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.