't you find life rather a bore?" It was an abrupt change of subject, but there seemed no inconsequence as the words dropped idly from his lips. He appeared to be talking at random for an obvious purpose, but with an unaffected sincerity. "Nothing to do, I mean, and not a vast amount to see. One day following another, and so forth, you know...."

"Heavens, no!" replied the lady with an amused contempt. "There is so much to see--to ask--to think about! What can a young man like you think of himself if he is bored at ... at twenty-six?"

"Good shot!" said Tony. "I say, please forgive me being so forward and pushing and all that, and do sit down and talk to me. I should be tremendously gratified, and I'd do my best to amuse you."

"I have stayed too long already," she said with a crisp note of rebuke.

"I have neither the time nor the wish to stop and relieve the tedium of bored strangers. I hope you will soon find the road you speak of."

She turned and went on her way. Tony smiled good-naturedly; really, she had been quite lenient, though he had hardly deserved all she said and implied. She was more than pretty and was evidently no fool. A lady?

N--no ... but ... was it worth following up? Should he try to engineer a small flirtation or be content with the fair promises held out by Mr.

Hedderwick? N ... no ... Yes! She had spurned his lightly-proffered homage to her charms, and amour propre would not allow him to give in without a struggle. He was only too willing in most things to step aside of his own free will--things so soon lost their interest; but to be forced to play the part of rejected spectator, that could not be permitted. His eyes followed her smilingly. "I bet she turns and waves!"

thought the despicable Tony. "She's a charming lady's maid who likes fun, respects herself, and means to be treated with correctness--when she chooses. She will turn and wave before reaching that bend in the road. And _I_ will be stand-offish and refuse to reply. A perfect cause of offense, with a delightful misunderstanding to follow. _But_, I shall follow her secretly along the hedge and find out where she lives.

Admirable!"

She had gone some little distance, but still did not turn round.

Worshipers of beauty, modesty, good feeling and decorous behavior, rejoice! She did not turn round! Her gay _svelte_ figure marched bravely along, virginal defiance in her shoulders and the swing of her tailor-made skirt. The fragments of a gallant whistle floated back to Tony, and he murmured "Bravado!" with an uneasy doubt. The curve of the road was close at hand now: a few more yards would carry her past in triumph, and the s.e.x be vindicated. Tony was in painful agitation, for his knowledge of woman and powers of swift diagnosis were at stake.

Three yards were left--two--hope seemed dead. Then, alas! she stopped and a smile crept to his lips. But she did not turn round--there is still a loophole for the s.e.x,--she did not turn round! All she did was to open her reticule and take her handkerchief from it. As the handkerchief was withdrawn a bit of pasteboard was caught in its folds and fell--unnoticed?--on the road. Tony waited with vast contentment until she had turned the corner. Then with a light heart he followed and picked up the card. He read the inscription with amused curiosity. It was, "Miss Arkwright, The Quiet House."

CHAPTER XIII

RATHER STAGY

After Beatrice had bidden Lionel good-by in the early dawn she did the most sensible thing possible: she went to bed. But it is one thing to go to bed and another to go to sleep, as many a sufferer--from insomnia, love, indigestion, or kindred ailments--has found to his cost. You feel weary, oppressed with the want of sleep, let us say, yawnsome--in a word, ready to drop off the moment you are between the sheets. But, if a white night be inscribed in the book of Fate, how changed the mood as soon as the light is out! At once, almost, you lose that sense of impending slumber and become wide awake, clear-eyed and keen of brain.

Something occurs to interest your mind and you meditate perspicaciously thereon. Another thought succeeds, and another, and you grow more wakeful every moment. Soon you begin to say, "I must go to sleep now,"

and resolutely try to refuse to think. But resolution is vain before insomnia. Eyelids may be tightly shut, but the masked eyeb.a.l.l.s still peer vigilantly into the void: hands may clench themselves in the hopeless effort to compose the will and induce the wished-for slumber: the alert body may strive to cheat itself by observing the accustomed ritual--first on the right side, then left, then right again--in the expectation of influencing mind by matter: droves of sheep may be counted pa.s.sing through innumerable gates--poems recited till the very thought of verse revolts--numerals repeated by the ticking brain--but still you are far from the haven. It seems that

"Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world"

could bestow the most blessed of all boons. And at last you give up the unequal struggle and try to make the best of it.

Failing drugs--and one has to be a smart society lady, a broken man or woman, for them--there are various palliatives. You may turn on the light and read till sleep comes with soothing fingers upon tired brows.

Or, if young and enterprising, you can go for a walk and see the dawn.

Or sometimes an impromptu bedroom picnic--bread and cheese and a bottle of beer raided thief-wise from the pantry, taking great care not to let the stairs creak and alarm the house--may have excellent results. These, and a score of similar expedients, may be recommended with a.s.surance to the patient. And if they fail, at least they have pa.s.sed an hour or so more pleasantly than in mere acquiescence.

Beatrice lay awake, sorely against her will. She knew that sleep was what she needed, and would need still more within some fourteen hours.

The strain of acting, followed by her preposterous adventure at the magnanimous churchwarden's, had used up more of her nervous resources than was desirable. Sleep was therefore the obvious thing. But alas! it proved the impossible thing, too, and she lay restless, aglow with thought, waiting impatiently for what she knew would not come.

What did she think of during those hours of frenzied vision? Was it of Lukos, waiting in an eastern prison for the news that would set him free to join her? Was it her dead son, the little boy she had spoken of to Lionel? Or Turkey, the land of her adoption, struggling for freedom, enmeshed with perils, the slave of diplomatic and selfish adventures?

Her art--had it a place within those weary wheels of thought; her success on the stage, the triumphs of the footlights--illusory, but so real in seeming, so satisfying and complete? Or Lionel--did he whip her straining fancies to a wilder effort toward the goal? Something of all these may have engaged her, for each was inextricably interwoven with the others. Lukos--Lionel--the sultan--Mizza--the Hedderwicks--the amba.s.sador--a hundred minor characters, "supers" in the drama of her life, wheeled hither and thither, mocking, defying, questioning. The horrible lines of Wilde burned in letters of fire upon the wall:

"Slim shadows hand in hand: About, about, in ghostly rout They trod a saraband: And the d.a.m.ned grotesques made arabesques, Like the wind upon the sand."

Each must have had his place in the drama, but the important question was, who played the lead? Lukos or Lionel--honor and faith or ...

inclination? Yet that is hardly a fair way of putting it: she must not define her interest as inclination, hinting at something more potent.

Interest one may admit without qualification: Lionel had saved her life, was an attractive and pleasant young man, and had been her guest for a week. Of course Beatrice was interested; she would have been hard or inhuman otherwise. But did her inclination show signs of becoming something more? Could she honestly say in the stereotyped phrase that "he was nothing to her?"--nothing being the ant.i.thesis of everything. In that sense she could say it, for he was certainly not everything. But was "nothing" exact? Ah!...

At least she must have found comfort in the reflection that she had sent him away on an errand that would avert all danger, if successfully carried out. She had been ... weak ... once or twice, but such a weakness may find a ready forgiveness, considering the circ.u.mstances and the expiation. Which of us, oh, censorious reader, would have been as strong as Beatrice?

Still, she could not sleep, and for the present that outweighed all moral hesitations and scruples. At seven o'clock she gave up the unequal contest, dressed and went out for a short walk. The air calmed her, and she gained a respite from the self-examination for an hour. Then, after making an effort to eat some breakfast, she sat down to smoke a cigarette and think again about Lionel. What was he like, the real man, the true Lionel? Was he a man to be trusted, a man to be relied on, the sort of man, so to speak, one would like (supposing it were possible) to marry? Lionel as a husband.... "Husband" brought a smile, a blush and a frown to the face of Beatrice, and it is to be hoped that the shade of Lukos noticed the blush as well as the smile. "Heavens! and I have only known him a week!" thought Beatrice with self-chastis.e.m.e.nt: "besides ..." Precisely! There are so many "besideses" in real life.

But undoubtedly, and without any disloyalty to shades, living or otherwise, he was the dearest of boys. He had behaved extraordinarily well throughout--extraordinarily well, for actresses have unique opportunities of studying man's weakness--not only in the cab and the dressing-room, but during the week of voluntary imprisonment. Polished, controlled, devoted without being tiresome, he was certainly the dearest of boys. Human, too, and humanity was a quality that appealed to Beatrice; nor did he lack a sense of humor and romance. But she had only known him for a week, and could she possibly form an adequate judgment in such a period? "He may be acting all the time," she thought with a dismal pucker of the forehead, "and I ought to know how easy it can be to act. What a fool I am to worry over things!"

She threw away the half-smoked cigarette with a petulant gesture and continued to worry. The remembrance of Mizzi flashed across her mind--her prettiness and Lionel's evasive declarations. These had been glib enough, no doubt, but glibness and dexterity were not sufficient to lull the suspicions of Beatrice. "He is a man," she argued angrily, perversely pleased in lashing her apprehensions, "and a bachelor. What else could one expect? Of course, he may not have kissed her, but.... If he has, well ... what right have I to...."

Her petulance increased with every moment, and when the bell rang about ten o'clock she felt more like a naughty ill-tempered child than anything else. Remembering that now she had no maid, she controlled herself and opened the door. Her face cleared, for on the threshold stood a man she liked, her manager.

"Hullo, Ashford!" she said. "Come in! I'm glad you've come, for I'm bored to tears."

Ashford Billing, a smartly-dressed man of thirty-six, entered. One would hardly have guessed him to be connected with the stage, for he had a mustache, was well-groomed without over-emphasizing the fact, and had a pleasant look of self-reliance without swagger. He was tall and lean, as if he was accustomed to keep himself in hard condition, and though an American you could scarcely have guessed it from his speech. Four years in England, during which time he had studied to erase transatlantic idioms and intonations with a view of playing on the stage, had been crowned with almost complete success. Only a stray word, a phrase occasionally, showed that he was not a native-born.

"It's an early call, Miss Blair," he said pleasantly as he followed her into the sitting-room. "Partly business and partly pleasure. Which will you have first?"

"Oh, pleasure," answered Beatrice carelessly: "I'm tired of business.

Will you smoke?"

"No, thank you. Well, I'll plunge into the pleasure right away, though there's some business in it, too. You know I'm not the man to beat about the bush, so I'll ask you straight out if you're still in the same mind as you were six months ago?"

Beatrice made an irritated movement of her shoulders.

"Oh, bother!" she answered. "Fancy calling at this hour to ask me that!"

"Sorry," said Ashford Billing. He did not appear at all excited, though his eyes gleamed. "My time's hardly my own just now--working day and night over the new production, provincial tours and syndicates. And you never seem to be at home at reasonable hours--I called twice last week, but Mizzi said you were out."

Beatrice blushed, and turned to the window to hide the blush. She remembered her instructions to Mizzi.

"So I thought I'd come now on the off chance," continued Billing. "Dear Miss Blair, I may not appear romantic or in earnest, but I am. I'm a plain man and want to marry you. You refused me once, but I don't like giving up altogether. Is it any good?"

"Not a bit," said Beatrice decisively. "Sorry, Ashford: I like you awfully, but not that way. So you must take that as final."

"I will for the present," he answered, looking gloomy for a moment. Then he brightened up. "But at the risk of offending I warn you that I mean to ask you again later on, in case you change your mind. In the American dictionary there's no such word as 'impossible.'"

Beatrice was roused at this.

"Look here, Ashford!" she said, biting her lip, "don't you talk to me like that! It's no good, and I won't have it! You'll make me lose my temper in a minute. I've never encouraged you, though I've always been fond of you in a friendly way."

"Then still there may----"