The Gay Adventure Part 30

"Absurd!" Winifred had replied. "I can not explain all now, but my sister is mistaken. Mizzi applied for a situation through a registry office, and only came the night you discovered her. I have questioned her, and though I believe your explanation of her presence, it is best for us all that she should not stay.--Oh, I have taken care that she shall not suffer financially.--I am sure your suspicions of her are as groundless as my sister's of me. In any case, I have no intention of conducting an inquiry into so flimsy a charge. Now we know where we are.

If you will be pleased to prolong your stay, I shall be glad. Perhaps you will learn to believe in me at last." He did not believe her in the least, but the knowledge that he was no longer there on false pretenses was no small solace, and he stayed on.

"Well," said Miss Arkwright, approaching, "let us go and look at our prisoner. Have you seen him this morning?"

"Not since breakfast," said Lionel, rising. "What is his job to-day?"

"Digging and wheeling," answered Miss Arkwright with a smile. "I am told that he shapes well."

They walked round the back of the house, and presently came upon a second lawn. Across this was laid a narrow footway of planks. As they approached a figure was seen wheeling a small barrow of earth toward an embryonic flower bed. The figure came to the end of the causeway, upset his load with a professional side-twist, and then wiped his brow. "I believe that is always done," he said apologetically to the lady, who had halted with her cavalier: "one picks up a wrinkle here and there.

Your gardener, for instance, showed me how the navvies unload their barrows, correcting my natural impulse to upset it straight ahead."

"Do you feel tired?" asked Miss Arkwright critically: there was no sympathy in her tone.

"The ma.s.ses are used to that," answered Tony. "In time, no doubt, I shall learn the trick of doing the maximum of work with the minimum of effort. No, I can't say I am especially tired; it's rather a healthy feeling on the whole."

"You're making a bit of a mess of the lawn," observed Lionel, his glance falling on a scarred patch.

"Ah! that was in the apprentice stage," said Tony airily. "The barrow ran off the plank, and this narrow wheel cuts. Of course I am always open to learn, and if you----"

"Mr. Mortimer is a guest, not a serf," Miss Arkwright reminded him. Tony bowed.

"I apologize. For a moment I had forgotten cla.s.s distinctions. Beg pardon, mum! By your leave, sir! I must be gettin' back to my job."

He trundled the barrow briskly out of sight to where a mound of soil awaited his efforts. He was soon back, however, and another load of soil was deposited dexterously upon the growing bed.

"You're still obstinate," said the lady, smiling.

"Meaning----?" He paused, shovel in hand.

"That you won't give any account of yourself."

"Why should I?" asked Tony innocently. "I am the slave of a perfectly charming despot"--he bowed again with grace, despite his costume and the mud stains. "I am well housed and fed. I have nothing special to do. I am regaining the rude health of youth----"

"But you have to _work_!" Lionel reminded him with a laugh. "And judging from your hands I don't think you've done much of that in your life."

Tony waved one of the despised hands.

"It is a popular error to speak of manual laborers as 'the working cla.s.ses.' There is such a thing as brain-work--no! I don't press the point. As a matter of fact, I am rather attracted by this kind of work--for a change. Perhaps, when I regain my freedom, I shall then take up some sort of work as a hobby."

"You can be free as soon as you like," said Miss Arkwright carelessly.

"Ah! but at a price! You want the secret of my life. I shall only tell you the tragic story when you tell me something of yours. Meanwhile I am quite content to labor here on parole. It is true that I am forbidden the village--I am not even near enough the wall to pa.s.s the time of day (is that the local phrase?) with the outside world. But until I know more I am not anxious to leave the most delightful tyrant I have ever met."

"You ought to think yourself lucky," said Lionel, "that you're not cooling your heels in jail."

"By all accounts," said Tony blandly, "I might retort with a _tu quoque_."

"What do you mean?" asked Lionel, puzzled. "What do you know of me?"

Tony shrugged.

"That is part of the feuilleton," he said. "As soon as you like, we shall exchange stories. Meanwhile, permit the h.o.r.n.y-handed aristocrat to pa.s.s along."

He went off again, whistling, leaving his questioners unsatisfied. In spite of the mystery of his presence, in spite of the recent struggle, both Lionel and his hostess felt an instinctive liking for Tony. It had been Miss Arkwright's idea to set him to work. After the capture Lionel suggested a medieval treatment of bread-and-water in a locked chamber.

Police proceedings were naturally out of the question. But Miss Arkwright was original in her methods, and after an interview with the unabashed intruder, had given him a choice of penalties. Either he might elect for the modern equivalent of the deepest dungeon beneath the moat, or he might work in the garden on parole. She saw he was a gentleman, and suspected him of being an interesting addition to The Quiet House.

So Tony was admitted to the drawing-room on an equality with themselves.

The mornings and afternoons he spent in forced labor, a victim of the _corvee_; his mid-day meal and "four o'clocks" were harmoniously eaten in the potting-shed. It was curious to observe a grimy navvy enter by the back door, to appear in the drawing-room later dressed in a lounge suit, with hair carefully parted. When he played or sang to them it seemed still more incongruous, but they were all adaptable creatures and there was no constraint.

This morning it was very hot, and Lionel and Winifred went back to the hammock-chairs in the shade. The heat made the air flicker like waves, and even the midges seemed too lazy to come out. A universal torpor hung heavily in the atmosphere; one thought regretfully of slaves in offices, clerks on stools, perspiring operators in factories. For, whether it be hot or cold, work has to be done by all save the leisured cla.s.ses. And even they are sometimes compelled to exert themselves either by force of circ.u.mstances or a sense of duty.

It was the latter spur that roused the Reverend Charles Peters to get to work on his sermon for next Sunday. True, there were still three days'

grace; but it had been his immemorial custom to begin to write his sermon on a Wednesday, and nothing short of a new heresy in the morning's newspaper could have kept him from his desk. Whether the garden tempted him to dally amid roses, or a keen frost suggested the pleasures of a brisk walk--whether he felt _disponiert_ and stored with telling phrases, or empty as a sieve with the wind blowing through--whether his digestion was in first-cla.s.s order or cried aloud for a liver-pill,--whatever conditions obtained, duty and habit drew Mr. Peters to a task not uncongenial. So, on this morning he went to his work as usual, despite the heat, not slothful enough to delve in a well-filled drawer and read over some "cold meat" for his parishioners.

He established himself in the dining-room--luckily, as it proved--for his study was being "turned out."

As a preliminary he threw open both windows and removed his jacket and waistcoat. Then he lighted a pipe and settled down to arrange his thoughts. He had not been meditating for more than ten minutes when his wife came in.

"The milkman's account, Charles," she said. "Can you settle it now?"

"Certainly, my dear," replied the vicar, unlocking his cash-box. "It's extremely hot this morning, isn't it?"

"It is," agreed Mrs. Peters, waiting for the money. "But, Charles----"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Do you think it quite seemly to be writing your sermon in shirt-sleeves?"

"It's extremely hot, Clara."

"Yes. But a _sermon_, Charles!"

The vicar laughed.

"Would you have me write it behind stained-gla.s.s windows, with incense burning round me?"

"A strict Evangelical----!!!"

"I was only joking, Clara," said the vicar quickly. "Of course, I shouldn't dream of----"

"I do not think one should be flippant under such circ.u.mstances.

Shirt-sleeves and a pipe! My dear Charles----"

The vicar moved a little restlessly.

"My dear Clara, the day's very hot and I'm doing nothing to be ashamed of. If the bishop of London called I'm sure he'd say----"

"Mr. Bangs," said the housemaid at the door, and Robert entered with a troubled mien.

The vicar made a dash for his discarded garments and performed a Protean act with amazing speed. His wife, true to her salt, interposed between her husband and the visitor, making a few ba.n.a.l remarks about the weather. She did not shake hands.