# The Wheel of Love/Chapter 12
### CHAPTER XII
#### ANOTHER!

“I shall never, never forgot your generosity, John.”
“No, Mary. It was your honesty and courage that did it.”
“I told Mr. Ellerton the whole story, and he seemed positively astonished.”
“And Miss Bellairs admitted that when she wrote she considered such a thing utterly impossible. She’s changed a little, Mary. She’s not so cheerful and light-hearted as she used to be.”
“Think what she’s gone through. I’ve noticed just the same in Mr. Ellerton, but——”
“You hope to restore him soon?”
“Oh, well, I expect Miss Bellairs—what a pretty girl she is, John—will soon revive too, now she is with you again. John, have; you observed anything peculiar in Aunt Sarah’s manner?”
“To tell you the truth, I fancied she was rather short with me once or twice at dinner.”
“I believe she is—isn’t pleased at—at what’s happened. She hasn’t taken much to Mr. Ellerton, and you know she liked you so much, that I think she still wants you as one of the family.”
John laughed: then he leant forward and said in a low voice:
“Have you settled anything about dates?”
“No. Mr. Ellerton—well he didn’t introduce the subject: so of course I didn’t. Have you?”
“No, we haven’t. I made some suggestion of the kind, but Miss Bellairs didn’t fall in with it. She won’t even let me ask her father’s consent just yet.”
“Mr. Ellerton proposes not to announce our—anything—for a few days.”
“Well,” said John, “I shall insist on an announcement very shortly, and you ought to do the same, Mary. We know the evils—” He checked himself, but Mary was not embarrassed.
“Of secret engagements?” she said calmly. “We do indeed.”
“Besides it’s a bore. I couldn’t go with Miss Bellairs to the theatre to-night, because she said it would look too marked.”
“Yes, and Mr. Ellerton said that if he dined here he might as well announce our engagement from the statue of Strasburg.”
John frowned, and Mary perceiving the bent of his thoughts ventured to say, though with a timid air unusual to her:
“I think they’re the least little bit inconsiderate, don’t you, John—after all we have done for them?”
“Well, I don’t mind admitting that I do feel that. I do not consider that Miss Bellairs quite appreciates the effort I have made.”
Mary sighed.
“We mustn’t expect too much of them, must we?” she asked.
“I suppose not,” John conceded; but he still frowned.
When we consider how simple the elements of perfect happiness appear to be, regarded in the abstract, it becomes surprising to think how difficult it is to attain them in the concrete. A kind magician may grant us all we ask, may transport us whither we would go, dower us with all we lack, bring to us one desired companion after another, but something is wrong. We have a toothache, or in spite of our rich curtains there’s a draught, or the loved one haps not to be at the moment congenial: and we pitifully pray the wizard to wave his wand again. Would any magician wave his for these four troublesome folk? It must be admitted that they hardly deserved it.
Nevertheless a magician was at work, and, with the expiration of the next night, his train was laid. At eleven o’clock in the forenoon of Friday, Roger Deane had a final interview with the still hesitating Painter.
“But if the police should come, Sir Roger?” urged the fearful man.
“Why, you’ll look a fool, that’s all. Isn’t the figure high enough?”
“Most liberal, Sir Roger, but—but it will alarm my wife.”
“If you come to that, it’ll alarm my wife.”
“Very true, Sir Roger.” Painter seemed to derive some comfort from this indirect community of feeling with the aristocracy.
“It’ll alarm everybody, I hope. That’s what it’s for. Now mind—2.30 sharp—and when the coffee’s been in ten minutes. Not before! I must have time for coffee.”
“Very good, Sir Roger.”
“Is the ladder ready?”
“Yes, Sir Roger.”
“And the what’s-its-name?”
“Quite ready, Sir Roger.”
“Let’s see it.”
It was inspected and pronounced satisfactory. Then Roger Deane set out to return to his hotel, murmuring contentedly:
“If that don’t make up their minds for ’em, I don’t know what will.”
Then he paused suddenly.
“Gad! Will the women have hysterics?” he asked, but in a moment he added, reassuring himself, “Maud never has, and, hang it, we must chance the rest.”
Arrived at home he found Arthur Laing kicking his heels in the smoking-room.
“Lunching with you to-day, ain’t I, somewhere in the Palais-Royal?” asked the visitor.
“Yes, some place the General’s found out. Look here, Laing, are you a nervous man?”
“Nervous! What do you take me for?”
“Lose your head in moments of excitement?”
“I never have ’em.”
“Oh, well, hang you! I say, Laing, you’re not a fool. Just look here. Anything I say—anything, mind—at lunch to-day, you’re not to contradict. You’re to back me up.”
“Right you are, old chap.”
“And the more infernal nonsense it sounds, the more you’re to take your oath about it.”
“I’m there.”
“And finally, you’re on no account to lay a finger either on Miss Travers or on Dora Bellairs.”
“Hullo! I’m not in the habit of beating women at any time, let alone at a lunch-party.”
“I mean what I say: you’re not to touch either of them. If you do you’ll spoil it. You’re to go for Miss Bussey.”
“She’s not done me any harm.”
“Never mind. As soon as the row begins and I say, ‘Save the ladies!’ you collar Miss Bussey. See?”
“Oh, I see. Seems to me we’re going to have a lively lunch. Am I to carry the old lady?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, by Jove! How’s my biceps? Just feel, will you?”
Deane felt and gravely pronounced the muscle to be equal to its task. Laing was much gratified, and awaited the unknown future with philosophic patience.
Sir Roger had predicted “a jolly lunch,” but, in its early stages, the entertainment hardly earned this description. Something was wrong somewhere; Dora started by refusing, very pointedly, to sit near Charlie Ellerton; and yet, when she found herself between Ashforth and Laing, she was absent, silent, and melancholy. Charlie, on the other hand, painfully practised a labored attentiveness to Mary Travers which contrasted ill with his usual spontaneous and gay courtesy. Miss Bussey wore an air of puzzled gravity, and Laing kept looking at her with a calculating eye. He seemed to be seeking the best grip. Lady Deane and the General, engrossed in a tête-à-tête discussion, did little to promote the hilarity of the table, and it was left to Deane to maintain the flow of conversation as he best could. Apparently he found the task a heavy one, for, before long, he took a newspaper out of his pocket, and, à propos to one of his own remarks, began to read a highly decorated account of the fearful injuries under which the last victim of the last diabolical explosion had been in danger of succumbing. Sir Roger read his gruesome narrative with much emphasis, and as he laid down the paper he observed:
“Well, I hope I’m not more of a coward than most men, but in face of dynamite—ugh!” and he shuddered realistically.
“I should make for the door,” said Laing.
“Yes, but in this case the bomb was at the door!”
“Then,” said Laing, “I should exit by the window.”
“But this poor man,” remarked Mary Travers, “stayed to rescue the woman he loved,” and her eyes rested for an instant in confident affection on Charlie Ellerton.
“We should all do as much, I trust,” said John, glancing at Dora Bellairs.
“I’m sure I hope you won’t have to,” said Dora, rather ungraciously.
“Think what a convincing test of affection it would be,” suggested Deane persuasively. “After that you could never doubt that the man loved you.”
“My good Sir Roger,” observed Miss Bussey, “it would be common humanity.”
“Suppose there were two girls,” said Laing, “and you couldn’t take ’em both!”
Deane hastily interposed.
“Haven’t we had enough of this dreary subject?” he asked, and he frowned slightly at Laing.
“Isn’t it about time for coffee?” the General suggested.
Deane looked at his watch.
“What does the time matter, Deane, if we’re ready?”
“Not a bit. 2.20. That’s all right,” and he rang the bell.
Painter came in with the coffee: the little man looked rather pale and nervous, but succeeded in serving the company without upsetting the cups. He came to Deane last.
“Is everything ready?” whispered that gentleman, and receiving a trembling “Yes, sir,” he added, “in ten minutes.”
“This,” he observed out loud, “has been a pleasant gathering—a pleasant end to our outing.”
“What? You’re going?” asked Miss Bussey.
“Yes: my wife and I cross to England to-morrow.”
“I shall go the next day,” announced the General, “if Dora is ready.”
John threw a glance toward Dora, but she was busy drinking her coffee.
“Well,” said Deane, “I hope we may soon meet again, under equally delightful circumstances, in London. At any rate,” he added with a laugh, “there we shall be safe from——”
Crash! A loud noise came from the door, as if of some metallic substance thrown against the panels.
“Hullo!” said Laing.
“Oh, somebody tumbled downstairs,” said Deane reassuringly. “Don’t move, Miss Bussey.”
“Oh, but Sir Roger, what is it? What do you think? It didn’t sound at all like what you say.”
The General laughed.
“Come, Miss Bussey, I don’t suppose it’s——”
As he spoke the form of Painter appeared at the open window. He was breathless, and shrieked hastily:
“Dynamite, dynamite! Save yourselves! It’ll be off in a minute.”
“Then I shall be off in half a minute,” said Laing.
There was a rush to the door, and Laing, remembering his instructions, joined hastily in it.
“No, no. The bomb’s there!” cried Painter, excitedly.
They stood still in horror for ten seconds.
“To the window, to the window, for your lives! Save the ladies!” cried Sir Roger Deane.