The Happy Heart was an ideal resting-place for a tired man, whether town or country-bred. To the former it made the stronger appeal, for there could be no greater contrast than between The Happy Heart and the flaring brazen public-houses which offer solace to the dwellers of the pavement. These attract by their fierce pledges of light, warmth and the stimulated oblivion of the moment; The Happy Heart draws the heart-strings alike of the physically tired and mentally jaded. Apart from the promise of good liquor--and all who go to Shereling can rely on the promise being fulfilled--it makes an esthetic appeal. For it is still an old-fashioned country tavern of the prettiest type, destined to make even the total abstainer wonder whether he be so absolutely in the right after all. It boasts a porch, over which a Virginia creeper spreads its amorous leaves; rose-bushes waft a welcome and the sure hope of peace to plowman or golfer after the day's striving. A meditative cow, apparently an artistic fixture, chews the cud in a field hard by from day to day. Smoke curls lazily from a huge and ancient chimney, as much as to say, "Be of good cheer! I come from the kitchen!" And there is, too, one of those signposts you see sometimes in the south,--a pillar placed separate from the inn itself with a swinging board above. The superscription, by the way, was due to the fancy of the squire's wife. When the squire entered into his inheritance and married he had had dreams. He wished to be like Dogberry and have everything handsome about him. His wife, a pretty imaginative creature, had imbued him with ideas for the betterment of his dependents, and he had tried to fulfil her wishes. He inclined to the practical side, and to him was due at least half the credit for the improved housing and sanitation of Shereling. She, practical enough, thought that estheticism should show an equal growth; and to her shade the visitor does reverence when he admires the profuse planting of trees, the village library with its good pictures, the addition of a tower to the church, and a fine organ. Last, but not least, she persuaded her husband to have the inn called The Happy Heart, instead of The Bull and Dog.
In this desirable residence Tony and Robert Hedderwick sat at two o'clock, enjoying their cigars after a copious lunch. Robert had slept the whole morning, and now felt a new man. Tony was tired, but disinclined for bed,--there had been too much to interest him up to the present, and he felt there might be more to come. This was such a new sensation that he had no trouble in propping his eyelids till the evening, and he listened with zest while Robert prattled cheerfully of his incredible adventures. They had, of course, agreed to work as partners, so long as tedium kept away: they were mutually attracted, and already more than friendly. Confidences had been exchanged: Tony had repeated to the envious churchwarden some of the tamer episodes of his dilettante existence; Robert had tried to cap them with his burglars and Alicia.
"But you ought to let your wife know something," suggested Tony. "She may be worrying."
The churchwarden looked a little uneasy. "If I write I might be traced by the postmark," he objected. "I suppose I might send a letter saying I'm all right to a friend, and get him to readdress it. But even then there's a danger...."
"There's danger any way," said Tony, smoking thoughtfully. "From what you tell me, I should think Mrs. Hedderwick would not hesitate to use detectives if she thought it necessary. I should hardly think it would be long before they picked up your trail, unless you communicate with her. Really, you know----" He broke off suddenly and laughed. "No! don't write; I've got a better plan. I won't tell you now, but keep it for a little--till a dull hour comes and we are hard up for something to do."
Robert, naturally curious, begged for enlightenment, but Tony was adamant. Changing his ground, he declared that there was no hurry for a day or two,--or at least for a few hours. Mrs. Hedderwick would probably take a couple of days to make up her mind to use the police, and meanwhile they were better employed in seizing the thrills of the moment. Tony got his way, of course: he was accustomed to lead and exact obedience. Personality and class-consciousness, coupled with a humor that appealed to his victims, made the task easy.
"I haven't told you yet," said he, after silencing Robert's objections, "what I did with my morning. Well, I looked round and got the general hang of the village. More, I followed our mysterious friend--let's call him Billy,--and from a distance saw him enter The Quiet House. (Queer place that, by the way. Surrounded by a brick wall ten feet high,--couldn't get a glimpse inside except through a gate.) The landlord tells me that he hasn't booked a bed here, so it looks either as if he meant to leave Shereling or stay at The Quiet House."
"A good job, too," commented Robert. "It wouldn't do for him to see me. Of course I should be recognized at once, and that would make him suspicious."
"Quite so," agreed Tony. "If he hung about here you'd have to stay in bed all day,--rather a depressing prospect when fun is promised. But if I were you I'd give a false name to the landlord. If Billy heard of Mr. Hedderwick it would make him think of things."
Robert had an instinctive repugnance to the plan. In some obscure way it savored of criminality, and the shackles of convention were still not wholly broken. But in the end Tony again triumphed, and the blameless Hedderwick was dubbed Bangs. He did not particularly care for the choice; but as Tony said he looked the perfect essential Bangs and that any other name would be unthinkable, Robert gave way.
"Oh, and I saw some one else," continued Tony when the point was settled. "A remarkably pretty girl. She, too, entered The Quiet House--some time after Billy. I had seen him safely in, and was waiting by the roadside when she came along. She snubbed me--quite properly,--but was kindly careless enough to drop a card. It bore the name of Miss Arkwright, who, I understand, owns The Quiet House. But somehow I don't feel sure that the card is hers."
"Why?"
"Dunno," said Tony with a dissatisfied air. "I haven't any reasonable evidence. A kind of intuition, I suppose, more than anything else. Somehow she doesn't look an Arkwright,--she hasn't got an Arkwright personality. Now, you simply exude Bangs at every pore,--you're all right."
"What was she like?"
"Bangs being a respectable married man, mere good looks have no interest for him." ("Oh, but they have!" interrupted Robert with a naif eagerness.) "Well, they oughtn't to, then. As a matter of fact, she was deucedly pretty, and--good lord!"
He broke off and jumped to his feet in a listening attitude. Robert did the same, for in the porch they heard the voice of Lionel--or "Billy," as they had named their anonymous friend--in conversation with the landlord. The two men were discussing the weather, and Tony and his partner looked frantically at each other for a plan. In another minute Lionel might enter the parlor, and there was no escape. The door was but a yard distant from the porch: the window opened on the road. To leave the room by either egress might mean discovery, and for Robert to be recognized by Lionel would ruin all. That is, it might effectively put an end to the development of the adventure, for if "Billy's" suspicions were awakened he might take the first train back to town. At least he would be put on his guard, and that would make things more difficult than ever. It was imperative that Robert should be hidden from sight. But where? He could not be concealed under the table, for no cloth lay upon it, drooping decorously over the edges. There was no cupboard large enough to contain the bulk of Bangs. No friendly screen, the time-honored refuge of the dramatist, stood in any corner. No Falstaffian basket was there to promise aid. The room was a Sahara in view of the unhappy arrival of "Billy," and beads of perspiration stood out on Robert's brow as he waited, without a plan, helpless as a trapped rabbit.
Tony's friends used sometimes to complain that he put them in impossible situations. The charge was not unjust; but, as Tony would point out when accused, he was equally ready to sacrifice himself if circumstances demanded it. It was unfortunate, no doubt, that Fate seemed to prefer the immolation of a friend, but that was not his fault,--it was Fate who should be reviled. This was an occasion calling for presence of mind, resource and unflinching discipline. If the adventure of his life was to be carried through successfully, no minor considerations--such as friendship or soot--could be allowed to weigh. With a strong gesture he pointed to the old-fashioned hearth and capacious chimney. "Up you go!" he whispered. "Look sharp!"
Robert recoiled. "No! no!" he whispered piteously. "Not that! Surely----"
He was not allowed to argue. In another moment Robert felt himself led, as in a dream, to the fireplace. The next, and he had a foot upon the massive iron bars. Luckily there was no fire laid, no coal to disturb and proclaim his bid for obscurity. He looked up into the cavernous darkness and groaned in spirit; that was the first time he regretted his mad flight. Then, helping himself by projecting bricks, searching for insecure crevices with his toes, he began to climb the few feet necessary to safety.
By the time his ankles were the only visible evidence the hearth was covered with soot, and Tony looked anxiously round for something to remove it. As chance would have it, a broom stood in the corner of the parlor, left there by a careless servant after the morning's tidy-up. Triumph in his eye, Tony seized it and approached the hearth. But on getting there his purpose changed; temptation was too strong. Pushing the broom up the chimney, he used it as one uses a ramrod, helping the murmurous Robert in his upward path. "Excelsior, old friend!" whispered Tony, for an ankle could still be seen. "Excelsior!" and he thrust with frenzy. The only response was a muffled sound that floated down, a subdued kind of blasphemous choke. It filtered into the parlor as "Orpgh," but Tony did not relax his efforts till the ankle had disappeared. The next moment Lionel entered the room, followed by the landlord. The latter gave an astonished grunt as he surveyed Tony, hands and face smudged like a Christy Minstrel, and even Lionel's breeding found it hard to restrain a laugh.
"There has been a fall of soot, Mr. Glew," observed Tony blandly. "I found this broom, and was just going----"
"Lor', sir, don't you trouble," said Glew, scandalized that a guest could so demean himself. "The servant'll do that presently. I was just saying to the missus a week ago come Thursday that we should 'ave to get our chimneys cleaned soon. We'll 'ave to set about it in earnest now, and no mistake."
"I suppose you send over to Dallingham for a sweep?" suggested Lionel, sitting down. The landlord chuckled.
"Yes, sir, when the squire's at 'ome. 'E makes us. But when 'e's abroad, why, we do the old-fashioned way--light a batten of straw and burn the flue clear."
A slight scuffle proceeding from the chimney seemed to hint that Mr. Bangs had heard. Could it be that he feared lest they were going to clean the flue in the old-fashioned way now, or was he merely suffering from cramp? Whichever it was, he shifted: the noise was unmistakable, and the fall of more soot made the landlord shake his head.
"I doubt there's a bird got down the chimney," he said, scratching his chin. "Those jackdaws or young rooks do sometimes. Give me the broom, sir, and I'll soon have him down."
Tony's hand tightened on the broom.
"Let me," he said suavely. "There's no need for two people to get black." Without waiting for a reply he approached the fireplace and thrust his weapon strenuously aloft. It was no time for half measures, and Tony felt obliged to be as realistic as possible in the interests of his friend. Realism, however, may be carried to excess (as Mr. Bangs pointed out later with no little heat), and the fluttering of the mythical bird would have drawn tears to the eyes of humanitarians.
"It's no good, sir," said the landlord, dismally observing the soot; "it's out o' reach. I fancy I'd better get that straw and ha' done with it."
"That's rather too cruel, landlord," said Lionel from his seat. "I don't like the idea of smothering the poor beast."
"Put it this way, sir," said Glew, who was an amiable fellow; "is it better to smother it or leave it there to starve? My way 'ud take five minutes--yours a couple o' days. Well, sir?"
"I suppose you're right," said the soft-hearted Lionel, "but I don't half like----"
"Don't you worry," struck in Tony, who was beginning to get anxious. "I tell you what! It's a big chimney and I'm pretty slim. If you'll let me go up to-night after the pub's closed, Mr. Glew, I'll strip and climb. Of course we mustn't leave it there, and smothering doesn't appeal to me."
"You're a decent chap," said Lionel, moved to admiration. Tony modestly murmured "Not at all," and hoped the landlord was satisfied. But he was not. The very ideer! One o' his guests a-climbin' the chimney! No! he'd send the boy up. Hi!
Things were now looking very black in more than one sense, and the disciple of romance in the chimney had serious thoughts of a descent. But as the landlord opened his mouth to bellow for the boy, the man from up-stairs--"Mr. Beckett"--passed the door with his golf-clubs slung over his shoulder. He looked in and said, "I'm going up to the links, Mr. Glew. Dinner at seven-thirty, please," in a polished voice that carried a hint of an alien accent. Then he went on.
Lionel determined to follow. He had been to The Quiet House that morning and had learned that Miss Arkwright was away. She would be back, however, about four. The door had been answered by the dumb footman spoken of by the vicar, who had exhibited one of those dials that stand on hall tables--"Out--in at...." So Lionel had come back, meaning to kill a couple of hours at the inn. But when he saw the man "Beckett" it struck him that he might as well waste those hours on the links. He might possibly get into conversation with this man, whom he felt sure was the Turkish ambassador. Every thing pointed to it,--the newspaper paragraph--the accent--the assumed name (for he had confessed it to the vicar)--the age. Supposing this to be so, he might be worth watching. If Beatrice were right in her suspicions and conjectures, it was quite possible Mizzi would follow him to Shereling and seek an interview. Mizzi, in point of fact might have already made an assignation--she might even be waiting on the links! Supposing he found them ... well, at least he would have verified suspicions, and could chart his course by certain knowledge. Yes, he would follow on the off chance.
He did not take as long to make up his mind as we have taken to describe it. The reader, if kindly-hearted, should be glad of this; for meanwhile the unhappy Bangs has risked exceeding the proverbial allowance of "a peck of dirt" to be swallowed in a lifetime. Lionel, then, went out, leaving Tony to deal with the landlord. He sighed with relief, for at least the most important character had disappeared.
"Mr. Glew," he said winningly, "I have a little surprise for you. May I close the door for a moment?"
"Cert'n'y, sir," said the other, staring. His bovine gaze followed Tony as he walked to the fireplace, stooped down, and said gently, "Come, birdie, come!"--a song of his childhood flitting suddenly across his brain. To make his meaning perfectly clear, he added, "It's all right, Bangs. You may get down from the table!" Then he discreetly retired a few paces and waited. He had not to wait long.
"Mygoard!" said the landlord explosively, and indeed there was excuse for the expression. It was caused by the extraordinary entrance of Mr. Bangs. He clambered down painfully for a few feet, but just as he reached the bottom his foot slipped and he sat down emphatically, facing them, in the grate. The appearance of this gnome, silent, save for a strange wheezing that rasped its way through a soot-slaked windpipe, baffled description. Tony looked at the figure with a mournful compassion, and the landlord rocked drunkenly against the door.
"You see, Mr. Glew," said Tony soothingly, "it happened like this. My friend--who, I am sure, will corroborate me as soon as he has had a drink,--my friend and I had a dispute about chimneys. He averred that they often concealed a 'priest's hole,'--one of those hiding-places for Popish priests we read about. I disagreed, and our dispute became so heated that we even staked money--Mr. Bangs, on the probable existence of such a chamber here, I on the negative side. He is an enthusiast, and nothing would content him but the immediate settlement of the question. So, despite my protests, up he climbed. Just as he was about to descend, you and the other gentleman entered. Conceive the position! He naturally had no wish to be discovered in such a situation, and waited, hoping the parlor would soon be empty. Your suggestion of the batten upset all calculations. Now, I am sure you will spare his feelings and say nothing of this. All he requires is a hot bath. You quite understand?"
The landlord gave a crow of assent. But as he went down the passage a deep rumbling, suppressed but distinct, betokened that he could not regard the situation seriously. When the door was closed Tony turned apologetically to his companion-in-arms.
"Awfully sorry, old chap," he said, "but it was one of those things that had to be. You quite see that, I hope?"
"Krwx!" said the gnome, weeping. "Krwx! airp--krwx!"
