"And it's my business to give a clip 'side o' the 'ed," said Jones, riposting. "So if you don't want a thick ear inside of a jiffy, my lad, off you go."
Master Glew obeyed, soothing his outraged independence by a cry of "Yar! red-nosed beef-eater!" as soon as he was out of reach. Jones, regretting the ungiven clip, banged the door, and the libel-loving Glew went pleasantly on his way.
He found Lionel in the summer-house and delivered the yellow envelope, waiting dutifully to see if there was a prepaid reply, hoping for a possible douceur. In this he was disappointed; for although the telegram seemed to give unbounded pleasure to the recipient, no money changed hands, and Master Glew retired, embittered and pessimistic. As soon as he was alone Lionel read and read again the flimsy slip that conveyed so much. The words danced before him in the sunlight:
"Lukos has died of measles. Stay where you are and keep watching. Beatrice."
Lukos dead! Then the path was clear, and he was free to hope, free to pursue, to strive with all his heart and soul to ... to do what? Why, make love to her, of course, and presently ask her to marry him. "Marry" ... The word came on him with a stunning shock, as it does to every free bachelor when he sees the wedding-ring as a reality within his grasp. However much we long to persuade the beloved object to the vow—however much we have striven, hoped, schemed and waited—still, when the time comes of a verity, and at last we can confidently say, "I am to be married to-morrow!" or next week, or a year hence—then, in the midst of our ecstasy, there comes a whisper, "Married! Tied! Shackled!" We welcome our chains, of course,—we would barter our souls for the lovely fetters; but there always comes, if but for the briefest of seconds, the appalling thought, "Freedom has gone forever!" Is there a single husband who, during the period of courtship, has never been "afraid with any amazement"?
The thought, the fear, came to Lionel as to the rest of us, and for an instant he felt like taking to his heels. Then he smiled as a grown-up upon a child, naturally timid and ignorant. Next, his face fell, as he harped back to his theme. He was to "make love" to her.
To a man of his stamp making love is not a difficult matter. To a man like Tony it is a second nature—the breath of life—a perennial pastime. But making love is not the same as loving, and to make love to Beatrice would be an insult. He admired Beatrice so much—respected her—was anxious to serve her, to obey her slightest whim,—thought her the best and most desirable creature he had ever known. But if he did not love her, it would be a base thing to pretend, to use her as a toy. Did he love her or not? He wanted her—oh, yes! he wanted her as he had never wanted any one else in his life. There had been others, of course, with whom he had dallied—for instance, Mizzi. There had been one or two in whom he had taken a more serious interest, like Miss Arkwright. With the latter he had more than once imagined himself to be in love—he had dwelt delightfully upon the possibility—had gone to bed reflecting, "Dash it! Beatrice has forgotten me. Winifred's a darling! Why not?" And then when the kiss had been offered, he had refused. Well, in that lay hope of a greater certainty. He had refused the kiss—had he not?—because of Beatrice. Therefore he loved her. Therefore he must make love to her. Therefore he must ask her to marry him. Marriage! Whew—w—w!
"Oh, you vacillating ass!" he groaned to himself, getting up and stretching his arms as if to free himself from the enmeshing subtleties. "Why can't you be content to believe yourself in love and go straight ahead now that the path is clear? Why can't you be an ordinary, sane, matter-of-fact lover, and ask the dear woman if she'll marry you and help you to help her, the world and yourself? Yourself, who need it badly. Why—why—why can't you be reasonable?" He shook his fist savagely at the heavens. "Why worry your brain about these intricate analyses? Why? Because, my boy, she deserves certainly, and, by George, she shall have it!"
He sat down and read the telegram once more. "Poor old chap!" he thought. "Dead ... and of measles. Lord! it's hard not to laugh. A man who plotted and shook the chancelleries, in daily danger of poison or the sword, to die of measles! What a world of oddities! Poor devil ... I wonder how she takes it?"
The remembrance of the forced marriage led him to think that she could not feel it too cruelly. No doubt she had liked him—had even felt affection for him. But the compulsion of wedlock and the death of her only son would not but make the tie more light than usual. "Let's hope so, anyway," he growled to himself, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "Lionel, you were selfish to talk of love so soon. More especially when you don't know yet if you love her or not."