A quarrel of friends, be it understood,—a quarrel that left no bitterness behind, but made the next meeting more stored with interest, explanation, withdrawal, even partial conversion. Their chief debatable country was the stage; and at last Lionel had the happiness of winning the admission that the stage had possibly improved of recent years. A great admission for her! He paid his debt handsomely by a promise to read a book (five hundred and thirty-seven pages, eight volumes) on Christian Science. She gave him the book next day. Alas! it now reposes in the present historian's drawer, the leaves still innocent of the paper-knife.
So a pretty comradeship sprang up between a cloistered lady and an ineligible worldling. The latter had never a penny, had not so long ago vowed himself to the service of another, declared upon his honor that his heart was no one's, lived for the moment on a false-won hospitality. What would be the end of such a revolting character? A queer sort of hero, in very truth; but the world is an asylum of lunatics seeking happiness by a host of roads. You who condemn the road of Lionel are asked to remember the stony paths he had trodden without complaint. Let him settle any difficulties of conscience for himself, and be not too hasty in your judgments. Let him at least have his fortnight of so-called happiness. If it be not in accordance with your ideas of the summum bonum, remember that it is not his. A fortnight in an oasis need not be grudged when the desert lies behind and before. If he has not learned wisdom you may be sure that he will ere long. Rub your hands, gentlemen, and look forward to a rare feast of disillusion and disenchantment! Possibly there may be an exposure, disgrace, even a prison if we are lucky and have patience. And if you can spare a little pickle for the rod, be good enough to pass it up!
As for the other characters in this rural comedy—or melodrama if you prefer it—their lives have been equally uneventful during the last fortnight. Tony Wild and Mr. "Bangs" are still occupying rooms at The Happy Heart, chafing at the lack of events. They have allowed it to be understood that they are on a holiday, seeking peace. They have thoroughly explored the neighborhood, and failed to find a hint of interest in any of the Shereling inhabitants. Even the tap-room yokels have not produced a stimulating curiosity, and higher society is lacking in the village. The squire is away, and medical and legal needs, it appears, are supplied from Dallingham. There is Mr. "Beckett," it is true; but he plays golf, spending the rest of his time in his bedroom, repulsing all overtures of friendship. There is the vicarage, of course, and Mrs. Peters has been prevailed upon to invite them to dinner, for the vicar is a friendly soul, anxious to make the most of the social crumbs dropped rarely in his path. Tony and Robert have dined there, and been round two or three times to smoke a pipe and inspect the roses; but Mrs. Peters does not diffuse an atmosphere of comfort, and the vicar himself is an exhausted fountain after an hour. A kindly, cheerful little man; but sixty minutes' prattle is as much as Tony can bear. Robert might find a longer period congenial, but he is perpetually ill-at-ease under his cognomen of Bangs, fearful of betraying himself, inclined to blush without apparent cause. Indeed, if it were not for Tony, Robert might have given up the pursuit already. Not that he means to go back home as yet: liberty is still precious; and adventures, or at least unfettered repose, may be sought at Brighton or Eastbourne before he returns to nonentity. But is it worth while waiting at Shereling, where the mysterious Billy is never seen, where the remembrance of the strange lady is daily growing fainter? It looks very much as if that bright spark of romance has been extinguished: how can he hope to blow it into flame once more? Tony, the incomparable Tony, the man of many schemes, has nothing to suggest: he only says "Patience," and Robert is growing restive.
But why does Tony depart so far from his usual attitude as to say "Patience"? As a rule, an adventure or an experience can hold him but for a day or two,—a week is almost unthinkable. And now, at the end of a fortnight, he still says "Patience"—unruffled, imperturbable, productive of threadbare platitudes as to the building of Rome, apparently hopeful. The simple reason is that Tony has not seen his card-dropping divinity again, and he hates being balked.
In a word, the pair of them had waited, watched and spied for fourteen days without result. There had been night vigils as well as by day, but nothing had been learned. After dusk set in they had sometimes watched for hours, Tony hiding in a ditch near the front gate, Robert at the back. The gossip of Miss Arkwright's nocturnal motoring had reached their ears, and they had built something on this. But never a motor had they seen approach The Quiet House. One dreadful night they watched till dawn broke clear and stark, but two colds in the head were all that came to birth. Their watchings were a failure.
Miss Arkwright and "Billy" might never have existed. The servants were useless. Only Forbes and the gardener issued from The Quiet House, after their day's work was over: both were dumb. Incorruptible, too, for when the ingenious Tony produced a pencil and paper, meeting the gardener on the road as if by chance, holding half-a-crown for a lure, the man made signs that he could not use a pencil. Forbes was of stouter stuff. Tony waylaid him one evening at half past nine. Thoroughly disheartened by this time, regretting that he had offered the gardener so small a sum (for he had afterward imagined that the man might have been playing a part), Tony unmasked his batteries. "Look here, my man," he said bluntly, "you are a servant at The Quiet House. I want some information and am willing to pay for it. If you'll just write down answers to a few questions I'll give you a five-pound note." Forbes' eyes glistened, and he took the pencil. Tony's heart leaped as he saw him diligently scribing. He snatched the paper and read, "I am sorry, sir, but I can not write." Tony swore, as Forbes passed meekly on. He was not used to being beaten by a servant.
To-day they were at the vicarage for tea, and tea alone. The hospitable vicar had suggested dinner—lunch as a pis-aller. But his wife said, "No," and he was obliged to submit. The previous dinner had caused domestic friction, and Mrs. Peters did not mean to run any further risks. She was a lady who had the not wholly unworthy wish to make a fair show in the flesh: they entertained seldom, but when they did entertain she was resolved to do things well. Soup, chicken (boiled or roast), cold lamb (palpably uncut and not an economical remnant to bring the blush), at least three sweets, and certainly cheese-straws,—these were the least a self-respecting woman could offer to the vicarage guests. The vicar, being a sensible man, would have been quite pleased to "present" (like Mr. Frohman) a simple meal. Soup, a joint with the usual supporters of potatoes and boiled celery—his own failing—a bramble tart, and a bit of Stilton,—these were the cates he deemed worthy of kings. But the housekeeping pride of his lady forbade so inelegant a repast. "I like my guests to see that I know how things ought to be done and are done, Charles," she said in a final tone: "I will not have people saying that the vicarage ..." and the rest. The vicar had given way with a sigh, reserving himself for the battle he knew must follow.
It had come at once. Mrs. Peters, profuse to lavishness over the more solid items, betrayed a feminine false economy over the wine. There ought to be wine, of course. Though she was a teetotaler herself, still she knew that her guests should be offered the juice of the grape. But on the desirability of spending large sums for liquid that would vanish in a twinkling she held strong views. "You need not dream, Charles, of wasting money on expensive brands. I saw some invalid port at the grocer's this morning...." But here her husband showed himself unusually pig-headed. He grew rigid at the words "invalid port." "No, Clara," he said resolutely; "I won't have that at any price—even the grocer's. I believe in good things, or none at all. I'd sooner drink water than poor wine. We can't afford good port, but we can afford good whisky or cider. Those it shall be." He was deaf to reason, though his wife begged him, with tears in her eyes, not to be so inconsiderate.
Cider it had been, and Mrs. Peters had felt ashamed. The sight of three men quaffing deeply of the plebeian beverage gave no comfort: they were doing it to spare her feelings, of course, and she resented the unspoken charity. Besides, she did not greatly care about her guests. Mr. Wild seemed singularly purposeless for a young man, and there was a half-veiled mockery in his speech that grated. Mr. Bangs was clearly of inferior breeding and did not seem at ease. He talked little and nervously, starting at the mention of his name. "He can not have a past," thought Mrs. Peters grudgingly, "but he is certainly not used to the society of gentle-people. I do wish Charles would not ..." The dinner was not a success, though the vicar enjoyed the post-prandial smoke and small-talk.
So (leaving our muttons to return to them) they were at tea to-day. Or rather, they had finished tea and were taking idly on the lawn. The vicar was lying comfortably in a basket-chair, trying to color a meerschaum. Mrs. Peters was busy with embroidery. Tony and Robert in deck-chairs were smoking too, contributing their quota to the conversation. To complete the picture, Brown, the odd-job man, was delving holes destined to receive the posts of a pergola. Mrs. Peters' eye wandered from her work and dwelt frigidly on him.