Principle above cleverness----"

The vicar laughed good-naturedly.

"Why! what a dragon of virtue----"

He got no farther. Mrs. Peters suddenly a.s.sumed so dreadful an aspect that he shrank aghast and began to fumble for excuses.

CHAPTER XIX

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 s.e.xes. 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. s.e.x 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 n.o.bility, however few and atrophied. Juvenile literature abounds with _loci cla.s.sici_. 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 acc.u.mulate 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 gra.s.s-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 G.o.ddess statue; partly, too (the moralist will be glad to note), because he remembered Beatrice.

Seeds of n.o.bility? 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 a.s.surance 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, d.a.m.n! 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 amba.s.sador.

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 amba.s.sador 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 amba.s.sador. 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----"