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Three Men And A Maid
By
P.G. Wodehouse
Contents
Through the curtained windows of the
furnished apartment which Mrs. Horace Hignett had rented for her stay in New
York rays of golden sunlight peeped in like the foremost spies of some
advancing army. It was a fine summer morning. The hands of the Dutch clock =
in
the hall pointed to thirteen minutes past nine; those of the ormolu clock in
the sitting-room to eleven minutes past ten; those of the carriage clock on=
the
bookshelf to fourteen minutes to six. In other words, it was exactly eight;=
and
Mrs. Hignett acknowledged the fact by moving her head on the pillow, opening
her eyes, and sitting up in bed. She always woke at eight precisely.
Was this Mrs. Hig=
nett
the Mrs. Hignett, the world-famous writer on Theosophy, the author of "=
;The
Spreading Light," "What of the Morrow," and all the rest of =
that
well-known series? I'm glad you asked me. Yes, she was. She had come over to
America on a lecturing tour.
The year 1921, it
will be remembered, was a trying one for the inhabitants of the United Stat=
es.
Every boat that arrived from England brought a fresh swarm of British lectu=
rers
to the country. Novelists, poets, scientists, philosophers, and plain, ordi=
nary
bores; some herd instinct seemed to affect them all simultaneously. It was =
like
one of those great race movements of the Middle Ages. Men and women of wide=
ly differing
views on religion, art, politics, and almost every other subject; on this o=
ne
point the intellectuals of Great Britain were single-minded, that there was
easy money to be picked up on the lecture platforms of America and that they
might just as well grab it as the next person.
Mrs. Hignett had =
come
over with the first batch of immigrants; for, spiritual as her writings wer=
e,
there was a solid streak of business sense in this woman and she meant to g=
et
hers while the getting was good. She was half way across the Atlantic with a
complete itinerary booked before 90 per cent. of the poets and philosophers=
had
finished sorting out their clean collars and getting their photographs taken
for the passport.
She had not left
England without a pang, for departure had involved sacrifices. More than
anything else in the world she loved her charming home, Windles, in the cou=
nty
of Hampshire, for so many years the seat of the Hignett family. Windles was=
as
the breath of life to her. Its shady walks, its silver lake, its noble elms,
the old grey stone of its walls--these were bound up with her very being. S=
he
felt that she belonged to Windles, and Windles to her. Unfortunately, as a
matter of cold, legal accuracy, it did not. She did but hold it in trust for
her son, Eustace, until such time as he should marry and take possession of=
it
himself. There were times when the thought of Eustace marrying and bringing=
a
strange woman to Windles chilled Mrs. Hignett to her very marrow. Happily, =
her
firm policy of keeping her son permanently under her eye at home and never
permitting him to have speech with a female below the age of fifty had aver=
ted
the peril up till now.
Eustace had
accompanied his mother to America. It was his faint snores which she could =
hear
in the adjoining room, as, having bathed and dressed, she went down the hal=
l to
where breakfast awaited her. She smiled tolerantly. She had never desired to
convert her son to her own early rising habits, for, apart from not allowing
him to call his soul his own, she was an indulgent mother. Eustace would ge=
t up
at half-past nine, long after she had finished breakfast, read her mail, and
started her duties for the day.
Breakfast was on =
the
table in the sitting-room, a modest meal of rolls, cereal, and imitation
coffee. Beside the pot containing this hell-brew was a little pile of lette=
rs.
Mrs. Hignett opened them as she ate. The majority were from disciples and d=
ealt
with matters of purely theosophical interest. There was an invitation from =
the
Butterfly Club asking her to be the guest of honour at their weekly dinner.
There was a letter from her brother Mallaby--Sir Mallaby Marlowe, the emine=
nt London
lawyer--saying that his son Sam, of whom she had never approved, would be in
New York shortly, passing through on his way back to England, and hoping th=
at
she would see something of him. Altogether a dull mail. Mrs. Hignett skimmed
through it without interest, setting aside one or two of the letters for
Eustace, who acted as her unpaid secretary, to answer later in the day.
She had just risen
from the table when there was a sound of voices in the hall, and presently =
the
domestic staff, a gaunt Irish lady of advanced years, entered the room.
"Ma'am, there
was a gentleman."
Mrs. Hignett was
annoyed. Her mornings were sacred.
"Didn't you =
tell
him I was not to be disturbed?"
"I did not. I
loosed him into the parlor."
The staff remained
for a moment in melancholy silence, then resumed. "He says he's your
nephew. His name's Marlowe."
Mrs. Hignett
experienced no diminution of her annoyance. She had not seen her nephew Sam=
for
ten years and would have been willing to extend the period. She remembered =
him
as an untidy small boy who, once or twice, during his school holidays, had
disturbed the cloistral peace of Windles with his beastly presence. However,
blood being thicker than water, and all that sort of thing, she supposed she
would have to give him five minutes. She went into the sitting-room and fou=
nd
there a young man who looked more or less like all other young men, though =
perhaps
rather fitter than most. He had grown a good deal since she had last met hi=
m,
as men will do between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five, and was now abo=
ut
six feet in height, about forty inches round the chest, and in weight about=
one
hundred and eighty pounds. He had a brown and amiable face, marred at the
moment by an expression of discomfort somewhat akin to that of a cat in a
strange alley.
"Hallo, Aunt
Adeline!" he said awkwardly.
"Well,
Samuel!" said Mrs. Hignett.
There was a pause.
Mrs. Hignett, who was not fond of young men and disliked having her mornings
broken into, was thinking that he had not improved in the slightest degree
since their last meeting; and Sam, who imagined that he had long since grow=
n to
man's estate and put off childish things, was embarrassed to discover that =
his
aunt still affected him as of old. That is to say, she made him feel as if =
he
had omitted to shave, and, in addition to that, had swallowed some drug whi=
ch
had caused him to swell unpleasantly, particularly about the hands and feet=
.
"Jolly
morning," said Sam, perseveringly.
"So I imagin=
e. I
have not yet been out."
"Thought I'd
look in and see how you were."
"That was ve=
ry
kind of you. The morning is my busy time, but ... yes, that was very kind of
you!"
There was another
pause.
"How do you =
like
America?" said Sam.
"I dislike it
exceedingly."
"Yes? Well, =
of
course some people do. Prohibition and all that. Personally, it doesn't aff=
ect
me. I can take it or leave it alone."
"The reason I
dislike America--" began Mrs. Hignett bridling.
"I like it
myself," said Sam. "I've had a wonderful time. Everybody's treate=
d me
like a rich uncle. I've been in Detroit, you know, and they practically gav=
e me
the city and asked me if I'd like another to take home in my pocket. Never =
saw
anything like it. I might have been the missing heir. I think America's the
greatest invention on record."
"And what brought you to America?" said Mrs. Hignett, unmoved by this rhapsody.<= o:p>
"Oh, I came =
over
to play golf. In a tournament, you know."
"Surely at y=
our
age," said Mrs. Hignett, disapprovingly, "you could be better
occupied. Do you spend your whole time playing golf?"
"Oh, no. I h=
unt
a bit and shoot a bit and I swim a good lot, and I still play football
occasionally."
"I wonder yo=
ur father
does not insist on your doing some useful work."
"He is begin=
ning
to harp on the subject rather. I suppose I shall take a stab at it sooner or
later. Father says I ought to get married, too."
"He is perfe=
ctly
right."
"I suppose o=
ld
Eustace will be getting hitched up one of these days?" said Sam.
Mrs. Hignett star=
ted
violently.
"Why do you =
say
that?"
"Eh?"
"What makes =
you
say that?"
"Oh, well, h=
e's
a romantic sort of fellow. Writes poetry and all that."
"There is no
likelihood at all of Eustace marrying. He is of a shy and retiring temperam=
ent
and sees few women. He is almost a recluse."
Sam was aware of =
this
and had frequently regretted it. He had always been fond of his cousin and =
in
that half-amused and rather patronising way in which men of thews and sinews
are fond of the weaker brethren who run more to pallor and intellect; and he
had always felt that if Eustace had not had to retire to Windles to spend h=
is
life with a woman whom from his earliest years he had always considered the
Empress of the Wash-outs much might have been made of him. Both at school a=
nd
at Oxford, Eustace had been--if not a sport--at least a decidedly cheery old
bean. Sam remembered Eustace at school breaking gas globes with a slipper i=
n a
positively rollicking manner. He remembered him at Oxford playing up to him
manfully at the piano on the occasion when he had done that imitation of Fr=
ank
Tinney which had been such a hit at the Trinity smoker. Yes, Eustace had had
the makings of a pretty sound egg, and it was too bad that he had allowed h=
is
mother to coop him up down in the country miles away from anywhere.
"Eustace is
returning to England on Saturday," said Mrs. Hignett. She spoke a litt=
le
wistfully. She had not been parted from her son since he had come down from=
Oxford;
and she would have liked to keep him with her till the end of her lecturing
tour. That, however, was out of the question. It was imperative that, while=
she
was away, he should be at Windles. Nothing would have induced her to leave =
the
place at the mercy of servants who might trample over the flower-beds, scra=
tch
the polished floors, and forget to cover up the canary at night. "He s=
ails
on the Atlantic."
"That's
splendid," said Sam. "I'm sailing on the Atlantic myself. I'll go
down to the office and see if we can't have a state-room together. But wher=
e is
he going to live when he gets to England?"
"Where is he
going to live? Why, at Windles, of course. Where else?"
"But I thoug=
ht
you were letting Windles for the summer?"
Mrs. Hignett star=
ed.
"Letting
Windles!" She spoke as one might address a lunatic. "What put that
extraordinary idea into your head?"
"I thought father said something about your letting the place to some American."<= o:p>
"Nothing of =
the
kind!"
It seemed to Sam =
that
his aunt spoke somewhat vehemently, even snappishly, in correcting what was=
a
perfectly natural mistake. He could not know that the subject of letting
Windles for the summer was one which had long since begun to infuriate Mrs.
Hignett. People had certainly asked her to let Windles. In fact people had
pestered her. There was a rich fat man, an American named Bennett, whom she=
had
met just before sailing at her brother's house in London. Invited down to
Windles for the day, Mr. Bennett had fallen in love with the place and had =
begged
her to name her own price. Not content with this, he had pursued her with h=
is
pleadings by means of the wireless telegraph while she was on the ocean, and
had not given up the struggle even when she reached New York. He had egged =
on a
friend of his, a Mr. Mortimer, to continue the persecution in that city. An=
d,
this very morning, among the letters on Mrs. Hignett's table, the buff enve=
lope
of a cable from Mr. Bennett had peeped out, nearly spoiling her breakfast. =
No
wonder, then, that Sam's allusion to the affair had caused the authoress of
"The Spreading Light" momentarily to lose her customary calm.
"Nothing will
induce me ever to let Windles," she said with finality, and rose
significantly. Sam, perceiving that the audience was at an end--and glad of
it--also got up.
"Well, I thi=
nk
I'll be going down and seeing about that state-room," he said.
"Certainly. =
I am
a little busy just now, preparing notes for my next lecture."
"Of course, =
yes.
Mustn't interrupt you. I suppose you're having a great time, gassing away--I
mean--well, good-bye!"
"Good-bye!&q=
uot;
Mrs. Hignett,
frowning, for the interview had ruffled her and disturbed that equable fram=
e of
mind which is so vital to the preparation of lectures on Theosophy, sat dow=
n at
the writing-table and began to go through the notes which she had made
overnight. She had hardly succeeded in concentrating herself when the door
opened to admit the daughter of Erin once more.
"Ma'am there=
was
a gentleman."
"This is
intolerable!" cried Mrs. Hignett. "Did you tell him that I was bu=
sy?"
"I did not. I
loosed him into the dining-room."
"Is he a
reporter from one of the newspapers?"
"He is not. =
He
has spats and a tall-shaped hat. His name is Bream Mortimer."
"Bream
Mortimer!"
"Yes, ma'am.=
He
handed me a bit of a kyard, but I dropped it, being slippy from the
dishes."
Mrs. Hignett stro=
de
to the door with a forbidding expression. This, as she had justly remarked,=
was
intolerable. She remembered Bream Mortimer. He was the son of the Mr. Morti=
mer
who was the friend of the Mr. Bennett who wanted Windles. This visit could =
only
have to do with the subject of Windles, and she went into the dining-room i=
n a
state of cold fury, determined to squash the Mortimer family once and for a=
ll.
Bream Mortimer was
tall and thin. He had small, bright eyes and a sharply curving nose. He loo=
ked
much more like a parrot than most parrots do. It gave strangers a momentary
shock of surprise when they saw Bream Mortimer in restaurants eating roast
beef. They had the feeling that he would have preferred sun-flower seeds.
"Morning, Mr=
s.
Hignett."
"Please sit
down."
Bream Mortimer sat
down. He looked as though he would rather have hopped on to a perch, but he=
sat
down. He glanced about the room with gleaming, excited eyes.
"Mrs. Hignet=
t, I
must have a word with you alone!"
"You are hav=
ing
a word with me alone."
"I hardly kn=
ow
how to begin."
"Then let me
help you. It is quite impossible. I will never consent."
Bream Mortimer
started.
"Then you ha=
ve
heard!"
"I have heard
about nothing else since I met Mr. Bennett in London. Mr. Bennett talked ab=
out
nothing else. Your father talked about nothing else. And now," cried M=
rs.
Hignett fiercely, "you come and try to reopen the subject. Once and for
all nothing will alter my decision. No money will induce me to let my
house."
"But I didn't
come about that!"
"You did not
come about Windles?"
"Good Lord,
no!"
"Then will y=
ou
kindly tell me why you have come?"
Bream Mortimer lo=
oked
embarrassed. He wriggled a little and moved his arms as if he were trying to
flap them.
"You know,&q=
uot;
he said, "I'm not a man who butts into other people's affairs." .=
..
He stopped.
"No?" s=
aid
Mrs. Hignett.
Bream began again=
.
"I'm not a m=
an
who gossips with servants."
"No?"
"I'm not a m=
an
who...."
Mrs. Hignett was =
never
a very patient woman.
"Let us take=
all
your negative qualities for granted," she said curtly. "I have no
doubt that there are many things which you do not do. Let us confine oursel=
ves
to issues of definite importance. What is it, if you have no objection to
concentrating your attention on that for a moment, that you wish to see me
about?"
"This
marriage."
"What
marriage?"
"Your son's
marriage."
"My son is n=
ot
married."
"No, but he's
going to be. At eleven o'clock this morning at the Little Church Round the
Corner!"
Mrs. Hignett star=
ed.
"Are you
mad?"
"Well, I'm n=
ot
any too well pleased, I'm bound to say," admitted Mr. Mortimer. "=
You
see, darn it all, I'm in love with the girl myself!"
"Who is this
girl?"
"Have been f=
or
years. I'm one of those silent, patient fellows who hang around and look a =
lot,
but never tell their love...."
"Who is this
girl who has entrapped my son?"
"I've always
been one of those men who...."
"Mr. Mortime=
r!
With your permission we will take your positive qualities, also, for grante=
d.
In fact, we will not discuss you at all. You come to me with this absurd
story...."
"Not absurd.
Honest fact. I had it from my valet, who had it from her maid, and, though =
I'm
not a man who gossips with servants, I'm bound to say...."
"Will you pl=
ease
tell me who is the girl my misguided son wishes to marry?"
"I don't know
that I'd call him misguided," said Mr. Mortimer, as one desiring to be
fair, "I think he's a right smart picker! She's such a corking girl, y=
ou
know. We were children together, and I've loved her for years. Ten years at
least. But you know how it is--somehow one never seems to get in line for a
proposal. I thought I saw an opening in the summer of nineteen-twelve, but =
it
blew over. I'm not one of these smooth, dashing guys, you see, with a great
line of talk. I'm not...."
"If you will
kindly," said Mrs. Hignett impatiently, "postpone this essay in
psycho-analysis to some future occasion I shall be greatly obliged. I am
waiting to hear the name of the girl my son wishes to marry."
"Haven't I t=
old
you?" said Mr. Mortimer, surprised. "That's odd. I haven't! It's
funny how one doesn't do the things one thinks one does. I'm the sort of
man..."
"What is her
name?"
"Bennett.&qu=
ot;
"Bennett?
Wilhelmina Bennett? The daughter of Mr. Rufus Bennett? The red-haired girl I
met at lunch one day at your father's house?"
"That's it.
You're a great guesser. I think you ought to stop the thing."
"I intend
to."
"Fine!"=
"The marriage
would be unsuitable in every way. Miss Bennett and my son do not vibrate on=
the
same plane."
"That's righ=
t.
I've noticed it myself."
"Their auras=
are
not the same colour."
"If I've tho=
ught
that once," said Bream Mortimer, "I've thought it a hundred times=
. I
wish I had a dollar for every time I've thought it. Not the same colour! Th=
at's
the whole thing in a nutshell."
"I am much
obliged to you for coming and telling me of this. I shall take immediate
steps."
"That's good!
But what's the procedure? How are you going to form a flying-wedge and
buck-centre? It's getting late. She'll be waiting at the church at eleven. =
With
bells on," said Mr. Mortimer.
"Eustace will
not be there."
"You think y=
ou
can fix it?"
"Eustace will
not be there," repeated Mrs. Hignett.
Bream Mortimer ho=
pped
down from his chair.
"Well, you've
taken a weight off my mind."
"A mind, I
should imagine, scarcely constructed to bear great weights."
"I'll be goi=
ng.
Haven't had breakfast yet. Too worried to eat breakfast. Relieved now. This=
is
where three eggs and a rasher of ham get cut off in their prime. I feel I c=
an
rely on you."
"You can!&qu=
ot;
"Then I'll s=
ay
good-bye."
"Good-bye.&q=
uot;
"I mean real=
ly
good-bye. I'm sailing for England on Saturday on the Atlantic."
"Indeed? My =
son
will be your fellow-traveller."
Bream Mortimer lo=
oked
somewhat apprehensive.
"You won't t=
ell
him that I was the one who spilled the beans?"
"I beg your
pardon."
"You won't w=
ise
him up that I threw a spanner into the machinery?"
"I do not
understand you."
"You won't t=
ell
him that I crabbed his act--gave the thing away--gummed the game?"
"I shall not
mention your chivalrous intervention."
"Chivalrous?=
"
said Bream Mortimer doubtfully. "I don't know that I'd call it absolut=
ely
chivalrous. Of course, all's fair in love and war. Well, I'm glad you're go=
ing
to keep my share in the business under your hat. It might have been awkward
meeting him on board."
"You are not
likely to meet Eustace on board. He is a very indifferent sailor and spends
most of his time in his cabin."
"That's good!
Saves a lot of awkwardness. Well, good-bye."
"Good-bye. W=
hen
you reach England remember me to your father."
"He won't ha=
ve
forgotten you," said Bream Mortimer confidently. He did not see how it=
was
humanly possible for anyone to forget this woman. She was like a celebrated
chewing-gum. The taste lingered.
Mrs. Hignett was a
woman of instant and decisive action. Even while her late visitor was speak=
ing
schemes had begun to form in her mind like bubbles rising to the surface of=
a
rushing river. By the time the door had closed behind Bream Mortimer she ha=
d at
her disposal no fewer than seven, all good. It took her but a moment to sel=
ect
the best and simplest. She tip-toed softly to her son's room. Rhythmic snor=
es greeted
her listening ears. She opened the door and went noiselessly in.
The White Star liner Atlantic lay a=
t her
pier with steam up and gangway down ready for her trip to Southampton. The =
hour
of departure was near and there was a good deal of mixed activity going on.
Sailors fiddled about with ropes. Junior officers flitted to and fro. White=
-jacketed
stewards wrestled with trunks. Probably the captain, though not visible, was
also employed on some useful work of a nautical nature and not wasting his
time. Men, women, boxes, rugs, dogs, flowers and baskets of fruit were flow=
ing
on board in a steady stream.
The usual drove of
citizens had come to see the travellers off. There were men on the
passenger-list who were being seen off by fathers, by mothers, by sisters, =
by
cousins, and by aunts. In the steerage there was an elderly Jewish lady who=
was
being seen off by exactly thirty-seven of her late neighbours in Rivington
Street. And two men in the second cabin were being seen off by detectives,
surely the crowning compliment a great nation can bestow. The cavernous cus=
toms
shed was congested with friends and relatives, and Sam Marlowe, heading for=
the
gang-plank, was only able to make progress by employing all the muscle and
energy which Nature had bestowed upon him, and which during the twenty-five
years of his life he had developed by athletic exercise. However, after some
minutes of silent endeavour, now driving his shoulder into the midriff of s=
ome
obstructing male, now courteously lifting some stout female off his feet, he
had succeeded in struggling to within a few yards of his goal, when suddenl=
y a
sharp pain shot through his right arm and he spun round with a cry.
It seemed to Sam =
that
he had been bitten, and this puzzled him, for New York crowds, though they =
may
shove and jostle, rarely bite.
He found himself =
face
to face with an extraordinarily pretty girl.
She was a red-hai=
red
girl with the beautiful ivory skin which goes with red hair. Her eyes, thou=
gh
they were under the shadow of her hat, and he could not be certain, he
diagnosed as green, or maybe blue, or possibly grey. Not that it mattered, =
for
he had a catholic taste in feminine eyes. So long as they were large and
bright, as were the specimens under his immediate notice, he was not the ma=
n to
quibble about a point of colour. Her nose was small, and on the very tip of=
it
there was a tiny freckle. Her mouth was nice and wide, her chin soft and ro=
und.
She was just about the height which every girl ought to be. Her figure was
trim, her feet tiny, and she wore one of those dresses of which a man can s=
ay
no more than that they look pretty well all right.
Nature abhors a
vacuum. Samuel Marlowe was a susceptible young man, and for many a long mon=
th
his heart had been lying empty, all swept and garnished, with
"Welcome" on the mat. This girl seemed to rush in and fill it. She
was not the prettiest girl he had ever seen. She was the third prettiest. He
had an orderly mind, one capable of classifying and docketing girls. But th=
ere
was a subtle something about her, a sort of how-shall-one-put-it, which he =
had
never encountered before. He swallowed convulsively. His well-developed che=
st
swelled beneath its covering of blue flannel and invisible stripe. At last,=
he
told himself, he was in love, really in love, and at first sight, too, whic=
h made
it all the more impressive. He doubted whether in the whole course of histo=
ry
anything like this had ever happened before to anybody. Oh, to clasp this g=
irl
to him and--
But she had bitten
him in the arm. That was hardly the right spirit. That, he felt, constitute=
d an
obstacle.
"Oh, I'm so
sorry!" she cried.
Well, of course, =
if
she regretted her rash act ... After all, an impulsive girl might bite a ma=
n in
the arm in the excitement of the moment and still have a sweet, womanly
nature....
"The crowd s=
eems
to make Pinky-Boodles so nervous."
Sam might have
remained mystified, but at this juncture there proceeded from a bundle of r=
ugs
in the neighbourhood of the girl's lower ribs a sharp yapping sound, of suc=
h a
calibre as to be plainly audible over the confused noise of Mamies who were
telling Sadies to be sure and write, of Bills who were instructing Dicks to
look up old Joe in Paris and give him their best, and of all the fruit-boys,
candy-boys, magazine-boys, American-flag-boys, and telegraph boys who were
honking their wares on every side.
"I hope he
didn't hurt you much. You're the third person he's bitten to-day." She
kissed the animal in a loving and congratulatory way on the tip of his black
nose. "Not counting bell-boys, of course," she added. And then she
was swept from him in the crowd and he was left thinking of all the things =
he
might have said--all those graceful, witty, ingratiating things which just =
make
a bit of difference on these occasions.
He had said nothi=
ng.
Not a sound, exclusive of the first sharp yowl of pain, had proceeded from =
him.
He had just goggled. A rotten exhibition! Perhaps he would never see this g=
irl
again. She looked the sort of girl who comes to see friends off and doesn't
sail herself. And what memory of him would she retain? She would mix him up
with the time when she went to visit the deaf-and-dumb hospital.
Sam reached the
gang-plank, showed his ticket, and made his way through the crowd of
passengers, passengers' friends, stewards, junior officers, and sailors who
infested the deck. He proceeded down the main companion-way, through a rich
smell of india-rubber and mixed pickles, as far as the dining-saloon: then
turned down the narrow passage leading to his stateroom.
Staterooms on oce=
an
liners are curious things. When you see them on the chart in the
passenger-office, with the gentlemanly clerk drawing rings round them in
pencil, they seem so vast that you get the impression that, after stowing a=
way
all your trunks, you will have room left over to do a bit of
entertaining--possibly an informal dance or something. When you go on board=
you
find that the place has shrunk to the dimensions of an undersized cupboard =
in
which it would be impossible to swing a cat. And then, about the second day
out, it suddenly expands again. For one reason or another the necessity for
swinging cats does not arise and you find yourself quite comfortable.
Sam, balancing
himself on the narrow, projecting ledge which the chart in the passenger-of=
fice
had grandiloquently described as a lounge, began to feel the depression whi=
ch
marks the second phase. He almost wished now that he had not been so energe=
tic
in having his room changed in order to enjoy the company of his cousin Eust=
ace.
It was going to be a tight fit. Eustace's bag was already in the cabin, and=
it
seemed to take up the entire fairway. Still, after all, Eustace was a good
sort, and would be a cheerful companion. And Sam realised that if that girl=
with
the red hair was not a passenger on the boat he was going to have need of
diverting society.
A footstep sounde=
d in
the passage outside. The door opened.
"Hullo,
Eustace!" said Sam.
Eustace Hignett
nodded listlessly, sat down on his bag and emitted a deep sigh. He was a sm=
all,
fragile-looking young man with a pale, intellectual face. Dark hair fell in=
a sweep
over his forehead. He looked like a man who would write vers libre, as inde=
ed
he did. "Hullo!" he said, in a hollow voice.
Sam regarded him
blankly. He had not seen him for some years, but, going by his recollection=
s of
him at the University, he had expected something cheerier than this. In fac=
t,
he had rather been relying on Eustace to be the life and soul of the party.=
The
man sitting on the bag before him could hardly have filled that role at a
gathering of Russian novelists.
"What on ear=
th's
the matter?" said Sam.
"The
matter?" Eustace Hignett laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, nothing. Nothi=
ng
much. Nothing to signify. Only my heart's broken." He eyed with consid=
erable
malignity the bottle of water in the rack above his head, a harmless object
provided by the White Star Company for clients who might desire to clean th=
eir
teeth during the voyage.
"If you would
care to hear the story?" he said.
"Go ahead.&q=
uot;
"It is quite
short."
"That's
good."
"Soon after I
arrived in America I met a girl...."
"Talking of
girls," said Marlowe with enthusiasm. "I've just seen the only on=
e in
the world that really amounts to anything. It was like this. I was shoving =
my
way through the mob on the dock, when suddenly...."
"Shall I tell
you my story, or will you tell me yours?"
"Oh, sorry! =
Go
ahead."
Eustace Hignett
scowled at the printed notice on the wall informing occupants of the stater=
oom
that the name of their steward was J. B. Midgeley.
"She was an
extraordinarily pretty girl...."
"So was mine=
. I
give you my honest word I never in all my life saw such...."
"Of course, = if you would prefer that I postponed my narrative?" said Eustace coldly.<= o:p>
"Oh, sorry!
Carry on."
"She was an
extraordinarily pretty girl...."
"What was her
name?"
"Wilhelmina
Bennett. She was an extraordinarily pretty girl and highly intelligent. I r=
ead
her all my poems and she appreciated them immensely. She enjoyed my singing=
. My
conversation appeared to interest her. She admired my...."
"I see. You =
made
a hit. Now get on with the rest of the story."
"Don't bustle
me," said Eustace querulously.
"Well, you k=
now,
the voyage only takes eight days."
"I've forgot=
ten
where I was."
"You were sa=
ying
what a devil of a chap she thought you. What happened? I suppose, when you
actually came to propose, you found she was engaged to some other johnny?&q=
uot;
"Not at all.=
I
asked her to be my wife, and she consented. We both agreed that a quiet wed=
ding
was what we wanted--she thought her father might stop the thing if he knew,=
and
I was dashed sure my mother would--so we decided to get married without tel=
ling
anybody. By now," said Eustace, with a morose glance at the porthole,
"I ought to have been on my honeymoon. Everything was settled. I had t=
he
license and the parson's fee. I had been breaking in a new tie for the
wedding."
"And then you
quarrelled?"
"Nothing of =
the
kind. I wish you would stop trying to tell me the story. I'm telling you. W=
hat
happened was this: somehow--I can't make out how--mother found out. And the=
n,
of course, it was all over. She stopped the thing."
Sam was indignant=
. He
thoroughly disliked his Aunt Adeline, and his cousin's meek subservience to=
her
revolted him.
"Stopped it?=
I
suppose she said, 'Now, Eustace, you mustn't!' and you said, 'Very well,
mother!' and scratched the fixture?"
"She didn't =
say
a word. She never has said a word. As far as that goes she might never have
heard anything about the marriage."
"Then how do=
you
mean she stopped it?"
"She pinched=
my
trousers!"
"Pinched your
trousers?"
Eustace groaned.
"All of them! The whole bally lot! She gets up long before I do, and s=
he
must have come into my room and cleaned it out while I was asleep. When I w=
oke
up and started to dress I couldn't find a solitary pair of bags anywhere in=
the
whole place. I looked everywhere. Finally, I went into the sitting-room whe=
re
she was writing letters and asked if she had happened to see any anywhere. =
She
said she had sent them all to be pressed. She said she knew I never went ou=
t in
the mornings--I don't as a rule--and they would be back at lunch-time, A fat
lot of use that was! I had to be at the church at eleven. Well, I told her I
had a most important engagement with a man at eleven, and she wanted to know
what it was and I tried to think of something, but it sounded pretty feeble=
and
she said I had better telephone to the man and put it off. I did it, too. R=
ang
up the first number in the book and told some fellow I had never seen in my
life that I couldn't meet him! He was pretty peeved, judging from what he s=
aid
about my being on the wrong line. And mother listening all the time, and I
knowing that she knew--something told me that she knew--and she knowing tha=
t I
knew she knew--I tell you it was awful!"
"And the
girl?"
"She broke o=
ff
the engagement. Apparently she waited at the church from eleven till one-th=
irty
and then began to get impatient. She wouldn't see me when I called in the
afternoon, but I got a letter from her saying that what had happened was all
for the best as she had been thinking it over and had come to the conclusio=
n that
she had made a mistake. She said something about my not being as dynamic as=
she
had thought I was. She said that what she wanted was something more like La=
ncelot
or Sir Galahad, and would I look on the episode as closed."
"Did you exp=
lain
about the trousers?"
"Yes. It see=
med
to make things worse. She said that she could forgive a man anything except
being ridiculous."
"I think you=
're
well out of it," said Sam judicially. "She can't have been much o=
f a
girl."
"I feel that
now. But it doesn't alter the fact that my life is ruined. I have become a
woman-hater. It's an infernal nuisance, because practically all the poetry I
have ever written rather went out of its way to boost women, and now I'll h=
ave
to start all over again and approach the subject from another angle. Women!
When I think how mother behaved and how Wilhelmina treated me I wonder there
isn't a law against them. 'What mighty ills have not been done by Woman! Who
was it betrayed the Capitol!'"
"In
Washington?" said Sam puzzled. He had heard nothing of this. But then =
he
generally confined his reading of the papers to the sporting page.
"In Rome, you
ass! Ancient Rome."
"Oh, as long=
ago
as that?"
"I was quoti=
ng
from Thomas Otway's 'Orphan.' I wish I could write like Otway. He knew what=
he
was talking about. 'Who was't betrayed the Capitol? A woman. Who lost Marc
Antony the world? A woman. Who was the cause of a long ten years' war and l=
aid
at last old Troy in ashes? Woman! Destructive, damnable, deceitful
woman!'"
"Well, of
course, he may be right in a way. As regards some women, I mean. But the gi=
rl I
met on the dock--"
"Don't!"
said Eustace Hignett. "If you have anything bitter and derogatory to s=
ay
about women, say it and I will listen eagerly. But if you merely wish to gi=
bber
about the ornamental exterior of some dashed girl you have been fool enough=
to
get attracted by, go and tell it to the captain or the ship's cat or J. B.
Midgeley. Do try to realise that I am a soul in torment! I am a ruin, a spe=
nt
force, a man without a future! What does life hold for me? Love? I shall ne=
ver
love again. My work? I haven't any. I think I shall take to drink."
"Talking of
that," said Sam, "I suppose they open the bar directly we pass the
three-mile limit. How about a small one?"
Eustace shook his=
head
gloomily.
"Do you supp=
ose
I pass my time on board ship in gadding about and feasting? Directly the ve=
ssel
begins to move I go to bed and stay there. As a matter of fact I think it w=
ould
be wisest to go to bed now. Don't let me keep you if you want to go on
deck."
"It looks to
me," said Sam, "as if I had been mistaken in thinking that you we=
re
going to be a ray of sunshine on the voyage."
"Ray of
sunshine!" said Eustace Hignett, pulling a pair of mauve pyjamas out of
the kit-bag. "I'm going to be a volcano!"
*
Sam left the
state-room and headed for the companion. He wanted to get on deck and ascer=
tain
if that girl was still on board. About now the sheep would be separating fr=
om
the goats: the passengers would be on deck and their friends returning to t=
he
shore. A slight tremor on the boards on which he trod told him that this
separation must have already taken place. The ship was moving. He ran light=
ly
up the companion. Was she on board or was she not? The next few minutes wou=
ld
decide. He reached the top of the stairs and passed out on to the crowded d=
eck.
And, as he did so, a scream, followed by confused shouting, came from the r=
ail
nearest the shore. He perceived that the rail was black with people hanging
over it. They were all looking into the water.
Samuel Marlowe was
not one of those who pass aloofly by when there is excitement toward. If a
horse fell down in the street, he was always among those present: and he was
never too busy to stop and stare at a blank window on which were inscribed =
the
words "Watch this space!" In short, he was one of Nature's
rubbernecks, and to dash to the rail and shove a fat man in a tweed cap to =
one
side was with him the work of a moment. He had thus an excellent view of wh=
at
was going on--a view which he improved the next instant by climbing up and
kneeling on the rail.
There was a man in
the water, a man whose upper section, the only one visible, was clad in a b=
lue
jersey. He wore a Derby hat, and from time to time as he battled with the
waves, he would put up a hand and adjust this more firmly on his head. A dr=
essy
swimmer.
Scarcely had he t=
aken
in this spectacle when Marlowe became aware of the girl he had met on the d=
ock.
She was standing a few feet away leaning out over the rail with wide eyes a=
nd
parted lips. Like everybody else she was staring into the water.
As Sam looked at =
her
the thought crossed his mind that here was a wonderful chance of making the
most tremendous impression on this girl. What would she not think of a man =
who,
reckless of his own safety, dived in and went boldly to the rescue? And the=
re
were men, no doubt, who would be chumps enough to do it, he thought, as he
prepared to shift back to a position of greater safety.
At this moment, t=
he
fat man in the tweed cap, incensed at having been jostled out of the front =
row,
made his charge. He had but been crouching, the better to spring. Now he
sprang. His full weight took Sam squarely in the spine. There was an instan=
t in
which that young man hung, as it were, between sea and sky; then he shot do=
wn
over the rail to join the man in the blue jersey, who had just discovered t=
hat
his hat was not on straight and had paused to adjust it once more with a few
skilful touches of the finger.
*
In the brief inte=
rval
of time which Marlowe had spent in the state-room, chatting with Eustace ab=
out
the latter's bruised soul, some rather curious things had been happening ab=
ove.
Not extraordinary, perhaps, but curious. These must now be related. A story=
, if
it is to grip the reader, should, I am aware, go always forward. It should =
march.
It should leap from crag to crag like the chamois of the Alps. If there is =
one
thing I hate, it is a novel which gets you interested in the hero in chapter
one and then cuts back in chapter two to tell you all about his grandfather.
Nevertheless, at this point we must go back a space. We must return to the
moment when, having deposited her Pekinese dog in her state-room, the girl =
with
the red hair came out again on deck. This happened just about the time when
Eustace Hignett was beginning his narrative.
By now the bustle
which precedes the departure of an ocean liner was at its height. Hoarse vo=
ices
were crying, "All for the shore!" The gangway was thronged with
friends of passengers returning to land. The crowd on the pier waved flags =
and
handkerchiefs and shouted unintelligibly. Members of the crew stood alertly=
by
the gang-plank ready to draw it in as soon as the last seer-off had crossed=
it.
The girl went to =
the
rail and gazed earnestly at the shore. There was an anxious expression on h=
er
face. She had the air of one who was waiting for someone to appear. Her
demeanour was that of Mariana at the Moated Grange. "He cometh not!&qu=
ot;
she seemed to be saying. She glanced at her wrist-watch, then scanned the d=
ock
once more.
There was a rattl=
e as
the gang-plank moved inboard and was deposited on the deck. The girl uttere=
d a
little cry of dismay. Then suddenly her face brightened and she began to wa=
ve
her arm to attract the attention of an elderly man with a red face made red=
der
by exertion, who had just forced his way to the edge of the dock and was
peering up at the passenger-lined rail.
The boat had now
begun to move slowly out of its slip, backing into the river. Ropes had been
cast off, and an ever widening strip of water appeared between the vessel a=
nd
the shore. It was now that the man on the dock sighted the girl. She
gesticulated at him. He gesticulated at her. She appeared helpless and baff=
led,
but he showed himself a person of resource of the stuff of which great gene=
rals
are made. Foch is just like that, a bird at changing pre-conceived plans to
suit the exigencies of the moment.
The man on the do=
ck
took from his pocket a pleasantly rotund wad of currency bills. He produced=
a
handkerchief, swiftly tied up the bills in it, backed to give himself room,=
and
then, with all the strength of his arm, he hurled the bills in the directio=
n of
the deck. The action was greeted by cheers from a warm-hearted populace. Yo=
ur
New York crowd loves a liberal provider.
One says that the=
man
hurled the bills in the direction of the deck, and that was exactly what he
did. But the years had robbed his pitching-arm of the limber strength which,
forty summers back, had made him the terror of opposing boys' baseball team=
s.
He still retained a fair control but he lacked steam. The handkerchief with=
its
precious contents shot in a graceful arc towards the deck, fell short by a =
good
six feet and dropped into the water, where it unfolded like a lily, sending
twenty-dollar bills, ten-dollar bills, five-dollar bills, and an assortment=
of
ones floating over the wavelets. The cheers of the citizenry changed to cri=
es
of horror. The girl uttered a plaintive shriek. The boat moved on.
It was at this mo=
ment
that Mr. Oscar Swenson, one of the thriftiest souls who ever came out of
Sweden, perceived that the chance of a lifetime had arrived for adding
substantially to his little savings. By profession he was one of those men =
who
eke out a precarious livelihood by rowing dreamily about the waterfront in
skiffs. He was doing so now: and, as he sat meditatively in his skiff, havi=
ng
done his best to give the liner a good send-off by paddling round her in
circles, the pleading face of a twenty-dollar bill peered up at him. Mr.
Swenson was not the man to resist the appeal. He uttered a sharp bark of
ecstasy, pressed his Derby hat firmly upon his brow and dived in. A moment
later he had risen to the surface and was gathering up money with both hand=
s.
He was still busy
with this congenial task when a tremendous splash at his side sent him under
again; and, rising for a second time, he observed with not a little chagrin
that he had been joined by a young man in a blue flannel suit with an invis=
ible
stripe.
"Svensk!&quo=
t;
exclaimed Mr. Swenson, or whatever it is that natives of Sweden exclaim in
moments of justifiable annoyance. He resented the advent of this newcomer. =
He
had been getting along fine and had had the situation well in hand. To him =
Sam
Marlowe represented Competition, and Mr. Swenson desired no competitors in =
his
treasure-seeking enterprise. He travels, thought Mr. Swenson, the fastest w=
ho
travels alone.
Sam Marlowe had a
touch of the philosopher in him. He had the ability to adapt himself to cir=
cumstances.
It had been no part of his plans to come whizzing down off the rail into th=
is
singularly soup-like water which tasted in equal parts of oil and dead rats;
but, now that he was here he was prepared to make the best of the situation.
Swimming, it happened, was one of the things he did best, and somewhere amo=
ng
his belongings at home was a tarnished pewter cup which he had won at schoo=
l in
the "Saving Life" competition. He knew exactly what to do. You get
behind the victim and grab him firmly under his arms, and then you start
swimming on your back. A moment later the astonished Mr. Swenson, who, being
practically amphibious, had not anticipated that anyone would have the cool
impertinence to try and save him from drowning, found himself seized from b=
ehind
and towed vigorously away from a ten-dollar bill which he had almost succee=
ded
in grasping. The spiritual agony caused by this assault rendered him mercif=
ully
dumb; though, even had he contrived to utter the rich Swedish oaths which o=
ccurred
to him, his remarks could scarcely have been heard, for the crowd on the do=
ck
was cheering as one man. They had often paid good money to see far less
gripping sights in the movies. They roared applause. The liner, meanwhile,
continued to move stodgily out into mid-river.
The only drawback=
to
these life-saving competitions at school, considered from the standpoint of
fitting the competitors for the problems of after-life, is that the object
saved on such occasions is a leather dummy, and of all things in this world=
a
leather dummy is perhaps the most placid and phlegmatic. It differs in many
respects from an emotional Swedish gentleman, six foot high and constructed=
throughout
of steel and india rubber, who is being lugged away from cash which he has =
been
regarding in the light of a legacy. Indeed, it would not be hard to find a
respect in which it does not differ. So far from lying inert in Sam's arms =
and
allowing himself to be saved in a quiet and orderly manner, Mr. Swenson
betrayed all the symptoms of one who feels that he has fallen among murdere=
rs.
Mr. Swenson, much as he disliked competition, was ready to put up with it,
provided that it was fair competition. This pulling your rival away from the
loot so that you could grab it yourself--thus shockingly had the man
misinterpreted Sam's motives--was another thing altogether and his stout so=
ul
would have none of it. He began immediately to struggle with all the violen=
ce at
his disposal. His large, hairy hands came out of the water and swung hopefu=
lly
in the direction where he assumed his assailant's face to be.
Sam was not
unprepared for this display. His researches in the art of life-saving had
taught him that your drowning man frequently struggled against his best
interests. In which case, cruel to be kind, one simply stunned the blighter=
. He
decided to stun Mr. Swenson, though, if he had known that gentleman more
intimately and had been aware that he had the reputation of possessing the
thickest head on the water-front he would have realised the magnitude of th=
e task.
Friends of Mr. Swenson, in convivial moments, had frequently endeavoured to
stun him with bottles, boots, and bits of lead piping, and had gone away
depressed by failure. Sam, ignorant of this, attempted to do the job with
clenched fist, which he brought down as smartly as possible on the crown of=
the
other's Derby hat.
It was the worst
thing he could have done. Mr. Swenson thought highly of his hat and this br=
utal
attack upon it confirmed his gloomiest apprehensions. Now thoroughly convin=
ced
that the only thing to do was to sell his life dearly he wrenched himself
round, seized his assailant by the neck, twined his arms about his middle, =
and
accompanied him below the surface.
By the time he had
swallowed his first pint and was beginning his second, Sam was reluctantly
compelled to come to the conclusion that this was the end. The thought
irritated him unspeakably. This, he felt, was just the silly, contrary way
things always happened. Why should it be he who was perishing like this? Why
not Eustace Hignett? Now there was a fellow whom this sort of thing would j=
ust
have suited. Broken-hearted Eustace Hignett would have looked on all this a=
s a
merciful release.
He paused in his
reflections to try to disentangle the more prominent of Mr. Swenson's limbs=
from
about him. By this time he was sure that he had never met anyone he dislike=
d so
intensely as Mr. Swenson--not even his Aunt Adeline. The man was a human
octopus. Sam could count seven distinct legs twined round him and at least =
as
many arms. It seemed to him that he was being done to death in his prime by=
a
solid platoon of Swedes. He put his whole soul into one last effort ...
something seemed to give ... he was free. Pausing only to try to kick Mr.
Swenson in the face Sam shot to the surface. Something hard and sharp prodd=
ed
him in the head. Then something caught the collar of his coat; and, finally=
, spouting
like a whale, he found himself dragged upwards and over the side of a boat.=
*
The time which Sam
had spent with Mr. Swenson below the surface had been brief, but it had been
long enough to enable the whole floating population of the North River to
converge on the scene in scows, skiffs, launches, tugs and other vessels. T=
he
fact that the water in that vicinity was crested with currency had not esca=
ped
the notice of these navigators and they had gone to it as one man. First in=
the
race came the tug Reuben S. Watson, the skipper of which, following a famous
precedent, had taken his little daughter to bear him company. It was to this
fact that Marlowe really owed his rescue. Women have often a vein of sentim=
ent
in them where men can only see the hard business side of a situation; and it
was the skipper's daughter who insisted that the family boat-hook, then in =
use
as a harpoon for spearing dollar bills, should be devoted to the less
profitable but humaner end of extricating the young man from a watery grave=
.
The skipper had
grumbled a bit at first, but had given way--he always spoiled the girl--with
the result that Sam found himself sitting on the deck of the tug engaged in=
the
complicated process of restoring his faculties to the normal. In a sort of
dream he perceived Mr. Swenson rise to the surface some feet away, adjust h=
is
Derby hat, and, after one long look of dislike in his direction, swim off
rapidly to intercept a five which was floating under the stern of a near-by
skiff.
Sam sat on the de=
ck
and panted. He played on the boards like a public fountain. At the back of =
his
mind there was a flickering thought that he wanted to do something, a vague
feeling that he had some sort of an appointment which he must keep; but he =
was
unable to think what it was. Meanwhile, he conducted tentative experiments =
with
his breath. It was so long since he had last breathed that he had lost the
knack of it.
"Well, ainch=
er
wet?" said a voice.
The skipper's
daughter was standing beside him, looking down commiseratingly. Of the rest=
of
the family all he could see was the broad blue seats of their trousers as t=
hey
leaned hopefully over the side in the quest for wealth.
"Yessir! You
sure are wet! Gee! I never seen anyone so wet! I seen wet guys, but I never
seen anyone so wet as you. Yessir, you're certainly wet!"
"I am wet,&q=
uot;
admitted Sam.
"Yessir, you=
're
wet! Wet's the word all right. Good and wet, that's what you are!"
"It's the
water," said Sam. His brain was still clouded; he wished he could reme=
mber
what that appointment was. "That's what has made me wet."
"It's sure m=
ade
you wet all right," agreed the girl. She looked at him interestedly.
"Wotcha do it for?" she asked.
"Do it
for?"
"Yes, wotcha=
do
it for? How come? Wotcha do a Brodie for off'n that ship? I didn't see it
myself, but pa says you come walloping down off'n the deck like a sack of
potatoes."
Sam uttered a sha=
rp
cry. He had remembered.
"Where is
she?"
"Where's
who?"
"The
liner."
"She's off d=
own
the river, I guess. She was swinging round, the last I seen of her."
"She's not
gone?"
"Sure she's
gone. Wotcha expect her to do? She's gotta to get over to the other side, a=
in't
she? Cert'nly she's gone." She looked at him interested. "Do you =
want
to be on board her?"
"Of course I
do."
"Then, for t=
he
love of Pete, wotcha doin' walloping off'n her like a sack of potatoes?&quo=
t;
"I slipped. I
was pushed or something." Sam sprang to his feet and looked wildly abo=
ut
him. "I must get back. Isn't there any way of getting back?"
"Well, you c=
ould
catch up with her at quarantine out in the bay. She'll stop to let the pilot
off."
"Can you tak=
e me
to quarantine?"
The girl glanced
doubtfully at the seat of the nearest pair of trousers.
"Well, we
could," she said. "But pa's kind of set in his ways, and right now
he's fishing for dollar bills with the boat-hook. He's apt to get sorta mad=
if
he's interrupted."
"I'll give h=
im
fifty dollars if he'll put me on board."
"Got it on
you?" inquired the nymph coyly. She had her share of sentiment, but she
was her father's daughter and inherited from him the business sense.
"Here it
is." He pulled out his pocket-book. The book was dripping, but the
contents were only fairly moist.
"Pa!" s=
aid
the girl.
The trouser-seat
remained where it was--deaf to its child's cry.
"Pa! Commere!
Wantcha!"
The trousers did =
not
even quiver. But this girl was a girl of decision. There was some nautical =
implement
resting in a rack convenient to her hand. It was long, solid, and construct=
ed
of one of the harder forms of wood. Deftly extracting this from its place s=
he
smote her inoffensive parent on the only visible portion of him. He turned
sharply, exhibiting a red, bearded face.
"Pa, this
gen'man wants to be took aboard the boat at quarantine. He'll give you fifty
berries."
The wrath died ou=
t of
the skipper's face like the slow turning down of a lamp. The fishing had be=
en
poor, and so far he had only managed to secure a single two-dollar bill. In=
a
crisis like the one which had so suddenly arisen you cannot do yourself jus=
tice
with a boat-hook.
"Fifty
berries!"
"Fifty
seeds!" the girl assured him. "Are you on?"
"Queen,"
said the skipper simply, "you said a mouthful!"
Twenty minutes la=
ter
Sam was climbing up the side of the liner as it lay towering over the tug l=
ike
a mountain. His clothes hung about him clammily. He squelched as he walked.=
A kindly looking = old gentleman who was smoking a cigar by the rail regarded him with open eyes.<= o:p>
"My dear sir,
you're very wet," he said.
Sam passed him wi=
th a
cold face and hurried through the door leading to the companion-way.
"Mummie, why=
is
that man wet?" cried the clear voice of a little child.
Sam whizzed by,
leaping down the stairs.
"Good Lord, = sir! You're very wet!" said a steward in the doorway of the dining-saloon.<= o:p>
"You are
wet," said a stewardess in the passage.
Sam raced for his state-room. He bolted in and sank on the lounge. In the lower berth Eustace Hignett was lying with closed eyes. He opened them languidly--then stared.<= o:p>
"Hullo!"=
; he
said. "I say! You're wet."
*
Sam removed his
clinging garments and hurried into a new suit. He was in no mood for conver=
sation,
and Eustace Hignett's frank curiosity jarred upon him. Happily, at this poi=
nt,
a sudden shivering of the floor and a creaking of woodwork proclaimed the f=
act
that the vessel was under way again, and his cousin, turning pea-green, rol=
led
over on his side with a hollow moan. Sam finished buttoning his waistcoat a=
nd went
out.
He was passing the
Enquiry Bureau on the C-Deck, striding along with bent head and scowling br=
ow,
when a sudden exclamation caused him to look up, and the scowl was wiped fr=
om
his brow as with a sponge. For there stood the girl he had met on the dock.
With her was a superfluous young man who looked like a parrot.
"Oh, how are
you?" asked the girl breathlessly.
"Splendid,
thanks," said Sam.
"Didn't you =
get
very wet?"
"I did get a
little damp."
"I thought y=
ou
would," said the young man who looked like a parrot. "Directly I =
saw
you go over the side I said to myself: 'That fellow's going to get wet!'&qu=
ot;
There was a pause=
.
"Oh!" s=
aid
the girl, "may I--Mr.--?"
"Marlowe.&qu=
ot;
"Mr. Marlowe.
Mr. Bream Mortimer."
Sam smirked at the
young man. The young man smirked at Sam.
"Nearly got =
left
behind," said Bream Mortimer.
"Yes,
nearly."
"No joke get=
ting
left behind."
"No."
"Have to take
the next boat. Lose a lot of time," said Mr. Mortimer, driving home his
point.
The girl had list=
ened
to these intellectual exchanges with impatience. She now spoke again.
"Oh,
Bream!"
"Hello?"=
;
"Do be a dear
and run down to the saloon and see if it's all right about our places for
lunch."
"It is all r=
ight.
The table steward said so."
"Yes, but go=
and
make certain."
"All
right."
He hopped away and
the girl turned to Sam with shining eyes.
"Oh, Mr.
Marlowe, you oughtn't to have done it! Really, you oughtn't! You might have
been drowned! But I never saw anything so wonderful. It was like the storie=
s of
knights who used to jump into lions' dens after gloves!"
"Yes?" =
said
Sam, a little vaguely. The resemblance had not struck him. It seemed a silly
hobby and rough on the lions, too.
"It was the =
sort
of thing Sir Lancelot or Sir Galahad would have done! But you shouldn't have
bothered, really! It's all right now."
"Oh, it's all
right now?"
"Yes. I'd qu=
ite
forgotten that Mr. Mortimer was to be on board. He has given me all the mon=
ey I
shall need. You see it was this way. I had to sail on this boat in rather a
hurry. Father's head clerk was to have gone to the bank and got some money =
and
met me on board and given it to me, but the silly old man was late, and whe=
n he
got to the dock they had just pulled in the gang-plank. So he tried to throw
the money to me in a handkerchief and it fell into the water. But you shoul=
dn't
have dived in after it."
"Oh, well!&q=
uot;
said Sam, straightening his tie, with a quiet brave smile. He had never
expected to feel grateful to that obese bounder who had shoved him off the
rail, but now he would have liked to seek him out and offer him his bank-ro=
ll.
"You really =
are
the bravest man I ever met!"
"Oh, no!&quo=
t;
"How modest =
you
are! But I suppose all brave men are modest!"
"I was only =
too
delighted at what looked like a chance of doing you a service."
"It was the
extraordinary quickness of it that was so wonderful. I do admire presence of
mind. You didn't hesitate for a second. You just shot over the side as thou=
gh
propelled by some irresistible force!"
"It was noth=
ing,
nothing really. One just happens to have the knack of keeping one's head and
acting quickly on the spur of the moment. Some people have it, some
haven't."
"And just th=
ink!
As Bream was saying...."
"It is all
right," said Mr. Mortimer, re-appearing suddenly. "I saw a couple=
of
stewards and they both said it was all right. So it's all right."
"Splendid,&q=
uot;
said the girl. "Oh, Bream!"
"Hello?"=
;
"Do be an an=
gel
and run along to my stateroom and see if Pinky-Boodles is quite
comfortable."
"Bound to
be."
"Yes. But do=
go.
He may be feeling lonely. Chirrup to him a little."
"Chirrup?&qu=
ot;
"Yes, to che=
er
him up."
"Oh, all
right."
"Run
along!"
Mr. Mortimer ran
along. He had the air of one who feels that he only needs a peaked cap and a
uniform two sizes too small for him to be a properly equipped messenger boy=
.
"And, as Bre=
am
was saying," resumed the girl, "you might have been left behind.&=
quot;
"That,"
said Sam, edging a step closer, "was the thought that tortured me, the
thought that a friendship so delightfully begun...."
"But it hadn=
't
begun. We have never spoken to each other before now."
"Have you
forgotten? On the dock...."
Sudden enlightenm=
ent
came into her eyes.
"Oh, you are=
the
man poor Pinky-Boodles bit!"
"The lucky m=
an!"
Her face clouded.=
"Poor Pinky =
is
feeling the motion of the boat a little. It's his first voyage."
"I shall alw=
ays
remember that it was Pinky who first brought us together. Would you care fo=
r a
stroll on deck?"
"Not just no=
w,
thanks. I must be getting back to my room to finish unpacking. After lunch,
perhaps."
"I will be
there. By the way, you know my name, but...."
"Oh, mine?&q=
uot;
She smiled brightly. "It's funny that a person's name is the last thing
one thinks of asking. Mine is Bennett."
"Bennett!&qu=
ot;
"Wilhelmina
Bennett. My friends," she said softly as she turned away, "call me
Billie!"
For some moments Sam remained where=
he
was staring after the girl as she flitted down the passage. He felt dizzy.
Mental acrobatics always have an unsettling effect, and a young man may be
excused for feeling a little dizzy when he is called upon suddenly and with=
out
any warning to readjust all his preconceived views on any subject. Listenin=
g to
Eustace Hignett's story of his blighted romance, Sam had formed an unflatte=
ring
opinion of this Wilhelmina Bennett who had broken off her engagement simply
because on the day of the marriage his cousin had been short of the necessa=
ry
wedding garment. He had, indeed, thought a little smugly how different his =
goddess
of the red hair was from the object of Eustace Hignett's affections. And how
they had proved to be one and the same. It was disturbing. It was like sudd=
enly
finding the vampire of a five-reel feature film turn into the heroine.
Some men, on maki=
ng
the discovery of this girl's identity, might have felt that Providence had
intervened to save them from a disastrous entanglement. This point of view
never occurred to Samuel Marlowe. The way he looked at it was that he had b=
een
all wrong about Wilhelmina Bennett. Eustace, he felt, had been to blame
throughout. If this girl had maltreated Eustace's finer feelings, then her
reason for doing so must have been excellent and praiseworthy.
After all ... poor
old Eustace ... quite a good fellow, no doubt in many ways ... but, coming =
down
to brass tacks, what was there about Eustace that gave him any license to
monopolise the affections of a wonderful girl? Where, in a word, did Eustace
Hignett get off? He made a tremendous grievance of the fact that she had br=
oken
off the engagement, but what right had he to go about the place expecting h=
er to
be engaged to him? Eustace Hignett, no doubt, looked upon the poor girl as
utterly heartless. Marlowe regarded her behaviour as thoroughly sensible. S=
he
had made a mistake, and, realising this at the eleventh hour, she had had t=
he
force of character to correct it. He was sorry for poor old Eustace, but he
really could not permit the suggestion that Wilhelmina Bennett--her friends
called her Billie--had not behaved in a perfectly splendid way throughout. =
It
was women like Wilhelmina Bennett--Billie to her intimates--who made the wo=
rld
worth living in.
Her friends called
her Billie. He did not blame them. It was a delightful name and suited her =
to
perfection. He practised it a few times. "Billie ... Billie ...
Billie...." It certainly ran pleasantly off the tongue. "Billie
Bennett." Very musical. "Billie Marlowe." Still better. &quo=
t;We
noticed among those present the charming and popular Mrs. 'Billie'
Marlowe."
A consuming desir=
e came
over him to talk about the girl to someone. Obviously indicated as the part=
y of
the second part was Eustace Hignett. If Eustace was still capable of
speech--and after all the boat was hardly rolling at all--he would enjoy a
further chat about his ruined life. Besides, he had another reason for seek=
ing
Eustace's society. As a man who had been actually engaged to marry this sup=
reme
girl, Eustace Hignett had an attraction for Sam akin to that of some great
public monument. He had become a sort of shrine. He had taken on a glamour.=
Sam
entered the state-room almost reverentially with something of the emotions =
of a
boy going into his first dime museum.
The exhibit was l=
ying
on his back staring at the roof of the berth. By lying absolutely still and
forcing himself to think of purely inland scenes and objects he had contriv=
ed
to reduce the green in his complexion to a mere tinge. But it would be
paltering with the truth to say that he felt debonair. He received Sam with=
a
wan austerity.
"Sit down!&q= uot; he said. "Don't stand there swaying like that. I can't bear it."<= o:p>
"Why, we are=
n't
out of the harbour yet. Surely you aren't going to be sea-sick already.&quo=
t;
"I can issue=
no
positive guarantee. Perhaps if I can keep my mind off it ... I have had good
results for the last ten minutes by thinking steadily of the Sahara.
There," said Eustace Hignett with enthusiasm, "is a place for you!
That is something like a spot! Miles and miles of sand and not a drop of wa=
ter
anywhere!"
Sam sat down on t=
he
lounge.
"You're quit=
e right.
The great thing is to concentrate your mind on other topics. Why not, for
instance, tell me some more about your unfortunate affair with that
girl--Billie Bennett I think you said her name was."
"Wilhelmina
Bennett. Where on earth did you get the idea that her name was Billie?"=
;
"I had a not= ion that girls called Wilhelmina were sometimes Billie to their friends."<= o:p>
"I never call
her anything but Wilhelmina. But I really cannot talk about it. The
recollection tortures me."
"That's just
what you want. It's the counter-irritation principle. Persevere and you'll =
soon
forget that you're on board ship at all."
"There's
something in that," admitted Eustace reflectively. "It's very goo=
d of
you to be so sympathetic and interested."
"My dear fel=
low
... anything that I can do ... where did you meet her first, for
instance?"
"At a
dinner...." Eustace Hignett broke off abruptly. He had a good memory a=
nd
he had just recollected the fish they had served at that dinner--a flabby a=
nd
exhausted looking fish, half sunk beneath the surface of a thick white sauc=
e.
"And what st=
ruck
you most forcibly about her at first? Her lovely hair, I suppose?"
"How did you
know she had lovely hair?"
"My dear cha=
p, I
naturally assumed that any girl with whom you fell in love would have nice
hair."
"Well, you a=
re
perfectly right, as it happens. Her hair was remarkably beautiful. It was
red...."
"Like autumn
leaves with the sun on them!" said Marlowe ecstatically.
"What an
extraordinary thing! That is an absolutely exact description. Her eyes were=
a
deep blue...."
"Or, rather,
green."
"Blue."=
"Green. Ther=
e is
a shade of green that looks blue."
"What the de=
vil
do you know about the colour of her eyes?" demanded Eustace heatedly.
"Am I telling you about her, or are you telling me?"
"My dear old
man, don't get excited. Don't you see I am trying to construct this girl in=
my
imagination, to visualise her? I don't pretend to doubt your special knowle=
dge,
but after all green eyes generally do go with red hair and there are all sh=
ades
of green. There is the bright green of meadow grass, the dull green of the
uncut emerald, the faint yellowish green of your face at the present moment=
...."
"Don't talk
about the colour of my face! Now you've gone and reminded me just when I was
beginning to forget."
"Awfully sor=
ry!
Stupid of me! Get your mind off it again--quick! What were you saying? Oh, =
yes,
this girl. I always think it helps one to form a mental picture of people if
one knows something about their tastes--what sort of things they are intere=
sted
in, their favourite topics of conversation, and so on. This Miss Bennett no=
w,
what did she like talking about?"
"Oh, all sor=
ts
of things."
"Yes, but
what?"
"Well, for o=
ne
thing she was very fond of poetry. It was that which first drew us together=
."
"Poetry!&quo=
t;
Sam's heart sank a little. He had read a certain amount of poetry at school,
and once he had won a prize of three shillings and sixpence for the last li=
ne
of a limerick in a competition in a weekly paper, but he was self-critic en=
ough
to know that poetry was not his long suit. Still there was a library on boa=
rd
ship and no doubt it would be possible to borrow the works of some standard
poet and bone them up from time to time.
"Any special
poet?"
"Well, she
seemed to like my stuff. You never read my sonnet-sequence on Spring, did
you?"
"No. What ot=
her
poets did she like besides you?"
"Tennyson
principally," said Eustace Hignett with a reminiscent quiver in his vo=
ice.
"The hours we have spent together reading the Idylls of the King!"=
;
"The which of
what?" enquired Sam, taking a pencil from his pocket and shooting out a
cuff.
"The Idylls =
of
the King. My good man, I know you have a soul which would be considered
inadequate by a common earthworm, but you have surely heard of Tennyson's
Idylls of the King?"
"Oh, those! =
Why,
my dear old chap; Tennyson's Idylls of the King! Well, I should say! Have I
heard of Tennyson's Idylls of the King? Well, really! I suppose you haven't=
a
copy with you on board by any chance?"
"There is a =
copy
in my kit-bag. The very one we used to read together. Take it and keep it or
throw it overboard. I don't want to see it again."
Sam prospected am=
ong
the shirts, collars and trousers in the bag and presently came upon a
morocco-bound volume. He laid it beside him on the lounge.
"Little by
little, bit by bit," he said, "I am beginning to form a sort of
picture of this girl, this--what was her name again? Bennett--this Miss
Bennett. You have a wonderful knack of description. You make her seem so re=
al
and vivid. Tell me some more about her. She wasn't keen on golf, by any cha=
nce,
I suppose?"
"I believe s=
he
did play. The subject came up once and she seemed rather enthusiastic.
Why?"
"Well, I'd m=
uch
sooner talk to a girl about golf than poetry."
"You are har=
dly
likely to be in a position to have to talk to Wilhelmina Bennett about eith=
er,
I should imagine."
"No, there's
that, of course. I was thinking of girls in general. Some girls bar golf, a=
nd
then it's rather difficult to know how to start conversation. But, tell me,=
were
there any topics which got on Miss Bennett's nerves, if you know what I mea=
n?
It seems to me that at one time or another you may have said something that
offended her. I mean, it seems curious that she should have broken off the engagement if =
you
had never disagreed or quarrelled about anything."
"Well, of
course, there was always the matter of that dog of hers. She had a dog, you
know, a snappy brute of a Pekingese. If there was ever any shadow of
disagreement between us, it had to do with that dog. I made rather a point =
of
it that I would not have it about the home after we were married."
"I see!"
said Sam. He shot his cuff once more and wrote on it: "Dog-conciliate.=
"
"Yes, of cou=
rse,
that must have wounded her."
"Not half so
much as he wounded me! He pinned me by the ankle the day before we--Wilhelm=
ina
and I, I mean--were to have been married. It is some satisfaction to me in =
my
broken state to remember that I got home on the little beast with considera=
ble
juiciness and lifted him clean over the Chesterfield."
Sam shook his head
reprovingly.
"You shouldn=
't
have done that!" he said. He extended his cuff and added the words
"Vitally important" to what he had just written. "It was pro=
bably
that which decided her."
"Well, I hate
dogs," said Eustace Hignett querulously. "I remember Wilhelmina o=
nce
getting quite annoyed with me because I refused to step in and separate a
couple of the brutes, absolute strangers to me, who were fighting in the
street. I reminded her that we were all fighters now-a-ways, that life itse=
lf
was in a sense a fight: but she wouldn't be reasonable about it. She said t=
hat
Sir Galahad would have done it like a shot. I thought not. We have no evide=
nce
whatsoever that Sir Galahad was ever called upon to do anything half as
dangerous. And, anyway, he wore armour. Give me a suit of mail reaching well
down over the ankles, and I will willingly intervene in a hundred dog fight=
s.
But in thin flannel trousers no!"
Sam rose. His hea=
rt
was light. He had never, of course, supposed that the girl was anything but
perfect; but it was nice to find his high opinion of her corroborated by one
who had no reason to exhibit her in a favourable light. He understood her p=
oint
of view and sympathised with it. An idealist, how could she trust herself t=
o Eustace
Hignett? How could she be content with a craven who, instead of scouring th=
e world
in the quest for deeds of daring do, had fallen down so lamentably on his f=
irst
assignment? There was a specious attractiveness about poor old Eustace which
might conceivably win a girl's heart for a time; he wrote poetry, talked we=
ll,
and had a nice singing voice; but, as a partner for life ... well, he simply
wouldn't do. That was all there was to it. He simply didn't add up right. T=
he
man a girl like Wilhelmina Bennett required for a husband was somebody enti=
rely
different ... somebody, felt Samuel Marlowe, much more like Samuel Marlowe.=
Swelled almost to
bursting-point with these reflections, he went on deck to join the
ante-luncheon promenade. He saw Billie almost at once. She had put on one of
these nice sacky sport-coats which so enhance feminine charms, and was stri=
ding
along the deck with the breeze playing in her vivid hair like the female
equivalent of a Viking. Beside her walked young Mr. Bream Mortimer.
Sam had been feel=
ing
a good deal of a fellow already, but at the sight of her welcoming smile his
self-esteem almost caused him to explode. What magic there is in a girl's
smile! It is the raisin which, dropped in the yeast of male complacency,
induces fermentation.
"Oh, there y=
ou
are, Mr. Marlowe!"
"Oh, there y=
ou
are," said Bream Mortimer, with a slightly different inflection.
"I thought I=
'd
like a breath of fresh air before lunch," said Sam.
"Oh,
Bream!" said the girl.
"Hello?"=
;
"Do be a dar=
ling
and take this great heavy coat of mine down to my state-room will you? I ha=
d no
idea it was so warm."
"I'll carry
it," said Bream.
"Nonsense. I
wouldn't dream of burdening you with it. Trot along and put it on the berth=
. It
doesn't matter about folding it up."
"All
right," said Bream moodily.
He trotted along.
There are moments when a man feels that all he needs in order to be a deliv=
ery
wagon is a horse and a driver.
"He had bett=
er
chirrup to the dog while he's there, don't you think?" suggested Sam. =
He
felt that a resolute man with legs as long as Bream's might well deposit a
cloak on a berth and be back under the half-minute.
"Oh, yes!
Bream!"
"Hello?"=
;
"While you're
down there just chirrup a little more to poor Pinky. He does appreciate it
so!"
Bream disappeared=
. It
is not always easy to interpret emotion from a glance at a man's back; but
Bream's back looked like that of a man to whom the thought has occurred tha=
t,
given a couple of fiddles and a piano, he would have made a good hired
orchestra.
"How is your
dear little dog, by the way?" enquired Sam solicitously, as he fell in=
to
step by her side.
"Much better
now, thanks. I've made friends with a girl on board--did you ever hear her
name--Jane Hubbard--she's a rather well-known big-game hunter and she fixed=
up
some sort of a mixture for Pinky which did him a world of good. I don't know
what was in it except Worcester Sauce, but she said she always gave it to h=
er
mules in Africa when they had the botts ... it's very nice of you to speak =
so
affectionately of poor Pinky when he bit you."
"Animal
spirits!" said Sam tolerantly. "Pure animal spirits! I like to see
them. But, of course, I love all dogs."
"Oh, do you?=
So
do I!"
"I only wish
they didn't fight so much. I'm always stopping dog fights."
"I do admire=
a
man who knows what to do at a dog fight. I'm afraid I'm rather helpless mys=
elf.
There never seems anything to catch hold of." She looked down. "H=
ave
you been reading? What is the book?"
"It's a volu=
me
of Tennyson."
"Are you fon=
d of
Tennyson?"
"I worship
him," said Sam reverently. "Those--" he glanced at his cuff-=
-"those
Idylls of the King! I do not like to think what an ocean voyage would be if=
I
had not my Tennyson with me."
"We must read
him together. He is my favourite poet!"
"We will! Th=
ere
is something about Tennyson...."
"Yes, isn't
there! I've felt that myself so often!"
"Some poets =
are
whales at epics and all that sort of thing, while others call it a day when
they've written something that runs to a couple of verses, but where Tennys=
on
had the bulge was that his long game was just as good as his short. He was
great off the tee and a marvel with his chip-shots."
"That sounds=
as
though you played golf."
"When I am n=
ot
reading Tennyson, you can generally find me out on the links. Do you
play?"
"I love it. =
How
extraordinary that we should have so much in common. We really ought to be
great friends."
He was pausing to
select the best of three replies when the lunch bugle sounded.
"Oh, dear!&q=
uot;
she cried. "I must rush. But we shall see one another again up here
afterwards?"
"We will,&qu=
ot;
said Sam.
"We'll sit a=
nd
read Tennyson."
"Fine! Er--y=
ou
and I and Mortimer?"
"Oh, no, Bre=
am
is going to sit down below and look after poor Pinky."
"Does he--do=
es
he know he is?"
"Not yet,&qu=
ot;
said Billie. "I'm going to tell him at lunch."
It was the fourth morning of the vo=
yage.
Of course, when this story is done in the movies they won't be satisfied wi=
th a
bald statement like that; they will have a Spoken Title or a Cut-Back
Sub-Caption or whatever they call the thing in the low dens where
motion-picture scenario-lizards do their dark work, which will run:--
AND SO, CALM AND GOLDE=
N, THE
DAYS WENT B=
Y,
EACH FRAUGHT WITH HOPE AND YOUTH AND SWEETNESS, LI=
NKING
TWO YOUNG H=
EARTS
IN SILKEN FETTERS FORGED BY THE LAUGHING LOVE-GOD=
.
and the males in =
the
audience will shift their chewing gum to the other cheek and take a firmer =
grip
of their companions' hands and the man at the piano will play "Everybo=
dy
wants a key to my cellar" or something equally appropriate, very soulf=
ully
and slowly, with a wistful eye on the half-smoked cigarette which he has pa=
rked
on the lowest octave and intends finishing as soon as the picture is over. =
But
I prefer the plain frank statement that it was the fourth day of the voyage.
That is my story and I mean to stick to it.
Samuel Marlowe,
muffled in a bathrobe, came back to the stateroom from his tub. His manner =
had
the offensive jauntiness of the man who has had a cold bath when he might j=
ust
as easily have had a hot one. He looked out of the porthole at the shimmeri=
ng
sea. He felt strong and happy and exuberant.
It was not merely=
the
spiritual pride induced by a cold bath that was uplifting this young man. T=
he
fact was that, as he towelled his glowing back, he had suddenly come to the
decision that this very day he would propose to Wilhelmina Bennett. Yes, he
would put his fortune to the test, to win or lose it all. True, he had only
known her for four days, but what of that?
Nothing in the wa=
y of
modern progress is more remarkable than the manner in which the attitude of
your lover has changed concerning proposals of marriage. When Samuel Marlow=
e's
grandfather had convinced himself, after about a year and a half of respect=
ful
aloofness, that the emotion which he felt towards Samuel Marlowe's
grandmother-to-be was love, the fashion of the period compelled him to appr=
oach
the matter in a roundabout way. First, he spent an evening or two singing
sentimental ballads, she accompanying him on the piano and the rest of the
family sitting on the side-lines to see that no rough stuff was pulled. Hav=
ing noted
that she drooped her eyelashes and turned faintly pink when he came to the
"Thee--only thee!" bit, he felt a mild sense of encouragement, st=
rong
enough to justify him in taking her sister aside next day and asking if the
object of his affections ever happened to mention his name in the course of
conversation. Further pour-parlers having passed with her aunt, two more
sisters, and her little brother, he felt that the moment had arrived when he
might send her a volume of Shelley, with some of the passages marked in pen=
cil.
A few weeks later, he interviewed her father and obtained his consent to the
paying of his addresses. And finally, after writing her a letter which began
"Madam! you will not have been insensible to the fact that for some ti=
me
past you have inspired in my bosom feelings deeper than those of ordinary f=
riendship...."
he waylaid her in the rose-garden and brought the thing off.
How different is =
the
behaviour of the modern young man. His courtship can hardly be called a
courtship at all. His methods are those of Sir W. S. Gilbert's Alphonso.
"Alphonso, who fo=
r cool
assurance all creation licks, He up and said to=
Emily
who has cheek enough for six: 'Miss Emily, I lo=
ve
you. Will you marry? Say the word!' And Emily said:
'Certainly, Alphonso, like a bird!'"
Sam Marlowe was a
warm supporter of the Alphonso method. He was a bright young man and did not
require a year to make up his mind that Wilhelmina Bennett had been set apa=
rt
by Fate from the beginning of time to be his bride. He had known it from the
moment he saw her on the dock, and all the subsequent strolling, reading,
talking, soup-drinking, tea-drinking, and shuffle-board-playing which they =
had
done together had merely solidified his original impression. He loved this =
girl
with all the force of a fiery nature--the fiery nature of the Marlowes was =
a byword
in Bruton Street, Berkeley Square--and something seemed to whisper that she
loved him. At any rate she wanted somebody like Sir Galahad, and, without
wishing to hurl bouquets at himself, he could not see where she could possi=
bly
get anyone liker Sir Galahad than himself. So, wind and weather permitting,
Samuel Marlowe intended to propose to Wilhelmina Bennett this very day.
He let down the t=
rick
basin which hung beneath the mirror and, collecting his shaving materials,
began to lather his face.
"I am the
Bandolero!" sang Sam blithely through the soap, "I am, I am the
Bandolero! Yes, yes, I am the Bandolero!"
The untidy heap of
bedclothes in the lower berth stirred restlessly.
"Oh, God!&qu=
ot;
said Eustace Hignett thrusting out a tousled head.
Sam regarded his
cousin with commiseration. Horrid things had been happening to Eustace duri=
ng
the last few days, and it was quite a pleasant surprise each morning to find
that he was still alive.
"Feeling bad
again, old man?"
"I was feeli=
ng
all right," replied Hignett churlishly, "until you began the farm=
yard
imitations. What sort of a day is it?"
"Glorious! T=
he
sea...."
"Don't talk
about the sea!"
"Sorry! The =
sun
is shining brighter than it has ever shone in the history of the race. Why
don't you get up?"
"Nothing will
induce me to get up."
"Well, go a
regular buster and have an egg for breakfast."
Eustace Hignett
shuddered.
"Do you thin=
k I
am an ostrich?" He eyed Sam sourly. "You seem devilish pleased wi=
th
yourself this morning!"
Sam dried the raz=
or
carefully and put it away. He hesitated. Then the desire to confide in some=
body
got the better of him.
"The fact
is," he said apologetically, "I'm in love!"
"In love!&qu=
ot;
Eustace Hignett sat up and bumped his head sharply against the berth above =
him.
"Has this been going on long?"
"Ever since =
the
voyage started."
"I think you
might have told me," said Eustace reproachfully. "I told you my
troubles. Why did you not let me know that this awful thing had come upon
you?"
"Well, as a
matter of fact, old man, during these last few days I had a notion that your
mind was, so to speak, occupied elsewhere."
"Who is
she?"
"Oh, a girl I
met on board."
"Don't do
it!" said Eustace Hignett solemnly. "As a friend I entreat you no=
t to
do it! Take my advice, as a man who knows women, and don't do it!"
"Don't do
what?"
"Propose to =
her.
I can tell by the glitter in your eye that you are intending to propose to =
this
girl--probably this morning. Don't do it. Women are the devil, whether they
marry you or jilt you. Do you realise that women wear black evening dresses
that have to be hooked up in a hurry when you are late for the theatre, and
that, out of sheer wanton malignity, the hooks and eyes on those dresses are
also made black? Do you realise...?"
"Oh, I've
thought it all out."
"And take the
matter of children. How would you like to become the father--and a mere gla=
nce
around you will show you that the chances are enormously in favour of such a
thing happening--of a boy with spectacles and protruding front teeth who as=
ks
questions all the time? Out of six small boys whom I saw when I came on boa=
rd,
four wore spectacles and had teeth like rabbits. The other two were equally=
revolting
in different styles. How would you like to become the father...?"
"There is no
need to be indelicate," said Sam stiffly. "A man must take these
chances."
"Give her the
miss in baulk," pleaded Hignett. "Stay down here for the rest of =
the
voyage. You can easily dodge her when you get to Southampton. And, if she s=
ends
messages, say you're ill and can't be disturbed."
Sam gazed at him,
revolted. More than ever he began to understand how it was that a girl with
ideals had broken off her engagement with this man. He finished dressing, a=
nd,
after a satisfying breakfast, went on deck.
*
It was, as he had
said, a glorious morning. The sample which he had had through the porthole =
had
not prepared him for the magic of it. The ship swam in a vast bowl of the
purest blue on an azure carpet flecked with silver. It was a morning which
impelled a man to great deeds, a morning which shouted to him to chuck his
chest out and be romantic. The sight of Billie Bennett, trim and gleaming i=
n a
pale green sweater and a white skirt had the effect of causing Marlowe to a=
lter
the programme which he had sketched out. Proposing to this girl was not a t=
hing
to be put off till after lunch. It was a thing to be done now and at once. =
The finest
efforts of the finest cooks in the world could not put him in better form t=
han
he felt at present.
"Good mornin=
g,
Miss Bennett."
"Good mornin=
g,
Mr. Marlowe."
"Isn't it a =
perfect
day?"
"Wonderful!&=
quot;
"It makes all
the difference on board ship if the weather is fine."
"Yes, doesn't
it?"
"Shall we wa=
lk
round?" said Billie.
Sam glanced about
him. It was the time of day when the promenade deck was always full. Passen=
gers
in cocoons of rugs lay on chairs, waiting in a dull trance till the steward
should arrive with the eleven o'clock soup. Others, more energetic, strode =
up
and down. From the point of view of a man who wished to reveal his most sac=
red
feelings to a beautiful girl, the place was practically Fifth Avenue and
Forty-second Street.
"It's so
crowded," he said. "Let's go on to the upper deck."
"All right. =
You
can read to me. Go and fetch your Tennyson."
Sam felt that for=
tune
was playing into his hands. His four-days' acquaintance with the bard had b=
een
sufficient to show him that the man was there forty ways when it came to
writing about love. You could open his collected works almost anywhere and =
shut
your eyes and dab down your finger on some red-hot passage. A proposal of
marriage is a thing which it is rather difficult to bring neatly into the
ordinary run of conversation. It wants leading up to. But, if you once start
reading poetry, especially Tennyson's, almost anything is apt to give you y=
our cue.
He bounded light-heartedly into the state-room, waking Eustace Hignett from=
an
uneasy dose.
"Now what?&q=
uot;
said Eustace.
"Where's that
copy of Tennyson you gave me? I left it--ah, here it is. Well, see you
later!"
"Wait! What =
are
you going to do?"
"Oh, that gi=
rl I
told you about," said Sam making for the door. "She wants me to r=
ead
Tennyson to her on the upper deck."
"Tennyson?&q=
uot;
"Yes."<= o:p>
"On the upper
deck?"
"That's the
spot."
"This is the
end," said Eustace Hignett, turning his face to the wall.
Sam raced up the =
companion-way
as far as it went; then, going out on deck, climbed a flight of steps and f=
ound
himself in the only part of the ship which was ever even comparatively priv=
ate.
The main herd of passengers preferred the promenade deck, two layers below.=
He threaded his w=
ay
through a maze of boats, ropes, and curious-shaped steel structures which t=
he
architect of the ship seemed to have tacked on at the last moment in a spir=
it
of sheer exuberance. Above him towered one of the funnels, before him a lon=
g,
slender mast. He hurried on, and presently came upon Billie sitting on a ga=
rden
seat, backed by the white roof of the smoke-room; beside this was a small d=
eck
which seemed to have lost its way and strayed up here all by itself. It was=
the
deck on which one could occasionally see the patients playing an odd game w=
ith
long sticks and bits of wood--not shuffleboard but something even lower in =
the
mental scale. This morning, however, the devotees of this pastime were
apparently under proper restraint, for the deck was empty.
"This is
jolly," he said, sitting down beside the girl and drawing a deep breat=
h of
satisfaction.
"Yes, I love
this deck. It's so peaceful."
"It's the on=
ly
part of the ship where you can be reasonably sure of not meeting stout men =
in
flannels and nautical caps. An ocean voyage always makes me wish that I had=
a
private yacht."
"It would be
nice."
"A private
yacht," repeated Sam sliding a trifle closer. "We would sail abou=
t,
visiting desert islands which lay like jewels in the heart of tropic
seas."
"We?"
"Most certai=
nly
we. It wouldn't be any fun if you were not there."
"That's very
complimentary."
"Well, it
wouldn't. I'm not fond of girls as a rule...."
"Oh, aren't
you?"
"No!" s=
aid
Sam decidedly. It was a point which he wished to make clear at the outset.
"Not at all fond. My friends have often remarked upon it. A palmist on=
ce
told me that I had one of those rare spiritual natures which cannot be
satisfied with substitutes but must seek and seek till they find their
soul-mate. When other men all round me were frittering away their emotions =
in
idle flirtations which did not touch their deeper natures, I was ... I was =
...
well, I wasn't, if you see what I mean."
"Oh, you was=
n't
... weren't--?"
"No. Some da=
y I
knew I should meet the only girl I could possibly love, and then I would po=
ur
out upon her the stored-up devotion of a lifetime, lay an unblemished heart=
at
her feet, fold her in my arms and say 'At last!'"
"How jolly f=
or
her. Like having a circus all to oneself."
"Well,
yes," said Sam after a momentary pause.
"When I was a
child I always thought that that would be the most wonderful thing in the
world."
"The most
wonderful thing in the world is love, a pure and consuming love, a love
which...."
"Oh,
hello!" said a voice.
All through this
scene, right from the very beginning of it, Sam had not been able to rid
himself of a feeling that there was something missing. The time and the pla=
ce
and the girl--they were all present and correct; nevertheless there was
something missing, some familiar object which seemed to leave a gap. He now
perceived that what had caused the feeling was the complete absence of Bream
Mortimer. He was absent no longer. He was standing in front of them with one
leg, his head lowered as if he were waiting for someone to scratch it. Sam's
primary impulse was to offer him a nut.
"Oh, hello,
Bream!" said Billie.
"Hullo!"
said Sam.
"Hullo!"
said Bream Mortimer. "Here you are!"
There was a pause=
.
"I thought y=
ou
might be here," said Bream.
"Yes, here we
are," said Billie.
"Yes, we're
here," said Sam.
There was another
pause.
"Mind if I j=
oin
you?" said Bream.
"N-no,"
said Billie.
"N-no,"
said Sam.
"No," s=
aid
Billie again. "No ... that is to say ... oh no, not at all."
There was a third
pause.
"On second
thoughts," said Bream, "I believe I'll take a stroll on the prome=
nade
deck, if you don't mind."
They said they did
not mind. Bream Mortimer, having bumped his head twice against overhanging
steel ropes, melted away.
"Who is that
fellow?" demanded Sam wrathfully.
"He's the so=
n of
father's best friend."
Sam started. Some=
how
this girl had always been so individual to him that he had never thought of=
her
having a father.
"We have kno=
wn
each other all our lives," continued Billie. "Father thinks a
tremendous lot of Bream. I suppose it was because Bream was sailing by her =
that
father insisted on my coming over on this boat. I'm in disgrace, you know. I
was cabled for and had to sail at a few days' notice. I...."
"Oh,
hello!"
"Why,
Bream!" said Billie, looking at him as he stood on the old spot in the
same familiar attitude with rather less affection than the son of her fathe=
r's
best friend might have expected. "I thought you said you were going do=
wn
to the Promenade Deck."
"I did go do=
wn
to the promenade deck. And I'd hardly got there when a fellow who's getting=
up
the ship's concert to-morrow night nobbled me to do a couple of songs. He
wanted to know if I knew anyone else who would help. I came up to ask
you," he said to Sam, "if you would do something."
"No," s=
aid
Sam. "I won't."
"He's got a =
man
who's going to lecture on deep-sea fish and a couple of women who both want=
to
sing 'The Rosary' but he's still an act or two short. Sure you won't rally
round?"
"Quite
sure."
"Oh, all
right." Bream Mortimer hovered wistfully above them. "It's a great
morning, isn't it?"
"Yes," =
said
Sam.
"Oh,
Bream!" said Billie.
"Hello?"=
;
"Do be a pet=
and
go and talk to Jane Hubbard. I'm sure she must be feeling lonely. I left her
all by herself down on the next deck."
A look of alarm
spread itself over Bream's face.
"Jane Hubbar=
d!
Oh, say, have a heart!"
"She's a very
nice girl."
"She's so da=
rned
dynamic. She looks at you as if you were a giraffe or something and she wou=
ld
like to take a pot at you with a rifle."
"Nonsense! R=
un along.
Get her to tell you some of her big-game hunting experiences. They are most
interesting."
Bream drifted sad=
ly
away.
"I don't bla=
me
Miss Hubbard," said Sam.
"What do you
mean?"
"Looking at =
him
as if she wanted to pot at him with a rifle. I should like to do it myself.
What were you saying when he came up?"
"Oh, don't l=
et's
talk about me. Read me some Tennyson."
Sam opened the bo=
ok
very willingly. Infernal Bream Mortimer had absolutely shot to pieces the s=
pell
which had begun to fall on them at the beginning of their conversation. Onl=
y by
reading poetry, it seemed to him, could it be recovered. And when he saw the
passage at which the volume had opened he realised that his luck was in. Go=
od
old Tennyson! He was all right. He had the stuff. You could send him to hit=
in
a pinch every time with the comfortable knowledge that he would not strike =
out.
He cleared his
throat.
"'Oh let the solid
ground Not f=
ail
beneath my feet Before my life has
found What =
some
have found so sweet; Then let come what come may, =
What matter if I =
go
mad, I shal=
l have
had my day.
Let the sweet heavens
endure, Not c=
lose
and darken above me Before I am quite=
quite
sure That =
there
is one to love me....'"
This was absolute=
ly topping.
It was like diving off a spring-board. He could see the girl sitting with a
soft smile on her face, her eyes, big and dreamy, gazing out over the sunlit
sea. He laid down the book and took her hand.
"There is
something," he began in a low voice, "which I have been trying to=
say
ever since we met, something which I think you must have read in my eyes.&q=
uot;
Her head was bent.
She did not withdraw her hand.
"Until this
voyage began," he went on, "I did not know what life meant. And t=
hen
I saw you! It was like the gate of heaven opening. You're the dearest girl I
ever met, and you can bet I'll never forget...." He stopped. "I'm=
not
trying to make it rhyme," he said apologetically. "Billie, don't
think me silly ... I mean ... if you had the merest notion, dearest ... I d=
on't
know what's the matter with me ... Billie, darling, you are the only girl in
the world! I have been looking for you for years and years and I have found=
you
at last, my soul-mate. Surely this does not come as a surprise to you? That=
is,
I mean, you must have seen that I've been keen ... There's that damned Walt
Mason stuff again!" His eyes fell on the volume beside him and he utte=
red
an exclamation of enlightenment. "It's those poems!" he cried.
"I've been boning them up to such an extent that they've got me doing =
it
too. What I'm trying to say is, Will you marry me?"
She was drooping
towards him. Her face was very sweet and tender, her eyes misty. He slid an=
arm
about her waist. She raised her lips to his.
*
Suddenly she drew
herself away, a cloud on her face.
"Darling,&qu=
ot;
she said, "I've a confession to make."
"A confessio=
n?
You? Nonsense!"
"I can't get=
rid
of a horrible thought. I was wondering if this will last."
"Our love? D=
on't
be afraid that it will fade ... I mean ... why, it's so vast, it's bound to
last ... that is to say, of course, it will."
She traced a patt=
ern
on the deck with her shoe.
"I'm afraid =
of
myself. You see, once before--and it was not so very long ago,--I thought I=
had
met my ideal, but...."
Sam laughed heart=
ily.
"Are you
worrying about that absurd business of poor old Eustace Hignett?"
She started
violently.
"You know!&q=
uot;
"Of course! =
He
told me himself."
"Do you know
him? Where did you meet him?"
"I've known =
him
all my life. He's my cousin. As a matter of fact, we are sharing a stateroo=
m on
board now."
"Eustace is =
on
board! Oh, this is awful! What shall I do when I meet him?"
"Oh, pass it=
off
with a light laugh and a genial quip. Just say: 'Oh, here you are!' or some=
thing.
You know the sort of thing."
"It will be
terrible."
"Not a bit of
it. Why should you feel embarrassed? He must have realised by now that you
acted in the only possible way. It was absurd his ever expecting you to mar=
ry
him. I mean to say, just look at it dispassionately ... Eustace ... poor old Eustace ... and you! =
The Princess
and the Swineherd!"
"Does Mr.
Hignett keep pigs?" she asked, surprised.
"I mean that
poor old Eustace is so far below you, darling, that, with the most charitab=
le
intentions, one can only look on his asking you to marry him in the light o=
f a
record exhibition of pure nerve. A dear, good fellow, of course, but hopele=
ss
where the sterner realities of life are concerned. A man who can't even sto=
p a
dog-fight! In a world which is practically one seething mass of fighting do=
gs,
how could you trust yourself to such a one? Nobody is fonder of Eustace Hig=
nett
than I am, but ... well, I mean to say!"
"I see what =
you
mean. He really wasn't my ideal."
"Not by a
mile."
She mused, her ch=
in
in her hand.
"Of course, =
he
was quite a dear in a lot of ways."
"Oh, a splen=
did
chap," said Sam tolerantly.
"Have you ev=
er
heard him sing? I think what first attracted me to him was his beautiful vo=
ice.
He really sings extraordinarily well."
A slight but defi=
nite
spasm of jealousy afflicted Sam. He had no objection to praising poor old
Eustace within decent limits, but the conversation seemed to him to be
confining itself too exclusively to one subject.
"Yes?" =
he
said. "Oh yes, I've heard him sing. Not lately. He does drawing-room
ballads and all that sort of thing still, I suppose?"
"Have you ev=
er
heard him sing 'My love is like a glowing tulip that in an old-world garden
grows'?"
"I have not =
had
that advantage," replied Sam stiffly. "But anyone can sing a
drawing-room ballad. Now something funny, something that will make people
laugh, something that really needs putting across ... that's a different th=
ing
altogether."
"Do you sing
that sort of thing?"
"People have
been good enough to say...."
"Then,"
said Billie decidedly, "you must certainly do something at the ship's
concert to-morrow! The idea of your trying to hide your light under a bushe=
l! I
will tell Bream to count on you. He is an excellent accompanist. He can
accompany you."
"Yes, but ...
well, I don't know," said Sam doubtfully. He could not help remembering
that the last time he had sung in public had been at a house-supper at scho=
ol,
seven years before, and that on that occasion somebody whom it was a lasting
grief to him that he had been unable to identify had thrown a pat of butter=
at
him.
"Of course y=
ou
must sing," said Billie. "I'll tell Bream when I go down to lunch.
What will you sing?"
"Well--er--&=
quot;
"Well, I'm s=
ure
it will be wonderful whatever it is. You are so wonderful in every way. You
remind me of one of the heroes of old!"
Sam's discomposure
vanished. In the first place, this was much more the sort of conversation w=
hich
he felt the situation indicated. In the second place he had remembered that
there was no need for him to sing at all. He could do that imitation of Fra=
nk
Tinney which had been such a hit at the Trinity smoker. He was on safe grou=
nd
there. He knew he was good. He clasped the girl to him and kissed her sixte=
en
times.
Suddenly, as he
released her, the cloud came back into her face.
"My angel,&q=
uot;
he asked solicitously, "what's the matter?"
"I was think=
ing
of father," she said.
The glowing splen=
dour
of the morning took on a touch of chill for Sam.
"Father!&quo=
t;
he said thoughtfully. "Yes, I see what you mean! He will think that we
have been a little precipitate, eh? He will require a little time in order =
to
learn to love me, you think?"
"He is sure =
to
be pretty angry at first," agreed Billie. "You see I know he has
always hoped that I would marry Bream."
"Bream! Bream
Mortimer! What a silly thing to hope!"
"Well, you s=
ee,
I told you that Mr. Mortimer was father's best friend. They are both over in
England now, and are trying to get a house in the country for the summer wh=
ich
we can all share. I rather think the idea is to bring me and Bream closer
together."
"How the deu=
ce
could that fellow be brought any closer to you? He's like a burr as it
is."
"Well, that =
was
the idea, I'm sure. Of course, I could never look at Bream now."
"I hate look=
ing
at him myself," said Sam feelingly.
A group of afflic= ted persons, bent upon playing with long sticks and bits of wood, now invaded t= he upper deck. Their weak-minded cries filled the air. Sam and the girl rose.<= o:p>
"Touching on
your father once more," he said as they made their way below, "is=
he
a very formidable sort of man?"
"He can be a dear. But he's rather quick-tempered. You must be very ingratiating."<= o:p>
"I will prac=
tise
it in front of the glass every morning for the rest of the voyage," sa=
id
Sam.
He went down to t=
he
stateroom in a mixed mood of elation and apprehension. He was engaged to the
most wonderful girl in the world, but over the horizon loomed the menacing
figure of Father. He wished he could induce Billie to allow him to waive the
formality of thawing Father. Eustace Hignett had apparently been able to do=
so.
But that experience had presumably engendered a certain caution in her. The=
Hignett
fiasco had spoiled her for runaway marriages. Well, if it had to be done, it
must be done, and that was all there was to it.
"Good God!&q=
uot;
cried Eustace Hignett.
He stared at the
figure which loomed above him in the fading light which came through the
porthole of the stateroom. The hour was seven-thirty and he had just woken =
from
a troubled doze, full of strange nightmares, and for the moment he thought =
that
he must still be dreaming, for the figure before him could have walked stra=
ight
into any nightmare and no questions asked. Then suddenly he became aware th=
at
it was his cousin, Samuel Marlowe. As in the historic case of father in the
pigstye, he could tell him by his hat. But why was he looking like that? Wa=
s it
simply some trick of the uncertain light, or was his face really black and =
had
his mouth suddenly grown to six times its normal size and become a vivid
crimson?
Sam turned. He had
been looking at himself in the mirror with a satisfaction which, to the cas=
ual
observer, his appearance would not have seemed to justify. Hignett had not =
been
suffering from a delusion. His cousin's face was black; and, even as he tur=
ned,
he gave it a dab with a piece of burnt cork and made it blacker.
"Hullo! You
awake?" he said and switched on the light.
Eustace Hignett s=
hied
like a startled horse. His friend's profile, seen dimly, had been disconcer=
ting
enough. Full face, he was a revolting object. Nothing that Eustace Hignett =
had
encountered in his recent dreams--and they had included such unusual fauna =
as
elephants in top hats and running shorts--had affected him so profoundly. S=
am's
appearance smote him like a blow. It seemed to take him straight into a dif=
ferent
and dreadful world.
"What ... wh=
at
... what...?" he gurgled.
Sam squinted at
himself in the glass and added a touch of black to his nose.
"How do I
look?"
Eustace Hignett b=
egan
to fear that his cousin's reason must have become unseated. He could not
conceive of any really sane man, looking like that, being anxious to be told
how he looked.
"Are my lips=
red
enough? It's for the ship's concert, you know. It starts in half an hour,
though I believe I'm not on till the second part. Speaking as a friend, wou=
ld
you put a touch more black round the ears, or are they all right?"
Curiosity replaced
apprehension in Hignett's mind.
"What on ear=
th
are you doing performing at the ship's concert?"
"Oh, they ro=
ped
me in. It got about somehow that I was a valuable man and they wouldn't take
no." Sam deepened the colour of his ears. "As a matter of fact,&q=
uot;
he said casually, "my fiancee made rather a point of my doing
something."
A sharp yell from=
the
lower berth proclaimed the fact that the significance of the remark had not
been lost on Eustace.
"Your
fiancee?"
"The girl I'm
engaged to. Didn't I tell you about that? Yes, I'm engaged."
Eustace sighed
heavily.
"I feared the
worst. Tell me, who is she?"
"Didn't I te=
ll
you her name?"
"No."
"Curious! I =
must
have forgotten." He hummed an airy strain as he blackened the tip of h=
is
nose. "It's rather a curious coincidence, really. Her name is
Bennett."
"She may be a
relation."
"That's true=
. Of
course, girls do have relations."
"What is her
first name?"
"That is ano=
ther
rather remarkable thing. It's Wilhelmina."
"Wilhelmina!=
"
"Of course,
there must be hundreds of girls in the world called Wilhelmina Bennett, but
still it is a coincidence."
"What colour=
is
her hair?" demanded Eustace Hignett in a hollow voice. "Her hair!
What colour is it?"
"Her hair? N=
ow,
let me see. You ask me what colour is her hair. Well, you might call it aub=
urn
... or russet ... or you might call it Titian...."
"Never mind =
what
you might call it. Is it red?"
"Red? Why, y=
es.
That is a very good description of it. Now that you put it to me like that,=
it
is red."
"Has she a t=
rick
of grabbing at you suddenly, when she gets excited, like a kitten with a ba=
ll
of wool?"
"Yes. Yes, s=
he
has."
Eustace Hignett
uttered a sharp cry.
"Sam," =
he
said, "can you bear a shock?"
"I'll have a
dash at it."
"Brace up!&q=
uot;
"The girl you
are engaged to is the same girl who promised to marry me."
"Well,
well!" said Sam.
There was a silen=
ce.
"Awfully sor=
ry,
of course, and all that," said Sam.
"Don't apolo=
gise
to me!" said Eustace. "My poor old chap, my only feeling towards =
you
is one of the purest and profoundest pity." He reached out and pressed
Sam's hand. "I regard you as a toad beneath the harrow!"
"Well, I sup=
pose
that's one way of offering congratulations and cheery good wishes."
"And on top =
of
that," went on Eustace, deeply moved. "You have got to sing at the
ship's concert."
"Why shouldn=
't I
sing at the ship's concert?"
"My dear old
man, you have many worthy qualities, but you must know that you can't sing.=
You
can't sing for nuts! I don't want to discourage you, but, long ago as it is,
you can't have forgotten what an ass you made of yourself at that house-sup=
per
at school. Seeing you up against it like this, I regret that I threw a lump=
of
butter at you on that occasion, though at the time it seemed the only cours=
e to
pursue."
Sam started.
"Was it you =
who
threw that bit of butter?"
"It was.&quo=
t;
"I wish I'd
known! You silly chump, you ruined my collar."
"Ah, well, i=
t's
seven years ago. You would have had to send it to the wash anyhow by this t=
ime.
But don't let us brood on the past. Let us put our heads together and think=
how
we can get you out of this terrible situation."
"I don't wan=
t to
get out of it. I confidently expect to be the hit of the evening."
"The hit of =
the
evening! You! Singing!"
"I'm not goi=
ng
to sing. I'm going to do that imitation of Frank Tinney which I did at the
Trinity Smoker. You haven't forgotten that? You were at the piano taking the
part of the conductor of the orchestra. What a riot I was--we were! I say,
Eustace, old man, I suppose you don't feel well enough to come up now and t=
ake
your old part? You could do it without a rehearsal. You remember how it went
... 'Hullo, Ernest!' 'Hullo, Frank!' Why not come along?"
"The only pi=
ano
I will ever sit at will be one firmly fixed on a floor that does not heave =
and
wobble under me."
"Nonsense! T=
he
boat's as steady as a rock now. The sea's like a mill-pond."
"Nevertheles=
s,
thanking you for your suggestion, no!"
"Oh, well, t=
hen
I shall have to get on as best I can with that fellow Mortimer. We've been
rehearsing all the afternoon and he seems to have the hang of the thing. Bu=
t he
won't be really right. He has no pep, no vim. Still, if you won't ... well,=
I
think I'll be getting along to his stateroom. I told him I would look in fo=
r a
last rehearsal."
The door closed
behind Sam, and Eustace Hignett, lying on his back, gave himself up to
melancholy meditation. He was deeply disturbed by his cousin's sad story. He
knew what it meant being engaged to Wilhelmina Bennett. It was like being t=
aken
aloft in a balloon and dropped with a thud on the rocks.
His reflections w=
ere
broken by the abrupt opening of the door. Marlowe rushed in. Eustace peered
anxiously out of his berth. There was too much cork on his cousin's face to
allow of any real registering of emotion, but he could tell from his manner
that all was not well.
"What's the
matter?"
Sam sank on the
lounge.
"The bounder=
has
quit!"
"The bounder?
What bounder?"
"There is on=
ly
one! Bream Mortimer, curse him! There may be others whom thoughtless critics
rank as bounders, but he is the only man really deserving of the title. He
refuses to appear! He has walked out on the act! He has left me flat! I went
into his stateroom just now, as arranged, and the man was lying on his bunk,
groaning."
"I thought y=
ou
said the sea was like a millpond."
"It wasn't t=
hat!
He's perfectly fit. But it seems that the silly ass took it into his head to
propose to Billie just before dinner-- apparently he's loved her for years =
in a
silent, self-effacing way--and of course she told him that she was engaged =
to
me, and the thing upset him to such an extent that he says the idea of sitt=
ing
down at a piano and helping me give an imitation of Frank Tinney revolts hi=
m.
He says he intends to spend the evening in bed, reading Schopenhauer. I hop=
e it
chokes him."
"But this is
splendid! This lets you out."
"What do you
mean? Lets me out?"
"Why, now you
won't be able to appear. Oh, you will be thankful for this in years to
come."
"Won't I app=
ear!
Won't I dashed well appear! Do you think I'm going to disappoint that dear =
girl
when she is relying on me? I would rather die!"
"But you can=
't
appear without a pianist."
"I've got a
pianist."
"You have?&q=
uot;
"Yes. A litt=
le
undersized shrimp of a fellow with a green face and ears like
water-wings."
"I don't thi=
nk I
know him."
"Yes, you do.
He's you!"
"Me!"
"Yes, you. Y=
ou
are going to sit at the piano to-night."
"I'm sorry to
disappoint you, but it's impossible. I gave you my views on the subject just
now."
"You've alte=
red
them."
"I
haven't."
"Well, you s=
oon
will, and I'll tell you why. If you don't get up out of that damned berth
you've been roosting in all your life, I'm going to ring for J. B. Midgeley=
and
I'm going to tell him to bring me a bit of dinner in here and I'm going to =
eat
it before your eyes."
"But you've =
had
dinner."
"Well, I'll =
have
another. I feel just ready for a nice fat pork chop...."
"Stop. Stop!=
"
"A nice fat =
pork
chop with potatoes and lots of cabbage," repeated Sam, firmly. "A=
nd I
shall eat it here on this very lounge. Now, how do we go?"
"You wouldn'=
t do
that!" said Eustace piteously.
"I would and
will."
"But I shoul=
dn't
be any good at the piano. I've forgotten how the thing used to go."
"You haven't
done anything of the kind. I come in and say, 'Hullo, Ernest!' and you say
'Hullo, Frank!' and then you help me tell the story about the Pullman car. A
child could do your part of it."
"Perhaps the=
re
is some child on board...."
"No! I want =
you.
I shall feel safe with you. We've done it together before."
"But honestl=
y, I
really don't think ... it isn't as if...."
Sam rose and exte=
nded
a finger towards the bell.
"Stop!
Stop!" cried Eustace Hignett. "I'll do it!"
Sam withdrew his
finger.
"Good!"=
he
said. "We've just got time for a rehearsal while you're dressing. 'Hul=
lo,
Ernest!'"
"Hullo,
Frank," said Eustace Hignett, brokenly, as he searched for his unfamil=
iar
trousers.
Ship's concerts are given in aid of=
the
seamen's orphans and widows, and, after one has been present at a few of th=
em,
one seems to feel that any right-thinking orphan or widow would rather jog
along and take a chance of starvation than be the innocent cause of such
things. They open with a long speech from the master of the ceremonies--so
long, as a rule, that it is only the thought of what is going to happen aft=
erwards
that enables the audience to bear it with fortitude. This done, the amateur
talent is unleashed, and the grim work begins.
It was not till a=
fter
the all too brief intermission for rest and recuperation that the newly for=
med
team of Marlowe and Hignett was scheduled to appear. Previous to this there=
had
been dark deeds done in the quiet saloon. The lecturer on deep-sea fish had
fulfilled his threat and spoken at great length on a subject which, treated=
by
a master of oratory, would have palled on the audience after ten or fifteen
minutes; and at the end of fifteen minutes this speaker had only just got p=
ast
the haddocks and was feeling his way tentatively through the shrimps. 'The
Rosary' had been sung and there was an uneasy doubt as to whether it was not
going to be sung again after the interval--the latest rumour being that the
second of the rival lady singers had proved adamant to all appeals and inte=
nded
to fight the thing out on the lines she had originally chosen if they put h=
er
in irons.
A young man recit=
ed
'Gunga Din' and, wilfully misinterpreting the gratitude of the audience tha=
t it
was over for a desire for more, had followed it with 'Fuzzy-Wuzzy.' His
sister--these things run in families--had sung 'My Little Gray Home in the
West'--rather sombrely, for she had wanted to sing the 'Rosary,' and, with =
the
same obtuseness which characterised her brother, had come back and rendered=
two
plantation songs. The audience was now examining its programmes in the inte=
rval
of silence in order to ascertain the duration of the sentence still remaini=
ng
unexpired.
It was shocked to
read the following:
7. A Little
Imitation......S. Marlowe
All over the salo=
on
you could see fair women and brave men wilting in their seats. Imitation...!
The word, as Keats would have said, was like a knell! Many of these people =
were
old travellers, and their minds went back wincingly, as one recalls forgott=
en
wounds, to occasions when performers at ships' concerts had imitated whole
strings of Dickens' characters or, with the assistance of a few hats and a
little false hair, had endeavored to portray Napoleon, Bismarck, Shakespeare
and others of the famous dead. In this printed line on the programme there =
was
nothing to indicate the nature or scope of the imitation which this S. Marl=
owe
proposed to inflict upon them. They could only sit and wait and hope that it
would be short.
There was a sinki=
ng
of hearts as Eustace Hignett moved down the room and took his place at the
piano. A pianist! This argued more singing. The more pessimistic began to f=
ear
that the imitation was going to be one of those imitations of well-known op=
era
artistes which, though rare, do occasionally add to the horrors of ships'
concerts. They stared at Hignett apprehensively. There seemed to them somet=
hing
ominous in the man's very aspect. His face was very pale and set, the face =
of
one approaching a task at which his humanity shudders. They could not know =
that
the pallor of Eustace Hignett was due entirely to the slight tremor which, =
even
on the calmest nights, the engines of an ocean liner produce in the floorin=
g of
a dining saloon and to that faint, yet well-defined, smell of cooked meats
which clings to a room where a great many people have recently been eating a
great many meals. A few beads of cold perspiration were clinging to Eustace
Hignett's brow. He looked straight before him with unseeing eyes. He was
thinking hard of the Sahara.
So tense was
Eustace's concentration that he did not see Billie Bennett, seated in the f=
ront
row. Billie had watched him enter with a little thrill of embarrassment. She
wished that she had been content with one of the seats at the back. But her
friend Jane Hubbard, who accompanied her, had insisted on the front row.
In order to avoid
recognition for as long as possible, Billie now put up her fan and turned to
Jane. She was surprised to see that her friend was staring eagerly before h=
er
with a fixity almost equal to that of Eustace.
"What is the
matter, Jane?"
Jane Hubbard was a
tall, handsome girl with large brown eyes. About her, as Bream Mortimer had
said, there was something dynamic. The daughter of an eminent explorer and
big-game hunter, she had frequently accompanied her father on his expeditio=
ns.
An out-doors girl.
"Who is that=
man
at the piano?" she whispered. "Do you know him?"
"As a matter=
of
fact, I do," said Billie. "His name is Hignett. Why?"
"I met him on the Subway not long ago. Poor little fellow, how miserable he looks!"<= o:p>
At this moment th=
eir
conversation was interrupted. Eustace Hignett, pulling himself together wit=
h a
painful effort, raised his hands and struck a crashing chord: and, as he did
so, there appeared through the door at the far end of the saloon a figure at
the sight of which the entire audience started convulsively with a feeling =
that
a worse thing had befallen them than even they had looked for.
The figure was ri=
chly
clad in some scarlet material. Its face was a grisly black and below the no=
se
appeared what seemed a horrible gash. It advanced towards them, smoking a
cigar.
"Hullo,
Ernest," it said.
And then it seeme=
d to
pause expectantly, as though desiring some reply. Dead silence reigned in t=
he
saloon.
"Hullo,
Ernest!"
Those nearest the
piano--and nobody more quickly than Jane Hubbard--now observed that the whi=
te
face of the man on the stool had grown whiter still. His eyes gazed out
glassily from under his damp brow. He looked like a man who was seeing some
ghastly sight. The audience sympathised with him. They felt like that, too.=
In all human plans
there is ever some slight hitch, some little miscalculation which just makes
all the difference. A moment's thought should have told Eustace Hignett tha=
t a
half-smoked cigar was one of the essential properties to any imitation of t=
he
eminent Mr. Tinney: but he had completely overlooked the fact. The cigar ca=
me
as an absolute surprise to him and it could not have affected him more powe=
rfully
if it had been a voice from the tomb. He stared at it pallidly, like Macbet=
h at
the ghost of Banquo. It was a strong, lively young cigar, and its curling s=
moke
played lightly about his nostrils. His jaw fell. His eyes protruded. He loo=
ked
for a long moment like one of those deep-sea fishes concerning which the re=
cent
lecturer had spoken so searchingly. Then with the cry of a stricken animal,=
he bounded
from his seat and fled for the deck.
There was a rustl=
e of
millinery at Billie's side as Jane Hubbard rose and followed him. Jane was
deeply stirred. Even as he sat, looking so pale and piteous, at the piano, =
her
big heart had gone out to him, and now, in his moment of anguish, he seemed=
to
bring to the surface everything that was best and most compassionate in her
nature. Thrusting aside a steward who happened to be between her and the do=
or, she
raced in pursuit.
Sam Marlowe had
watched his cousin's dash for the open with a consternation so complete that
his sense seemed to have left him. A general, deserted by his men on some
stricken field, might have felt something akin to his emotion. Of all the
learned professions, the imitation of Mr. Frank Tinney is the one which can
least easily be carried through single-handed. The man at the piano, the le=
ader
of the orchestra, is essential. He is the life-blood of the entertainment. =
Without
him, nothing can be done.
For an instant Sam
stood there, gaping blankly. Then the open door of the saloon seemed to bec=
kon
an invitation. He made for it, reached it, passed through it. That concluded
his efforts in aid of the Seamen's Orphans and Widows.
The spell which h=
ad
lain on the audience broke. This imitation seemed to them to possess in an
extraordinary measure the one quality which renders amateur imitations
tolerable, that of brevity. They had seen many amateur imitations, but never
one as short as this. The saloon echoed with their applause.
It brought no bal=
m to
Samuel Marlowe. He did not hear it. He had fled for refuge to his stateroom=
and
was lying in the lower berth, chewing the pillow, a soul in torment.
There was a tap at the door. Sam sa=
t up
dizzily. He had lost all count of time.
"Who's
that?"
"I have a no=
te
for you, sir."
It was the level
voice of J. B. Midgeley, the steward. The stewards of the White Star Line,
besides being the civillest and most obliging body of men in the world, all
have soft and pleasant voices. A White Star steward, waking you up at
six-thirty, to tell you that your bath is ready, when you wanted to sleep on
till twelve, is the nearest human approach to the nightingale.
"A what?&quo=
t;
"A note,
sir."
Sam jumped up and
switched on the light. He went to the door and took the note from J. B.
Midgeley, who, his mission accomplished, retired in an orderly manner down =
the
passage. Sam looked at the letter with a thrill. He had never seen the
hand-writing before, but, with the eye of love, he recognized it. It was ju=
st
the sort of hand he would have expected Billie to write, round and smooth a=
nd
flowing, the writing of a warm-hearted girl. He tore open the envelope.
"Please come=
up
to the top deck. I want to speak to you."
Sam could not
disguise it from himself that he was a little disappointed. I don't know if=
you
see anything wrong with the letter, but the way Sam looked at it was that, =
for
a first love-letter, it might have been longer and perhaps a shade warmer. =
And,
without running any risk of writer's cramp, she might have signed it.
However, these we=
re
small matters. No doubt she had been in a hurry and all that sort of thing.=
The
important point was that he was going to see her. When a man's afraid, sings
the bard, a beautiful maid is a cheering sight to see; and the same truth h=
olds
good when a man has made an exhibition of himself at a ship's concert. A wo=
man's
gentle sympathy, that was what Samuel Marlowe wanted more than anything els=
e at
the moment. That, he felt, was what the doctor ordered. He scrubbed the bur=
nt
cork off his face with all possible speed and changed his clothes and made =
his
way to the upper deck. It was like Billie, he felt, to have chosen this spot
for their meeting. It would be deserted and it was hallowed for them both by
sacred associations.
She was standing =
at
the rail, looking out over the water. The moon was quite full. Out on the
horizon to the south its light shone on the sea, making it look like the si=
lver
beach of some distant fairy island. The girl appeared to be wrapped in thou=
ght,
and it was not till the sharp crack of Sam's head against an overhanging
stanchion announced his approach that she turned.
"Oh, is that
you?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"You've been=
a
long time."
"It wasn't an
easy job," explained Sam, "getting all that burnt cork off. You'v=
e no
notion how the stuff sticks. You have to use butter...."
She shuddered.
"Don't!"=
;
"But I did. =
You
have to with burnt cork."
"Don't tell = me these horrible things." Her voice rose almost hysterically. "I ne= ver want to hear the words burnt cork mentioned again as long as I live."<= o:p>
"I feel exac=
tly
the same." Sam moved to her side.
"Darling,&qu= ot; he said in a low voice, "it was like you to ask me to meet you here. I know what you were thinking. You thought that I should need sympathy. You wanted to pet me, to smooth my wounded feelings, to hold me in your arms, a= nd tell me that, as we loved each other, what did anything else matter?"<= o:p>
"I didn't.&q=
uot;
"You
didn't?"
"No, I
didn't."
"Oh, you did=
n't!
I thought you did!" He looked at her wistfully.
"I
thought," he said, "that possibly you might have wished to comfor=
t me.
I have been through a great strain. I have had a shock...."
"And what ab=
out
me?" she demanded passionately. "Haven't I had a shock?"
He melted at once=
.
"Have you ha=
d a
shock, too? Poor little thing! Sit down and tell me all about it."
She looked away f=
rom
him, her face working.
"Can't you
understand what a shock I have had? I thought you were the perfect
knight."
"Yes, isn't
it?"
"Isn't
what?"
"I thought y=
ou
said it was a perfect night."
"I said I
thought you were a perfect knight."
"Oh, ah!&quo=
t;
A sailor crossed =
the
deck, a dim figure in the shadows, went over to a sort of raised summerhouse
with a brass thingummy in it, fooled about for a moment, and went away agai=
n.
Sailors earn their money easily.
"Yes?" =
said
Sam when he had gone.
"I forget wh=
at I
was saying."
"Something a=
bout
my being the perfect knight."
"Yes. I thou=
ght
you were."
"That's
good."
"But you're
not!"
"No?"
"No!"
"Oh!"
Silence fell. Sam=
was
feeling hurt and bewildered. He could not understand her mood. He had come =
up
expecting to be soothed and comforted and she was like a petulant iceberg.
Cynically, he recalled some lines of poetry which he had had to write out a
hundred times on one occasion at school as a punishment for having introduc=
ed a
white mouse into chapel.
"Oh, woman in our=
hours
of ease, Un-something,
something, something, please. When tiddly-umpty=
umpty
brow, A
something, something, something, thou!"
He had forgotten =
the
exact words, but the gist of it had been that woman, however she might trea=
t a
man in times of prosperity, could be relied on to rally round and do the ri=
ght
thing when he was in trouble. How little the poet had known women.
"Why not?&qu=
ot;
he said huffily..
She gave a little
sob.
"I put you o=
n a
pedestal and I find you have feet of clay. You have blurred the image which=
I
formed of you. I can never think of you again without picturing you as you
stood in that saloon, stammering and helpless...."
"Well, what =
can
you do when your pianist runs out on you?"
"You could h=
ave
done something. I can't forgive a man for looking ridiculous. Oh, what,
what," she cried, "induced you to try to give an imitation of Bert
Williams?"
Sam started, stun=
g to
the quick.
"It wasn't B=
ert
Williams. It was Frank Tinney!"
"Well, how w=
as I
to know?"
"I did my
best," said Sam sullenly.
"That is the
awful thought."
"I did it for
your sake."
"I know. It
gives me a horrible sense of guilt." She, shuddered again. Then sudden=
ly,
with the nervous quickness of a woman unstrung, thrust a small black golliw=
og
into his hand.
"Take it!&qu=
ot;
"What's
this?"
"You bought =
it
for me yesterday at the barber's shop. It is the only present that you have
given me. Take it back."
"I don't want
it. I shouldn't know what to do with it."
"You must ta=
ke
it," she said in a low voice. "It is a symbol."
"A what?&quo=
t;
"A symbol of=
our
broken love."
"I don't see=
how
you make that out. It's a golliwog."
"I can never
marry you now."
"What! Good
heavens! Don't be absurd."
"I can't.&qu=
ot;
"Oh, go on, =
have
a dash at it," he said encouragingly, though his heart was sinking.
She shook her hea=
d.
"No, I
couldn't."
"Oh, hang it
all!"
"I couldn't.=
I'm
a strange girl...."
"You're a da=
rned
silly girl...."
"I don't see
what right you have to say that," she flared.
"I don't see
what right you have to say you can't marry me and try to load me up with
golliwogs," he retorted with equal heat.
"Oh, can't y=
ou
understand?"
"No, I'm das=
hed
if I can."
She looked at him
despondently.
"When I said=
I
would marry you, you were a hero to me. You stood to me for everything that=
was
noble and brave and wonderful. I had only to shut my eyes to conjure up the
picture of you as you dived off the rail that morning. Now"--her voice
trembled--"if I shut my eyes now,--I can only see a man with a hideous
black face making himself the laughing stock of the ship. How can I marry y=
ou,
haunted by that picture?"
"But, good
heavens, you talk as if I made a habit of blacking up! You talk as if you
expected me to come to the altar smothered in burnt cork."
"I shall alw=
ays
think of you as I saw you to-night."
She looked at him
sadly, "There's a bit of black still on your left ear."
He tried to take =
her
hand. But she drew it away. He fell back as if struck.
"So this is =
the
end," he muttered.
"Yes. It's
partly on your ear and partly on your cheek."
"So this is =
the
end," he repeated.
"You had bet=
ter
go below and ask your steward to give you some more butter."
He laughed bitter=
ly.
"Well, I mig=
ht
have expected it, I might have known what would happen! Eustace warned me.
Eustace was right. He knows women--as I do--now. Women! What mighty ills ha=
ve
not been done by women? Who was't betrayed the what's-its-name? A woman! Who
lost ... lost ... who lost ... who-- er--and so on? A woman ... So all is o=
ver!
There is nothing to be said but good-bye?"
"No."
"Good-bye, t=
hen,
Miss Bennett!"
"Good-bye,&q=
uot;
said Billie sadly. "I--I'm sorry."
"Don't menti=
on
it!"
"You do
understand, don't you?"
"You have ma=
de
everything perfectly clear."
"I hope--I h=
ope
you won't be unhappy."
"Unhappy!&qu=
ot;
Sam produced a strangled noise from his larynx, like the cry of a shrimp in
pain. "Unhappy! I'm not unhappy! Whatever gave you that idea? I'm smil=
ing!
I'm laughing! I feel I've had a merciful escape."
"It's very
unkind and rude of you to say that."
"It reminds =
me
of a moving picture I saw in New York. It was called 'Saved from the
Scaffold.'"
"Oh!"
"I'm not
unhappy. What have I got to be unhappy about? What on earth does any man wa=
nt
to get married for? I don't ... Give me my gay bachelor life! My uncle Char=
lie
used to say 'It's better luck to get married than it is to be kicked in the
head by a mule.' But he was an optimist. Good-night, Miss Bennett. And
good-bye--for ever."
He turned on his =
heel
and strode across the deck. From a white heaven the moon still shone
benignantly down, mocking him. He had spoken bravely: the most captious cri=
tic
could not but have admitted that he had made a good exit. But already his h=
eart
was aching.
As he drew near to
his stateroom, he was amazed and disgusted to hear a high tenor voice raise=
d in
song proceeding from behind the closed door.
"I fee-er naw faw in
shee-ining arr-mor, Though his lance be sha=
rrrp
and-er keen; But I
fee-er, I fee-er the glah-mour Therough thy der-rooping
lashes seen: I fe=
e-er,
I fee-er the glah-mour...."
Sam flung open the
door wrathfully. That Eustace Hignett should still be alive was bad--he had
pictured him hurling himself overboard and bobbing about, a pleasing sight,=
in
the wake of the vessel; that he should be singing was an outrage. Remorse, =
Sam
thought should have stricken Eustace Hignett dumb. Instead of which, here he
was comporting himself like a blasted linnet. It was all wrong. The man cou=
ld
have no conscience whatever.
"Well,"=
he
said sternly, "so there you are!"
Eustace Hignett
looked up brightly, even beamingly. In the brief interval which had elapsed
since Sam had seen him last, an extraordinary transformation had taken plac=
e in
this young man. His wan look had disappeared. His eyes were bright. His face
wore that beastly self-satisfied smirk which you see in pictures advertisin=
g certain
makes of fine-mesh underwear. If Eustace Hignett had been a full-page drawi=
ng
in a magazine with "My dear fellow, I always wear Sigsbee's Superfine
Featherweight!" printed underneath him, he could not have looked more
pleased with himself.
"Hullo!"=
; he
said. "I was wondering where you had got to."
"Never
mind," said Sam coldly, "where I had got to! Where did you get to,
and why? You poor, miserable worm," he went on in a burst of generous
indignation, "what have you to say for yourself? What do you mean by
dashing away like that and killing my little entertainment?"
"Awfully sor=
ry,
old man. I hadn't foreseen the cigar. I was bearing up tolerably well till I
began to sniff the smoke. Then everything seemed to go black--I don't mean =
you,
of course. You were black already--and I got the feeling that I simply must=
get
on deck and drown myself."
"Well, why
didn't you?" demanded Sam, with a strong sense of injury. "I might
have forgiven you then. But to come down here and find you singing...."=
;
A soft light came
into Eustace Hignett's eyes.
"I want to t=
ell
you all about that," he said, "It's the most astonishing story. A
miracle, you might almost call it. Makes you believe in Fate and all that s=
ort
of thing. A week ago I was on the Subway in New York...."
He broke off while
Sam cursed him, the Subway, and the city of New York, in the order named.
"My dear cha=
p,
what is the matter?"
"What is the
matter? Ha!"
"Something is
the matter," persisted Eustace Hignett, "I can tell it by your
manner. Something has happened to disturb and upset you. I know you so well
that I can pierce the mask. What is it? Tell me."
"Ha, ha!&quo=
t;
"You surely
can't still be brooding on that concert business? Why, that's all over. I t=
ake
it that after my departure you made the most colossal ass of yourself, but =
why
let that worry you? These things cannot affect one permanently."
"Can't they?=
Let
me tell you that as a result of that concert my engagement is broken off.&q=
uot;
Eustace sprang fo=
rward
with outstretched hand.
"Not really?= How splendid! Accept my congratulations! This is the finest thing that could possibly have happened. These are not idle words. As one who has been engag= ed to the girl himself, I speak feelingly. You are well out of it, Sam."<= o:p>
Sam thrust aside =
his
hand. Had it been his neck he might have clutched it eagerly, but he drew t=
he
line at shaking hands with Eustace Hignett.
"My heart is
broken," he said with dignity.
"That feeling
will pass, giving way to one of devout thankfulness. I know! I've been ther=
e.
After all ... Wilhelmina Bennett ... what is she? A rag and a bone and a ha=
nk
of hair?"
"She is noth=
ing
of the kind," said Sam, revolted.
"Pardon
me," said Eustace firmly, "I speak as an expert. I know her and I
repeat, she is a rag and a bone and a hank of hair!"
"She is the =
only
girl in the world, and owing to your idiotic behaviour I have lost her.&quo=
t;
"You speak of
the only girl in the world," said Eustace blithely. "If you want =
to
hear about the only girl in the world, I will tell you. A week ago I was in=
the
Subway in New York...."
"I'm going to
bed," said Sam brusquely.
"All right. =
I'll
tell you while you're undressing."
"I don't wan=
t to
listen."
"A week
ago," said Eustace Hignett, "I will ask you to picture me seated
after some difficulty in a carriage in a New York subway; I got into
conversation with a girl with an elephant gun."
Sam revised his
private commination service in order to include the elephant gun.
"She was my
soul-mate," proceeded Eustace with quiet determination. "I didn't
know it at the time, but she was. She had grave brown eyes, a wonderful
personality, and this elephant gun. She was bringing the gun away from the
down-town place where she had taken it to be mended."
"Did she sho=
ot
you with it?"
"Shoot me? W=
hat
do you mean? Why, no!"
"The girl mu=
st
have been a fool!" said Sam bitterly. "The chance of a life-time =
and
she missed it. Where are my pyjamas?"
"I haven't s=
een
your pyjamas. She talked to me about this elephant gun, and explained its
mechanism. You can imagine how she soothed my aching heart. My heart, if you
recollect, was aching at the moment--quite unnecessarily if I had only
known--because it was only a couple of days since my engagement to Wilhelmi=
na
Bennett had been broken off. Well, we parted at Sixty-sixth Street, and,
strange as it may seem, I forgot all about her."
"Do it
again!"
"Tell it
again?"
"Good heaven=
s,
no! Forget all about her again."
"Nothing,&qu=
ot;
said Eustace Hignett gravely, "could make me do that. Our souls have
blended. Our beings have called to one another from their deepest depths,
saying ... There are your pyjamas, over in the corner ... saying, 'You are
mine!' How could I forget her after that? Well, as I was saying, we parted.
Little did I know that she was sailing on this very boat! But just now she =
came
to me as I writhed on deck...."
"Did you
writhe?" asked Sam with a flicker of moody interest.
"I certainly
did."
"That's
good!"
"But not for
long."
"That's
bad!"
"She came to=
me
and healed me. Sam, that girl is an angel."
"Switch off =
the
light when you've finished."
"She seemed =
to
understand without a word how I was feeling. There are some situations whic=
h do
not need words. She went away and returned with a mixture of some kind in a
glass.
"I don't know
what it was. It had Worcester sauce in it. She put it to my lips. She made =
me
drink it. She said it was what her father always used in Africa for bull-ca=
lves
with the staggers. Well, believe me or believe me not ... Are you asleep?&q=
uot;
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Believe me =
or
believe me not, in under two minutes I was not merely freed from the nausea
caused by your cigar. I was smoking myself! I was walking the deck with her
without the slightest qualm. I was even able to look over the side from tim=
e to
time and comment on the beauty of the moon on the water ... I have said some
mordant things about women since I came on board this boat. I withdraw them
unreservedly. They still apply to girls like Wilhelmina Bennett, but I have
ceased to include the whole sex in my remarks. Jane Hubbard has restored my
faith in woman. Sam! Sam!"
"What?"=
"I said that
Jane Hubbard had restored my faith in woman."
"Oh, all
right."
Eustace Hignett
finished undressing and got into bed. With a soft smile on his face he swit=
ched
off the light. There was a long silence, broken only by the distant purring=
of
engines. At about twelve-thirty a voice came from the lower berth.
"Sam!"<= o:p>
"What is it
now?"
"There is a
sweet womanly strength about her, Sam. She was telling me she once killed a=
panther
with a hat-pin."
Sam groaned and
tossed on his mattress.
Silence fell agai=
n.
"At least I
think it was a panther," said Eustace Hignett, at a quarter past one.
"Either a panther or a puma."
A week after the liner Atlantic had=
docked
at Southampton, Sam Marlowe might have been observed--and was observed by
various of the residents--sitting on a bench on the esplanade of that repel=
lent
watering-place, Bingley-on-the-Sea, in Sussex. All watering-places on the S=
outh
Coast of England are blots on the landscape, but, though I am aware that by
saying it I shall offend the civic pride of some of the others, none are so
peculiarly foul as Bingley-on-the-Sea. The asphalt on the Bingley esplanade=
is
several degrees more depressing than the asphalt on other esplanades. The S=
wiss
waiters at the Hotel Magnificent, where Sam was stopping, are in a class of
bungling incompetence by themselves, the envy and despair of all the other
Swiss waiters at all the other Hotels Magnificent along the coast. For
dreariness of aspect Bingley-on-the-Sea stands alone. The very waves that b=
reak
on the shingle seem to creep up the beach reluctantly, as if it revolted th=
em to
come to such a place.
Why, then, was Sam
Marlowe visiting this ozone-swept Gehenna? Why, with all the rest of Englan=
d at
his disposal, had he chosen to spend a week at breezy, blighted Bingley?
Simply because he=
had
been disappointed in love. He had sought relief by slinking off alone to the
most benighted spot he knew, in the same spirit as other men in similar
circumstances had gone off to the Rockies to shoot grizzly-bears.
To a certain exte=
nt
the experiment had proved successful. If the Hotel Magnificent had not cured
his agony, the service and the cooking there had at least done much to take=
his
mind off it. His heart still ached, but he felt equal to going to London and
seeing his father, which, of course, he ought to have done immediately upon=
his
arrival in England.
He rose from his
bench, and, going back to the hotel to enquire about trains, observed a
familiar figure in the lobby. Eustace Hignett was leaning over the counter,=
in
conversation with the desk-clerk.
"Hullo,
Eustace!" said Sam.
"Hullo,
Sam!" said Eustace.
There was a brief
silence. The conversational opening had been a little unfortunately chosen,=
for
it reminded both men of a painful episode in their recent lives.
"What are you
doing here?" asked Eustace.
"What are you
doing here?" asked Sam.
"I came to s=
ee
you," said Eustace, leading his cousin out of the lobby and onto the b=
leak
esplanade. A fine rain had begun to fall, and Bingley looked, if possible,
worse than ever. "I asked for you at your club, and they told me you h=
ad
come down here."
"What did you
want to see me about?"
"The fact is,
old man, I'm in a bit of a hole."
"What's the
matter?"
"It's rather=
a
long story," said Eustace deprecatingly.
"Go ahead.&q=
uot;
"I don't know
where to begin."
"Have a dash=
at
starting at the beginning."
Eustace stared
gloomily at a stranded crab on the beach below. The crab stared gloomily ba=
ck.
"Well, you
remember my telling you about the girl I met on the boat?"
"Jane
Something?"
"Jane Hubbard," said Eustace reverently. "Sam, I love that girl."<= o:p>
"I know. You
told me."
"But I didn't
tell her. I tried to muster up the nerve, but we got to Southampton without=
my
having clicked. What a dashed difficult thing a proposal is to bring off, i=
sn't
it! I didn't bring it off, and it began to look to me as though I was in the
soup. And then she told me something which gave me an idea. She said the
Bennetts had invited her to stay with them in the country when she got to
England, Old Mr. Bennett and his pal Mortimer, Bream's father, were trying =
to
get a house somewhere which they could share. Only so far they hadn't manag=
ed to
find the house they wanted. When I heard that, I said 'Ha!'"
"You said
what?" asked Sam.
"I said
'Ha!'"
"Why?"<= o:p>
"Because I h=
ad
an idea. Don't interrupt, old man, or you'll get me muddled. Where was I?&q=
uot;
"I don't
know."
"I remember.=
I'd
just got the idea. I happened to know, you see, that Bennett and Mortimer w=
ere
both frightfully keen on getting Windles for the summer, but my mother woul=
dn't
hear of it and gave them both the miss-in-baulk. It suddenly occurred to me
that mother was going to be away in America all the summer, so why shouldn'=
t I
make a private deal, let them the house, and make it a stipulation that I w=
as
to stay there to look after things? And, to cut a long story short, that's =
what
I did."
"You let
Windles?"
"Yes. Old
Bennett was down on the dock at Southampton to meet Wilhelmina, and I fixed=
it
up with him then and there. He was so bucked at the idea of getting the pla=
ce
that he didn't kick for a moment at the suggestion that I should stick on at
the house. Said he would be delighted to have me there, and wrote out a fat
check on the spot. We hired a car and drove straight over--it's only about
twenty miles from Southampton, you know,--and we've been there ever since.
Bennett sent a wire to Mortimer, telling him to join us, and he came down n=
ext
day."
He paused, and lo=
oked
at Sam as though desiring comment. Sam had none to offer.
"Why do you =
say
you're in a hole?" he asked. "It seems to me as though you had do=
ne
yourself a bit of good. You've got the check, and you're in the same house =
with
Miss Hubbard. What more do you want?"
"But suppose
mother gets to hear about it?"
"Well?"=
"She'd be so=
rer
than a sunburned neck."
"Probably. B=
ut
why should she hear of it?"
"Ah! I'm com=
ing
to that."
"Is there so=
me
more of the story?"
"Quite a
lot."
"Charge
on," said Sam resignedly.
Eustace Hignett f=
ixed
a despondent gaze on the shingle, up which the gray waves were crawling with
their usual sluggish air of wishing themselves elsewhere. A rain-drop fell =
down
the back of his neck, but he did not notice it.
"It was the
weather that really started it," he said.
"Started
what?"
"The trouble.
What sort of weather have you been having here?"
"I haven't
noticed."
"Well, down =
at
Windles it has been raining practically all the time, and after about a cou=
ple
of days it became fairly clear to me that Bennett and Mortimer were getting=
a
bit fed. I mean to say, having spent all their lives in America, don't you
know, they weren't used to a country where it rained all the time, and pret=
ty
soon it began to get on their nerves. They started quarrelling. Nothing bad=
at
first, but hotting up more and more, till at last they were hardly on speak=
ing terms.
Every little thing that happened seemed to get the wind up them. There was =
that
business of Smith, for instance."
"Who's
Smith?"
"Mortimer's
bull-dog. Old Bennett is scared of him, and wants him kept in the stables, =
but
Mortimer insists on letting him roam about the house. Well, they scrapped a
goodish bit about that. And then there was the orchestrion. You remember th=
e orchestrion?"
"I haven't b=
een
down at Windles since I was a kid."
"That's righ=
t. I
forgot that. Well, my pater had an orchestrion put in the drawing-room. One=
of
these automatic things you switch on, you know. Makes a devil of a row. Ben=
nett
can't stand it, and Mortimer insists on playing it all day. Well, they hott=
ed
up a goodish bit over that."
"Well, I don=
't
see how all this affects you. If they want to scrap, why not let them?"=
;
"Yes, but, y=
ou
see, the most frightful thing has happened. At least, it hasn't happened ye=
t,
but it may any day. Bennett's talking about taking legal advice to see if he
can't induce Mortimer to cheese it by law as he can't be stopped any other =
way.
And the deuce of it is, your father's Bennett's legal representative over i=
n England,
and he's sure to go to him."
"Well, that'=
ll
do the pater a bit of good. Legal fees."
Eustace Hignett w=
aved
his arms despairingly at his cousin's obtuseness.
"But don't y=
ou
see? If Bennett goes to your father about this binge, your father will get =
onto
the fact that Windles has been let, and he'll nose about and make enquiries,
and the first thing that'll happen will be that mother will get to hear of =
it,
and then where shall I be?"
Sam pondered.
"Yes, there's
that," he admitted.
"Well, now y=
ou see
what a hole I'm in."
"Yes, you ar=
e.
What are you going to do about it?"
"You're the =
only
person who can help me."
"What can I
do?"
"Why, your
father wants you to join the firm, doesn't he? Well, for goodness sake, buc=
k up
and join it. Don't waste a minute. Dash up to London by the next train, and
sign on. Then, if Bennett does blow in for advice, you can fix it somehow t=
hat
he sees you instead of your father, and it'll be all right. You can easily =
work
it. Get the office-boy or somebody to tell Bennett that your father's engag=
ed,
but that you are on the spot. He won't mind so long as he sees somebody in =
the
firm."
"But I don't
know anything about the law. What shall I say to him?"
"That's all
right. I've been studying it up a bit. As far as I can gather, this legal
advice business is quite simple. Anything that isn't a tort is a misdemeano=
ur.
You've simply got to tell old Bennett that in your opinion the whole thing
looks jolly like a tort."
"What's the =
word
again?"
"Tort."=
"What does it
mean?"
"I don't kno=
w.
Probably nobody knows. But it's a safe card to play. Tort. Don't forget
it."
"Tort. Right
ho!"
"Well, then,
come along and pack your things. There's a train to London in about an
hour."
They walked back =
to
the hotel. Sam gulped once or twice.
"Oh, by the
way," he said, "Er--how is--er--Miss Bennett?"
"Oh, she's a=
ll
right." Eustace Hignett hummed a gay air. Sam's ready acquiescence in =
his
scheme had relieved his apprehensive mind.
"Going
strong?" said Sam, after a pause.
"Oh, absolut=
ely.
We're quite good friends again now. No use being in the same house and not
being on speaking terms. It's rummy how the passage of time sort of changes=
a
fellow's point of view. Why, when she told me about her engagement, I
congratulated her as cheerfully as dammit! And only a few weeks ago....&quo=
t;
"Her
engagement!" exclaimed Sam, leaping like a stricken blanc-mange. "=
;Her
en-gug-gug-gagement!"
"To Bream
Mortimer, you know," said Eustace Hignett. "She got engaged to him
the day before yesterday."
The offices of the old-established =
firm
of Marlowe, Thorpe, Prescott, Winslow and Appleby are in Ridgeway's Inn, not
far from Fleet Street. If you are a millionaire beset by blackmailers or an=
yone
else to whose comfort the best legal advice is essential, and have decided =
to
put your affairs in the hands of the ablest and discreetest firm in London,=
you
proceed through a dark and grimy entry and up a dark and grimy flight of
stairs; and, having felt your way along a dark and grimy passage, you come =
at length
to a dark and grimy door. There is plenty of dirt in other parts of Ridgewa=
y's
Inn, but nowhere is it so plentiful, so rich in alluvial deposits, as on the
exterior of the offices of Marlowe, Thorpe, Prescott, Winslow and Appleby. =
As
you tap on the topmost of the geological strata concealing the ground-glass=
of the
door, a sense of relief and security floods your being. For in London
grubbiness is the gauge of a lawyer's respectability.
The brass plate, =
let
into the woodwork of this door, is misleading. Reading it, you get the
impression that on the other side quite a covey of lawyers await your arriv=
al.
The name of the firm leads you to suppose that there will be barely
standing-room in the office. You picture Thorpe jostling you aside as he ma=
kes
for Prescott to discuss with him the latest case of demurrer, and Winslow a=
nd
Appleby treading on your toes, deep in conversation on replevin. But these
legal firms dwindle. The years go by and take their toll, snatching away he=
re a
Prescott, there an Appleby, till before you know where you are, you are dow=
n to
your last lawyer. The only surviving member of the firm of Marlowe,
Thorpe--what I said before--was, at the time with which this story deals, S=
ir
Mallaby Marlowe, son of the original founder of the firm and father of the
celebrated black-faced comedian, Samuel of that ilk; and the outer office,
where callers were received and parked till Sir Mallaby could find time for
them, was occupied by a single clerk.
When Sam, reaching
the office after his journey, opened the door, this clerk, John Peters by n=
ame,
was seated on a high stool, holding in one hand a half-eaten sausage, in the
other an extraordinary large and powerful revolver. At the sight of Sam he =
laid
down both engines of destruction and beamed. He was not a particularly
successful beamer, being hampered by a cast in one eye which gave him a
truculent and sinister look; but those who knew him knew that he had a hear=
t of
gold and were not intimidated by his repellent face. Between Sam and himsel=
f there
had always existed terms of cordiality, starting from the time when the for=
mer
was a small boy, and it had been Jno. Peters' mission to take him now to the
Zoo, now to the train back to school.
"Why, Mr.
Samuel!"
"Hullo,
Peters!"
"We were
expecting you back a week ago. So you got back safe?"
"Safe? Why, =
of
course,"
Peters shook his
head.
"I confess t=
hat,
when there was this delay in your coming here, I sometimes feared something
might have happened to you. I recall mentioning it to the young lady who
recently did me the honour to promise to become my wife."
"Ocean liners
aren't often wrecked nowadays."
"I was think=
ing
more of the brawls on shore. America's a dangerous country. But perhaps you
were not in touch with the underworld?"
"I don't thi=
nk I
was."
"Ah!" s=
aid
Jno. Peters, significantly.
He took up the
revolver, gave it a fond and almost paternal look, and replaced it on the d=
esk.
"What on ear=
th
are you doing with that thing?" asked Sam.
Mr. Peters lowered
his voice.
"I'm going to
America myself in a few days' time, Mr. Samuel. It's my annual holiday, and=
the
guvnor's sending me over with papers in connection with The People v. Schul=
tz
and Bowen. It's a big case over there. A client of ours is mixed up in it, =
an
American gentleman. I am to take these important papers to his legal
representative in New York. So I thought it best to be prepared."
The first smile t=
hat
he had permitted himself in nearly two weeks flitted across Sam's face.
"What on ear=
th
sort of place do you think New York is?" he asked. "It's safer th=
an
London."
"Ah, but what
about the underworld? I've seen these American films that they send over he=
re,
Mr. Samuel. Every Saturday night regular I take my young lady to a cinema, =
and,
I tell you, they teach you something. Did you ever see 'Wolves of the Bower=
y'?
There was a man in that in just my position, carrying important papers, and
what they didn't try to do to him! No, I'm taking no chances, Mr. Samuel!&q=
uot;
"I should ha=
ve
said you were, lugging that thing about with you."
Mr. Peters seemed
wounded.
"Oh, I
understand the mechanism perfectly, and I am becoming a very fair shot. I t=
ake
my little bite of food in here early and go and practice at the Rupert Stre=
et
Rifle Range during my lunch hour. You'd be surprised how quickly one picks =
it
up. When I get home at night I try how quick I can draw. You have to draw l=
ike
a flash of lightning, Mr. Samuel. If you'd ever seen a film called
'Two-Gun-Thomas' you'd realise that. You haven't time to be loitering
about."
"I
haven't," agreed Sam. "Is my father in? I'd like to see him if he=
's not
busy."
Mr. Peters, recal=
led
to his professional duties, shed his sinister front like a garment. He pick=
ed
up a speaking tube and blew down it.
"Mr. Samuel =
to
see you, Mr. Mallaby. Yes, sir, very good. Will you go right in, Mr.
Samuel?"
Sam proceeded to =
the
inner office, and found his father dictating into the attentive ear of Miss
Milliken, his elderly and respectable stenographer, replies to his morning
mail.
The grime which
encrusted the lawyer's professional stamping ground did not extend to his
person. Sir Mallaby Marlowe was a dapper little man, with a round, cheerful
face and a bright eye. His morning coat had been cut by London's best tailo=
r,
and his trousers perfectly creased by a sedulous valet. A pink carnation in=
his
buttonhole matched his healthy complexion. His golf handicap was twelve. His
sister, Mrs. Horace Hignett, considered him worldly.
"Dear Sirs: =
We
are in receipt of your favour and in reply beg to state that nothing will i=
nduce
us ... will induce us ... where did I put that letter? Ah! ... nothing will
induce us ... oh, tell 'em to go to blazes, Miss Milliken."
"Very well, =
Sir
Mallaby."
"That's that.
Ready? Messrs. Brigney, Goole and Butterworth. What infernal names these pe=
ople
have. Sirs, on behalf of our client ... oh, hullo, Sam!"
"Good mornin=
g,
father."
"Take a seat.
I'm busy, but I'll be finished in a moment. Where was I, Miss Milliken?&quo=
t;
"On behalf of
our client...."
"Oh, yes. On
behalf of our client, Mr. Wibblesley Eggshaw.... Where these people get the=
ir
names I'm hanged if I know. Your poor mother wanted to call you Hyacinth, S=
am.
You may not know it, but in the 'nineties, when you were born, children were
frequently christened Hyacinth. Well, I saved you from that."
His attention was=
now
diverted to his son, Sir Mallaby seemed to remember that the latter had just
returned from a long journey, and that he had not seen him for many weeks. =
He
inspected him with interest.
"Very glad to
see you're back, Sam. So you didn't win?"
"No, I got
beaten in the semi-finals."
"American
amateurs are a very hot lot: the best ones. I suppose you were weak on the
greens, I warned you about that. You'll have to rub up your putting before =
next
year."
At the idea that =
any
mundane pursuit as practising putting could appeal to his broken spirit now,
Sam uttered a bitter laugh. It was as if Dante had recommended some lost so=
ul
in the Inferno to occupy his mind by knitting jumpers.
"Well, you s=
eem
to be in great spirits," said Sir Mallaby approvingly. "It's plea=
sant
to hear your merry laugh again, isn't it, Miss Milliken?"
"Extremely
exhilarating," agreed the stenographer, adjusting her spectacles and
smiling at Sam, for whom there was a soft spot in her heart.
A sense of the fu=
tility
of life oppressed Sam. As he gazed in the glass that morning, he had though=
t,
not without a certain gloomy satisfaction, how remarkably pale and drawn his
face looked. And these people seemed to imagine that he was in the highest
spirits. His laughter, which had sounded to him like the wailing of a demon,
struck Miss Milliken as exhilarating.
"On behalf of
our client, Mr. Wibblesley Eggshaw," said Sir Mallaby, swooping back to
duty once more, "we beg to state that we are prepared to accept service
... sounds like a tennis match, eh, Sam? It isn't, though. This young ass,
Eggshaw ... what time did you dock this morning?"
"I landed ne=
arly
a week ago."
"A week ago!
Then what the deuce have you been doing with yourself? Why haven't I seen
you?"
"I've been d=
own
at Bingley-on-the-Sea."
"Bingley! Wh=
at
on earth were you doing at that Godforsaken place?"
"Wrestling w=
ith
myself," said Sam with simple dignity.
Sir Mallaby's agi=
le
mind had leaped back to the letter which he was answering.
"We should be
=
glad to meet you.... Wrestling, eh! Well, I like a boy to be fond of manly
sports. Still, life isn't all athletics. Don't forget that. Life is real! L=
ife
is ... how does it go, Miss Milliken?"
Miss Milliken fol=
ded
her hands and shut her eyes, her invariable habit when called upon to recit=
e.
"Life is rea=
l!
Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art to dust
returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Art is long and time is fleeting. And
our hearts though stout and brave, Still like muffled drums are beating Fun=
eral
marches to the grave. Lives of great men all remind us we can make our lives
sublime, and, departing, leave behind us footsteps on the sands of Time. Le=
t us
then ..." said Miss Milliken respectfully ... "be up and
doing...."
"All right, =
all
right, all right!" said Sir Mallaby. "I don't want it all. Life is
real! Life is earnest, Sam. I want to speak to you about that when I've
finished answering these infernal letters. Where was I? 'We should be glad =
to
meet you at any time, if you will make an appointment...' Bingley-on-the-Se=
a!
Good heavens! Why Bingley-on-the-Sea? Why not Margate, while you are about
it?"
"Margate is =
too
bracing. I did not wish to be braced. Bingley suited my mood. It was gray a=
nd
dark, and it rained all the time, and the sea slunk about in the distance l=
ike
some baffled beast...."
He stopped, becom=
ing
aware that his father was not listening. Sir Mallaby's attention had return=
ed
to the letter.
"Oh, what's =
the
good of answering the dashed thing at all?" said Sir Mallaby.
"Brigney, Goole and Butterworth know perfectly well that they have got=
us
in a cleft stick. Butterworth knows it better than Goole, and Brigney knows=
it
better than Butterworth. This young fool, Eggshaw, Sam, admits that he wrote
the girl twenty-three letters, twelve of them in verse, and twenty-one
specifically asking her to marry him, and he comes to me and expects me to =
get
him out of it. The girl is suing him for ten thousand."
"How like a
woman!"
Miss Milliken bri=
dled
reproachfully at this slur on her sex. Sir Mallaby took no notice of it
whatever.
"... If you =
will
make an appointment, when we can discuss the matter without prejudice. Get
those typed, Miss Milliken. Have a cigar, Sam. Miss Milliken, tell Peters as
you go out that I am occupied with a conference and can see nobody for half=
an
hour."
When Miss Milliken
had withdrawn, Sir Mallaby occupied ten seconds of the period which he had =
set
aside for communion with his son in staring silently at him.
"I'm glad yo=
u're
back, Sam," he said at length. "I want to have a talk with you. Y=
ou
know, it's time you were settling down. I've been thinking about you while =
you
were in America, and I've come to the conclusion that I've been letting you
drift along. Very bad for a young man. You're getting on. I don't say you're
senile, but you're not twenty-one any longer, and at your age I was working
like a beaver. You've got to remember that life is--dash it! I've forgotten=
it
again."
He broke off and
puffed vigorously into the speaking tube. "Miss Milliken, kindly repeat
what you were saying just now about life.... Yes, yes, that's enough!"=
He
put down the instrument. "Yes, life is real, life is earnest," he
said, gazing at Sam seriously, "and the grave is not our goal. Lives of
great men all remind us we can make our lives sublime. In fact, it's time y=
ou
took your coat off and started work."
"I am quite
ready, father."
"You didn't =
hear
what I said," exclaimed Sir Mallaby with a look of surprise. "I s=
aid
it was time you began work."
"And I said I
was quite ready."
"Bless my so=
ul!
You've changed your views a trifle since I saw you last."
"I have chan=
ged
them altogether."
Long hours of
brooding among the red plush settees in the lounge of the Hotel Magnificent=
at
Bingley-on-the-Sea had brought about this strange, even morbid, attitude of
mind in Samuel Marlowe. Work, he had decided even before his conversation w=
ith
Eustace, was the only medicine for his sick soul. Here, he felt, in this qu=
iet
office, far from the tumult and noise of the world, in a haven of torts and
misdemeanours and Vic. I Cap 3's, and all the rest of it, he might find pea=
ce.
At any rate, it was worth taking a stab at it.
"Your trip h=
as
done you good," said Sir Mallaby approvingly. "The sea air has gi=
ven
you some sense. I'm glad of it. It makes it easier for me to say something =
else
that I've had on my mind for a good while. Sam, it's time you got
married."
Sam barked bitter=
ly.
His father looked at him with concern.
"Swallow some
smoke the wrong way?"
"I was
laughing," explained Sam with dignity.
Sir Mallaby shook=
his
head.
"I don't wan=
t to
discourage your high spirit, but I must ask you to approach this matter
seriously. Marriage would do you a world of good, Sam. It would brace you u=
p.
You really ought to consider the idea. I was two years younger than you are
when I married your poor mother, and it was the making of me. A wife might =
make
something of you."
"Impossible!=
"
"I don't see=
why
she shouldn't. There's lots of good in you, my boy, though you may not think
so."
"When I said=
it
was impossible," said Sam coldly, "I was referring to the
impossibility of the possibility.... I mean, that it was impossible that I
could possibly ... in other words, father, I can never marry. My heart is
dead."
"Your
what?"
"My heart.&q=
uot;
"Don't be a
fool. There's nothing wrong with your heart. All our family have had hearts
like steam-engines. Probably you have been feeling a sort of burning. Knock=
off
cigars and that will soon stop."
"You don't
understand me. I mean that a woman has treated me in a way that has finished
her whole sex as far as I am concerned. For me, women do not exist."
"You didn't =
tell
me about this," said Sir Mallaby, interested. "When did this happ=
en?
Did she jilt you?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"In America =
was
it?"
"On the
boat."
Sir Mallaby chuck=
led
heartily.
"My dear boy,
you don't mean to tell me that you're taking a shipboard flirtation serious=
ly.
Why, you're expected to fall in love with a different girl every time you g=
o on
a voyage. You'll get over this in a week. You'd have got over it now if you
hadn't gone and buried yourself in a depressing place like
Bingley-on-the-Sea."
The whistle of the
speaking-tube blew. Sir Mallaby put the instrument to his ear.
"All
right," he turned to Sam. "I shall have to send you away now, Sam=
. Man
waiting to see me. Good-bye."
Miss Milliken
intercepted Sam as he made for the door.
"Oh, Mr.
Sam!"
"Yes?"<= o:p>
"Excuse me, =
but
will you be seeing Sir Mallaby again to-day? If so, would you--I don't like=
to
disturb him now, when he is busy--would you mind telling him that I
inadvertently omitted a stanza. It runs," said Miss Milliken, closing =
her
eyes, "'Trust no future, howe'er pleasant. Let the dead past bury its
dead! Act, act in the living Present, Heart within and God o'erhead!' Thank=
you
so much. Good afternoon."
At about the time when Sam Marlowe =
was
having the momentous interview with his father, described in the last chapt=
er,
Mr. Rufus Bennett woke from an after-luncheon nap in Mrs. Hignett's delight=
ful
old-world mansion, Windles, in the county of Hampshire. He had gone to his =
room
after lunch, because there seemed nothing else to do. It was still raining
hard, so that a ramble in the picturesque garden was impossible, and the on=
ly
alternative to sleep, the society of Mr. Henry Mortimer, had become peculia=
rly
distasteful to Mr. Bennett.
Much has been wri=
tten
of great friendships between man and man, friendships which neither woman c=
an
mar nor death destroy. Rufus Bennett had always believed that his friendship
for Mr. Mortimer was of this order. They had been boys together in the same
small town, and had kept together in after years. They had been Damon and
Pythias, David and Jonathan. But never till now had they been cooped up
together in an English country-house in the middle of a bad patch of Englis=
h summer
weather. So this afternoon Mr. Bennett, in order to avoid his life-long fri=
end,
had gone to bed.
He awoke now with=
a
start, and a moment later realized what it was that had aroused him. There =
was
music in the air. The room was full of it. It seemed to be coming up through
the floor and rolling about in chunks all round his bed. He blinked the last
fragments of sleep out of his system, and became filled with a restless
irritability.
He rang the bell
violently, and presently there entered a grave, thin, intellectual man who
looked like a duke, only more respectable. This was Webster, Mr. Bennett's
English valet.
"Is that Mr.
Mortimer?" he barked, as the door opened.
"No, sir. It=
is
I--Webster." Not even the annoyance of being summoned like this from an
absorbing game of penny nap in the housekeeper's room had the power to make=
the
valet careless of his grammar. "I fancied that I heard your bell ring,
sir."
"I wonder you
could hear anything with that infernal noise going on," snapped Mr.
Bennett, "Is Mr. Mortimer playing that--that damned gas-engine in the
drawing-room?"
"Yes, sir.
Tosti's Goodbye. A charming air, sir."
"Charming air
be--! Tell him to stop it."
"Very good,
sir."
The valet withdrew
like a duke leaving the royal presence, not actually walking backwards, but
giving the impression of doing so. Mr. Bennett lay in bed and fumed. Presen=
tly
the valet returned. The music still continued to roll about the room.
"I am sorry =
to
have to inform you, sir," said Webster, "that Mr. Mortimer declin=
es
to accede to your request."
"Oh, he said
that, did he!"
"That is the
gist of his remarks, sir."
"Did you tell
him I was trying to get to sleep?"
"Yes, sir. I
understood him to reply that he should worry and get a pain in the neck.&qu=
ot;
"Go down aga=
in
and say that I insist on his stopping the thing. It's an outrage."
"Very good,
sir."
In a few minutes,
Webster, like the dove despatched from the Ark, was back again.
"I fear my
mission has been fruitless, sir. Mr. Mortimer appears adamant on the point =
at
issue."
"You gave hi=
m my
message?"
"Verbatim, s=
ir.
In reply Mr. Mortimer desired me to tell you that, if you did not like it, =
you
could do the other thing. I quote the exact words, sir."
"He did, did
he?"
"Yes, sir.&q=
uot;
"Very good! =
Webster!"
"Sir?"<= o:p>
"When is the
next train to London?"
"I will
ascertain, sir. Cook, I believe has a time-table."
"Go and see,
then. I want to know. And send Miss Wilhelmina to me."
"Very good,
sir."
Somewhat consoled=
by
the thought that he was taking definite action, Mr. Bennett lay back and wa=
ited
for Billie.
"I want you =
to
go to London," he said, when she appeared.
"To London?
Why?"
"I'll tell y=
ou
why," said Mr. Bennett vehemently. "Because of that pest Mortimer=
. I
must have legal advice. I want you to go and see Sir Mallaby Marlowe. Here's
his address. Tell him the whole story. Tell him that this man is annoying m=
e in
every possible way and ask if he can't be stopped. If you can't see Sir Mal=
laby
himself, see someone else in the firm. Go up to-night, so that you can see =
him
first thing in the morning. You can stop the night at the Savoy. I've sent
Webster to look out a train."
"There's a
splendid train in about an hour. I'll take that."
"It's giving=
you
a lot of trouble," said Mr. Bennett with belated consideration.
"Oh no!"
said Billie. "I'm only too glad to be able to do something for you, fa=
ther
dear. This noise is a terrible nuisance, isn't it."
"You're a go=
od
girl," said Mr. Bennett.
"That's right!" said Sir
Mallaby Marlowe. "Work while you're young, Sam, work while you're
young." He regarded his son's bent head with affectionate approval.
"What's the book to-day?"
"Widgery on =
Nisi
prius Evidence," said Sam, without looking up.
"Capital!&qu=
ot;
said Sir Mallaby. "Highly improving and as interesting as a novel--some
novels. There's a splendid bit on, I think, page two hundred and fifty-four
where the hero finds out all about Copyhold and Customary Estates. It's a
wonderfully powerful situation. It appears--but I won't spoil it for you. M=
ind
you don't skip to see how it all comes out in the end!" Sir Mallaby
suspended conversation while he addressed an imaginary ball with the mashie
which he had taken out of his golf-bag. For this was the day when he went d=
own
to Walton Heath for his weekly foursome with three old friends. His tubby f=
orm
was clad in tweed of a violent nature, with knickerbockers and stockings.
"Sam!"
"Well?"=
"Sam, a man =
at
the club showed me a new grip the other day. Instead of overlapping the lit=
tle
finger of the right hand ... Oh, by the way, Sam."
"Yes?"<= o:p>
"I should lo= ck up the office to-day if I were you, or anxious clients will be coming in and asking for advice, and you'll find yourself in difficulties. I shall be gon= e, and Peters is away on his holiday. You'd better lock the outer door."<= o:p>
"All
right," said Sam absently. He was finding Widgery stiff reading. He had
just got to the bit about Raptu Haeredis, which, as of course you know, is a
writ for taking away an heir holding insocage.
Sir Mallaby looke=
d at
his watch.
"Well, I'll =
have
to be going. See you later, Sam."
"Good-bye.&q=
uot;
Sir Mallaby went =
out,
and Sam, placing both elbows on the desk and twining his fingers in his hai=
r,
returned with a frown of concentration to his grappling with Widgery. For
perhaps ten minutes the struggle was an even one, then gradually Widgery got
the upper hand. Sam's mind, numbed by constant batterings against the stony
ramparts of legal phraseology, weakened, faltered, and dropped away; and a
moment later his thoughts, as so often happened when he was alone, darted o=
ff
and began to circle round the image of Billie Bennett.
Since they had la=
st
met, Sam had told himself perhaps a hundred times that he cared nothing abo=
ut
Billie, that she had gone out of his life and was dead to him; but
unfortunately he did not believe it. A man takes a deal of convincing on a
point like this, and Sam had never succeeded in convincing himself for more
than two minutes at a time. It was useless to pretend that he did not still
love Billie more than ever, because he knew he did; and now, as the truth s=
wept
over him for the hundred and first time, he groaned hollowly and gave himse=
lf
up to the gray despair which is the almost inseparable companion of young m=
en in
his position.
So engrossed was =
he
in his meditation that he did not hear the light footstep in the outer offi=
ce,
and it was only when it was followed by a tap on the door of the inner offi=
ce
that he awoke with a start to the fact that clients were in his midst. He
wished that he had taken his father's advice and locked up the office. Prob=
ably
this was some frightful bore who wanted to make his infernal will or someth=
ing,
and Sam had neither the ability nor the inclination to assist him.
Was it too late to
escape? Perhaps if he did not answer the knock, the blighter might think th=
ere
was nobody at home. But suppose he opened the door and peeped in? A spasm of
Napoleonic strategy seized Sam. He dropped silently to the floor and concea=
led
himself under the desk. Napoleon was always doing that sort of thing.
There was another
tap. Then, as he had anticipated, the door opened. Sam, crouched like a har=
e in
its form, held his breath. It seemed to him that he was going to bring this
delicate operation off with success. He felt he had acted just as Napoleon
would have done in a similar crisis. And so, no doubt, he had to a certain
extent; only Napoleon would have seen to it that his boots and about eighte=
en
inches of trousered legs were not sticking out, plainly visible to all who =
entered.
"Good mornin=
g,"
said a voice.
Sam thrilled from=
the
top of his head to the soles of his feet. It was the voice which had been
ringing in his ears through all his waking hours.
"Are you bus=
y,
Mr. Marlowe?" asked Billie, addressing the boots.
Sam wriggled out =
from
under the desk like a disconcerted tortoise.
"Dropped my
pen," he mumbled, as he rose to the surface.
He pulled himself
with an effort that was like a physical exercise. He stared at Billie dumbl=
y.
Then, recovering speech, he invited her to sit down, and seated himself at =
the
desk.
"Dropped my
pen!" he gurgled again.
"Yes?" =
said
Billie.
"Fountain-pe=
n,"
babbled Sam, "with a broad nib."
"Yes?"<= o:p>
"A broad gold
nib," went on Sam, with the painful exactitude which comes only from
embarrassment or the early stages of intoxication.
"Really?&quo=
t;
said Billie, and Sam blinked and told himself resolutely that this would not
do. He was not appearing to advantage. It suddenly occurred to him that his
hair was standing on end as the result of his struggle with Widgery. He
smoothed it down hastily, and felt a trifle more composed. The old fighting
spirit of the Marlowes now began to assert itself to some extent. He must m=
ake
an effort to appear as little of a fool as possible in this girl's eyes. And
what eyes they were! Golly! Like stars! Like two bright planets in....
However, that was
neither here nor there. He pulled down his waistcoat and became cold and
business-like--the dry young lawyer.
"Er--how do =
you
do, Miss Bennett?" he said with a question in his voice, raising his
eyebrows in a professional way. He modelled this performance on that of law=
yers
he had seen on the stage, and wished he had some snuff to take or something=
to
tap against his front teeth. "Miss Bennett, I believe?"
Billie drew herse=
lf
up stiffly.
"Yes," =
she
replied. "How clever of you to remember me."
"I have a go=
od
memory."
"How nice! So
have I!"
There was a pause,
during which Billie allowed her gaze to travel casually about the room. Sam
occupied the intermission by staring furtively at her profile. He was by no=
w in
a thoroughly overwrought condition, and the thumping of his heart sounded to
him as if workmen were mending the street outside. How beautiful she looked,
with that red hair peeping out beneath her hat and ... However!
"Is there an=
ything
I can do for you?" he asked in the sort of voice Widgery might have us=
ed.
Sam always pictured Widgery as a small man with bushy eyebrows, a thin face,
and a voice like a rusty file.
"Well, I rea=
lly
wanted to see Sir Mallaby."
"My father h=
as
been called away on important business to Walton Heath. Cannot I act as his
substitute?"
"Do you know
anything about the law?"
"Do I know
anything about the law!" echoed Sam, amazed. "Do I know--! Why, I=
was
reading my Widgery on Nisi Prius Evidence when you came in."
"Oh, were
you?" said Billie interested. "Do you always read on the floor.&q=
uot;
"I told you I
dropped my pen," said Sam coldly.
"And of cour=
se
you couldn't read without that! Well, as a matter of fact, this has nothing=
to
do with Nisi--what you said."
"I have not
specialised exclusively on Nisi Prius Evidence. I know the law in all its
branches."
"Then what w=
ould
you do if a man insisted on playing the orchestrion when you wanted to get =
to
sleep?"
"The
orchestrion?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"The
orchestrion, eh? Ah! H'm!" said Sam.
"You still
haven't made it quite clear," said Billie.
"I was
thinking."
"Oh, if you =
want
to think!"
"Tell me the
facts," said Sam.
"Well, Mr.
Mortimer and my father have taken a house together in the country, and for =
some
reason or other they have quarrelled, and now Mr. Mortimer is doing everyth=
ing
he can to make father uncomfortable. Yesterday afternoon father wanted to
sleep, and Mr. Mortimer started his orchestrion just to annoy him."
"I think--I'm
not quite sure--I think that's a tort," said Sam.
"A what?&quo=
t;
"Either a to=
rt
or a misdemeanour."
"Why, you do
know something about it after all!" cried Billie, startled into a sort=
of
friendliness in spite of herself. And at the words and the sight of her qui=
ck
smile Sam's professional composure reeled on its foundations. He had half
risen, with the purpose of springing up and babbling of the passion that
consumed him, when the chill reflection came to him that this girl had once
said that she considered him ridiculous. If he let himself go, would she not
continue to think him ridiculous? He sagged back into his seat and at that
moment there came another tap on the door which, opening, revealed the sini=
ster
face of the holiday-making Peters.
"Good mornin=
g,
Mr. Samuel," said Jno. Peters. "Good morning, Miss Milliken.
Oh!"
He vanished as
abruptly as he had appeared. He perceived that what he had taken at first
glance for the stenographer was a client, and that the junior partner was
engaged on a business conference. He left behind him a momentary silence.
"What a
horrible-looking man!" said Billie, breaking it with a little gasp. Jn=
o.
Peters often affected the opposite sex like that at first sight.
"I beg your
pardon?" said Sam absently.
"What a
dreadful-looking man! He quite frightened me!"
For some moments =
Sam
sat without speaking. If this had not been one of his Napoleonic mornings, =
no
doubt the sudden arrival of his old friend, Mr. Peters, whom he had imagine=
d at
his home in Putney packing for his trip to America, would have suggested
nothing to him. As it was it suggested a great deal. He had had a brain-wav=
e,
and for fully a minute he sat tingling under its impact. He was not a young=
man
who often had brain-waves, and, when they came, they made him rather dizzy.=
"Who is
he?" asked Billie. "He seemed to know you? And who," she dem=
anded
after a slight pause, "is Miss Milliken?"
Sam drew a deep
breath.
"It's rather=
a
sad story," he said. "His name is John Peters. He used to be clerk
here."
"But isn't he
any longer?"
"No." S=
am shook
his head. "We had to get rid of him."
"I don't won=
der.
A man looking like that...."
"It wasn't t=
hat
so much," said Sam. "The thing that annoyed father was that he tr=
ied
to shoot Miss Milliken."
Billie uttered a =
cry
of horror!
"He tried to
shoot Miss Milliken!"
"He did shoot
her--the third time," said Sam warming to his work. "Only in the =
arm,
fortunately," he added. "But my father is rather a stern discipli=
narian
and he had to go. I mean, we couldn't keep him after that."
"Good
gracious!"
"She used to=
be
my father's stenographer, and she was thrown a good deal with Peters. It was
quite natural that he should fall in love with her. She was a beautiful gir=
l,
with rather your own shade of hair. Peters is a man of volcanic passions, a=
nd,
when, after she had given him to understand that his love was returned, she
informed him one day that she was engaged to a fellow at Ealing West, he we=
nt
right off his onion--I mean, he became completely distraught. I must say th=
at
he concealed it very effectively at first. We had no inkling of his conditi=
on
till he came in with the pistol. And, after that ... well, as I say, we had=
to
dismiss him. A great pity, for he was a good clerk. Still, it wouldn't do. =
It
wasn't only that he tried to shoot Miss Milliken. That wouldn't have matter=
ed
so much, as she left after he had made his third attempt, and got married. =
But
the thing became an obsession with him, and we found that he had a fixed id=
ea
that every red-haired woman who came into the office was the girl who had d=
eceived
him. You can see how awkward that made it. Red hair is so fashionable nowad=
ays."
"My hair is
red!" whispered Billie pallidly.
"Yes, I noti=
ced
it myself. I told you it was much the same shade as Miss Milliken's. It's
rather fortunate that I happened to be here with you when he came."
"But he may =
be
lurking out there still!"
"I expect he
is," said Sam carelessly. "Yes, I suppose he is. Would you like m=
e to
go and send him away? All right."
"But--but is=
it
safe?"
Sam uttered a lig=
ht
laugh.
"I don't mind
taking a risk or two for your sake," he said, and sauntered from the r=
oom,
closing the door behind him. Billie followed him with worshipping eyes.
Jno. Peters rose
politely from the chair in which he had seated himself for more comfortable
perusal of the copy of Home Whispers which he had brought with him to refre=
sh
his mind in the event of the firm being too busy to see him immediately. He=
was
particularly interested in the series of chats with Young Mothers.
"Hullo,
Peters," said Sam. "Want anything?"
"Very sorry =
to
have disturbed you, Mr. Samuel. I just looked in to say good-bye. I sail on
Saturday, and my time will be pretty fully taken up all the week. I have to=
go
down to the country to get some final instructions from the client whose im=
portant
papers I am taking over. I'm sorry to have missed your father, Mr.
Samuel."
"Yes, this is
his golf day, I'll tell him you looked in."
"Is there
anything I can do before I go?"
"Do?"
"Well--"=
;--Jno.
Peters coughed tactfully--"I see that you are engaged with a client, M=
r.
Samuel, and was wondering if any little point of law had arisen with which =
you
did not feel yourself quite capable of coping, in which case I might perhap=
s be
of assistance."
"Oh, that
lady," said Sam. "That was Miss Milliken's sister."
"Indeed? I
didn't know Miss Milliken had a sister."
"No?" s=
aid
Sam.
"She is not =
very
like her in appearance."
"No. This on=
e is
the beauty of the family, I believe. A very bright, intelligent girl. I was
telling her about your revolver just before you came in, and she was most
interested. It's a pity you haven't got it with you now, to show to her.&qu=
ot;
"Oh, but I h=
ave!
I have, Mr. Samuel!" said Peters, opening a small handbag and taking o=
ut a
hymn-book, half a pound of mixed chocolates, a tongue sandwich, and the pis=
tol,
in the order named. "I was on my way to the Rupert Street range for a
little practice. I should be glad to show it to her."
"Well, wait =
here
a minute or two," said Sam, "I'll have finished talking business =
in a
moment,"
He returned to the
inner office.
"Well?"
cried Billie.
"Eh? Oh, he's
gone," said Sam. "I persuaded him to go away. He was a little
excited, poor fellow. And now let us return to what we were talking about. =
You
say...." He broke off with an exclamation, and glanced at his watch.
"Good Heavens! I had no idea of the time. I promised to run up and see=
a
man in one of the offices in the next court. He wants to consult me on some
difficulty which has arisen with one of his clients. Rightly or wrongly he
values my advice. Can you spare me for a short while? I shan't be more than=
ten
minutes."
"Certainly.&=
quot;
"Here is
something you may care to look at while I'm gone. I don't know if you have =
read
it? Widgery on Nisi Prius Evidence. Most interesting."
He went out. Jno.
Peters looked up from his Home Whispers.
"You can go =
in
now," said Sam.
"Certainly, =
Mr.
Samuel, certainly."
Sam took up the c=
opy
of Home Whispers, and sat down with his feet on the desk. He turned to the
serial story and began to read the synopsis.
In the inner room,
Billie, who had rejected the mental refreshment offered by Widgery, and was
engaged in making a tour of the office, looking at the portraits of whisker=
ed
men whom she took correctly to be the Thorpes, Prescotts, Winslows and Appl=
ebys
mentioned on the contents-bill outside, was surprised to hear the door open=
at
her back. She had not expected Sam to return so instantaneously.
Nor had he done s=
o.
It was not Sam who entered. It was a man of repellent aspect whom she
recognised instantly, for Jno. Peters was one of those men who, once seen, =
are
not easily forgotten. He was smiling, a cruel, cunning smile--at least, she
thought he was; Mr. Peters himself was under the impression that his face w=
as
wreathed in a benevolent simper; and in his hand he bore the largest pistol
ever seen outside a motion picture studio.
"How do you =
do,
Miss Milliken?" he said.
Billie had been standing near the w=
all,
inspecting a portrait of the late Mr. Josiah Appleby, of which the kindest
thing one can say is that one hopes it did not do him justice. She now shra=
nk
back against this wall, as if she were trying to get through it. The edge of
the portrait's frame tilted her hat out of the straight, but in this supreme
moment she did not even notice it.
"Er--how do =
you
do?" she said.
If she had not be=
en
an exceedingly pretty girl, one would have said that she spoke squeakily. T=
he
fighting spirit of the Bennetts, though it was considerable fighting spirit,
had not risen to this emergency. It had ebbed out of her, leaving in its pl=
ace
a cold panic. She had seen this sort of thing in the movies--there was one
series of pictures, The Dangers of Diana, where something of the kind had h=
appened
to the heroine in every reel--but she had not anticipated that it would ever
happen to her: and consequently she had not thought out any plan for coping
with such a situation. A grave error. In this world one should be prepared =
for
everything, or where is one? The best she could do was to stand and stare at
the intruder. It would have done Sam Marlowe good--he had now finished the
synopsis and was skimming through the current instalment--if he could have
known how she yearned for his return.
"I've brought
the revolver," said Mr. Peters.
"So--so I
see!" said Billie.
Mr. Peters nursed=
the
weapon affectionately in his hand. He was rather a shy man with women as a
rule, but what Sam had told him about her being interested in his revolver =
had
made his heart warm to this girl.
"I was just =
on
my way to have a little practice at the range," he said. "Then I
thought I might as well look in here."
"I suppose--I
suppose you're a good shot?" quavered Billie.
"I seldom
miss," said Jno. Peters.
Billie shuddered.
Then, reflecting that the longer she engaged this maniac in conversation, t=
he more
hope there was of Sam coming back in time to save her, she essayed further
small-talk.
"It's--it's =
very
ugly!"
"Oh, no!&quo=
t;
said Mr. Peters, hurt.
Billie perceived =
that
she had said the wrong thing.
"Very
deadly-looking, I meant," she corrected herself hastily.
"It may have
deadly work to do, Miss Milliken," said Mr. Peters.
Conversation
languished again. Billie had no further remarks to make of immediate intere=
st,
and Mr. Peters was struggling with a return of the deplorable shyness which=
so
handicapped him in his dealings with the other sex. After a few moments, he
pulled himself together again, and, as his first act was to replace the pis=
tol
in the pocket of his coat, Billie became conscious of a faint stirring of
relief.
"The great
thing," said Jno. Peters, "is to learn to draw quickly. Like this=
!"
he added, producing the revolver with something of the smoothness and rapid=
ity
with which Billie, in happier moments, had seen conjurers take a bowl of go=
ld
fish out of a tall hat. "Everything depends on getting the first shot!=
The
first shot, Miss Milliken, is vital."
Suddenly Billie h=
ad
an inspiration. It was hopeless she knew, to try to convince this poor deme=
nted
creature, obsessed with his idee fixe, that she was not Miss Milliken. Deni=
al
would be a waste of time, and might even infuriate him into precipitating t=
he
tragedy. It was imperative that she should humour him. And, while she was
humouring him, it suddenly occurred to her, why not do it thoroughly.
"Mr.
Peters," she cried, "you are quite mistaken!"
"I beg your
pardon," said Jno. Peters, with not a little asperity. "Nothing of
the kind!"
"You are!&qu=
ot;
"I assure yo=
u I
am not. Quickness in the draw is essential."
"You have be=
en
misinformed."
"Well, I had=
it
direct from the man at the Rupert Street range," said Mr. Peters stiff=
ly.
"And if you had ever seen a picture called Two-Gun Thomas...."
"Mr.
Peters!" cried Billie desperately. He was making her head swim with his
meaningless ravings. "Mr. Peters, hear me! I am not married to a man at
Ealing West!"
Mr. Peters betray=
ed
no excitement at the information. This girl seemed for some reason to consi=
der
her situation an extraordinary one, but many women, he was aware, were in a
similar position. In fact, he could not at the moment think of any of his
feminine acquaintances who were married to men at Ealing West.
"Indeed?&quo=
t;
he said politely.
"Won't you
believe me?" exclaimed Billie wildly.
"Why, certai=
nly,
certainly," said Jno. Peters.
"Thank
God!" said Billie. "I'm not even engaged! It's all been a terrible
mistake!"
When two people i=
n a
small room are speaking on two distinct and different subjects and neither
knows what on earth the other is driving at, there is bound to be a certain
amount of mental confusion: but at this point Jno. Peters, though still not
wholly equal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation, began to see=
a
faint shimmer of light behind the clouds. In a nebulous kind of way he bega=
n to
understand that the girl had come to consult the firm about a breach-of-pro=
mise
action. Some unknown man at Ealing West had been trifling with her
heart--hardened lawyer's clerk as he was, that poignant cry "I'm not
engaged!" had touched Mr. Peters--and she wished to start proceedings.=
Mr.
Peters felt almost in his depth again. He put the revolver in his pocket, a=
nd
drew out a note-book.
"I should be
glad to hear the facts," he said with professional courtesy. "In =
the
absence of the Guv'nor...."
"I have told=
you
the facts!"
"This man at
Ealing West," said Mr. Peters, moistening the point of his pencil,
"he wrote you letters proposing marriage?"
"No, no,
no!"
"At any
rate," said Mr. Peters, disappointed but hopeful, "he made love to
you before witnesses?"
"Never! Neve=
r!
There is no man at Ealing West! There never was a man at Ealing West!"=
It was at this po=
int
that Jno. Peters began for the first time to entertain serious doubts of the
girl's mental balance. The most elementary acquaintance with the latest cen=
sus
was enough to tell him that there were any number of men at Ealing West. The
place was full of them. Would a sane woman have made an assertion to the
contrary? He thought not, and he was glad that he had the revolver with him.
She had done nothing as yet actively violent, but it was nice to feel prepa=
red.
He took it out and laid it nonchalantly in his lap.
The sight of the
weapon acted on Billie electrically. She flung out her hands, in a gesture =
of
passionate appeal, and played her last card.
"I love
you!" she cried. She wished she could have remembered his first name. =
It would
have rounded off the sentence neatly. In such a moment she could hardly call
him 'Mr. Peters.' "You are the only man I love."
"My gracious
goodness!" ejaculated Mr. Peters, and nearly fell over backwards. To a
naturally shy man this sudden and wholly unexpected declaration was
disconcerting: and the clerk was, moreover, engaged. He blushed violently. =
And
yet, even in that moment of consternation, he could not check a certain thr=
ill.
No man ever thinks he is as homely as he really is, but Jno. Peters had alw=
ays
come fairly near to a correct estimate of his charms, and it had always see=
med
to him, that, in inducing his fiancee to accept him, he had gone some. He n=
ow
began to wonder if he were not really rather a devil of a chap after all. T=
here
must, he felt, be precious few men going about capable of inspiring devotion
like this on the strength of about six and a half minutes casual conversati=
on.
Calmer thoughts
succeeded this little flicker of complacency. The girl was mad. That was the
fact of the matter. He got up and began to edge towards the door. Mr. Samuel
would be returning shortly, and he ought to be warned.
"So that's a=
ll
right, isn't it!" said Billie.
"Oh, quite,
quite!" said Mr. Peters. "Er--thank you very much!"
"I thought y=
ou
would be pleased," said Billie, relieved, but puzzled. For a man of
volcanic passions, as Sam Marlowe had described him, he seemed to be taking=
the
thing very calmly. She had anticipated a strenuous scene.
"Oh, it's a
great compliment," Mr. Peters assured her.
At this point Sam
came in, interrupting the conversation at a moment when it had reached a
somewhat difficult stage. He had finished the instalment of the serial stor=
y in
Home Whispers, and, looking at his watch he fancied that he had allowed
sufficient time to elapse for events to have matured along the lines which =
his
imagination had indicated.
The atmosphere of=
the
room seemed to him, as he entered, a little strained. Billie looked pale and
agitated. Mr. Peters looked rather agitated too. Sam caught Billie's eye. It
had an unspoken appeal in it. He gave an imperceptible nod, a reassuring no=
d,
the nod of a man who understood all and was prepared to handle the situatio=
n.
"Come,
Peters," he said in a deep, firm, quiet voice, laying a hand on the
clerk's arm. "It's time that you went."
"Yes, indeed,
Mr. Samuel! yes, yes, indeed!"
"I'll see you
out," said Sam soothingly, and led him through the outer office and on=
to
the landing outside. "Well, good luck, Peters," he said, as they
stood at the head of the stairs. "I hope you have a pleasant trip. Why,
what's the matter? You seem upset."
"That girl, =
Mr.
Samuel! I really think--really, she cannot be quite right in her head."=
;
"Nonsense,
nonsense!" said Sam firmly. "She's all right! Well, good-bye.&quo=
t;
"Good-bye, M=
r.
Samuel."
"When did you
say you were sailing?"
"Next Saturd=
ay,
Mr. Samuel. But I fear I shall have no opportunity of seeing you again befo=
re
then. I have packing to do and I have to see this gentleman down in the
country...."
"All right. =
Then
we'll say good-bye now. Good-bye, Peters. Mind you have a good time in Amer=
ica.
I'll tell my father you called."
Sam watched him o=
ut
of sight down the stairs, then turned and made his way back to the inner
office. Billie was sitting limply on the chair which Jno. Peters had occupi=
ed.
She sprang to her feet.
"Has he real=
ly
gone?"
"Yes, he's g=
one
this time."
"Was he--was=
he
violent?"
"A little,&q=
uot;
said Sam, "a little. But I calmed him down." He looked at her
gravely. "Thank God I was in time!"
"Oh, you are=
the
bravest man in the world!" cried Billie, and, burying her face in her
hands, burst into tears.
"There,
there!" said Sam. "There, there! Come come! It's all right now! T=
here,
there, there!"
He knelt down bes=
ide
her. He slipped one arm round her waist. He patted her hands.
I have tried to d=
raw
Samuel Marlowe so that he will live on the printed page. I have endeavoured=
to
delineate his character so that it will be as an open book. And, if I have
succeeded in my task, the reader will by now have become aware that he was a
young man with the gall of an Army mule. His conscience, if he had ever had
one, had become atrophied through long disuse. He had given this sensitive =
girl
the worst fright she had had since a mouse had got into her bedroom at scho=
ol.
He had caused Jno. Peters to totter off to the Rupert Street range making l=
ow, bleating
noises. And did he care? No! All he cared about was the fact that he had er=
ased
for ever from Billie's mind that undignified picture of himself as he had
appeared on the boat, and substituted another which showed him brave,
resourceful, gallant. All he cared about was the fact that Billie, so cold =
ten
minutes before, had allowed him to kiss her for the forty-second time. If y=
ou
had asked him, he would have said that he had acted for the best, and that =
out
of evil cometh good, or some sickening thing like that. That was the sort of
man Samuel Marlowe was.
His face was very
close to Billie's, who had cheered up wonderfully by this time, and he was
whispering his degraded words of endearment into her ear, when there was a =
sort
of explosion in the doorway.
"Great
Godfrey!" exclaimed Mr. Rufus Bennett, gazing on the scene from this p=
oint
of vantage and mopping with a large handkerchief a scarlet face, which, as =
the
result of climbing three flights of stairs, had become slightly soluble.
"Great Heavens above!"
Remarkable as the apparition of Mr.
Bennett appeared to his daughter, the explanation of his presence at that
moment in the office of Marlowe, Thorpe, Prescott, Winslow, and Appleby was
simple. He had woken early that morning, and, glancing at his watch on the
dressing-table, he had suddenly become aware of something bright and yellow
beside it, and had paused, transfixed, like Robinson Crusoe staring at the =
footprint
in the sand. If he had not been in England, he would have said it was a pat=
ch
of sunshine. Hardly daring to hope, he pulled up the shades and looked out =
on
the garden.
It was a superb
morning. It was as if some giant had uncorked a great bottle full of the
distilled scent of grass, trees, flowers, and hay. Mr. Bennett sniffed
luxuriantly. Gone was the gloom of the past days, swept away in a great
exhilaration.
Breakfast had
deepened his content. Henry Mortimer, softened by the same balmy influence,=
had
been perfectly charming. All their little differences had melted away in the
genial warmth. And then suddenly Mr. Bennett remembered that he had sent Bi=
llie
up to London to enlist the aid of the Law against his old friend, and remor=
se
gripped him. Half an hour later he was in the train, on his way to London to
intercept her and cancel her mission. He had arrived, breathless at Sir
Mallaby's office, and the first thing he had seen was his daughter in the a=
rms
of a young man who was a total stranger to him. The shock took away his bre=
ath
again just as it was coming back. He advanced shakily into the room, and
supported himself with one hand on the desk, while with the other he plied =
the
handkerchief on his super-heated face.
Billie was the fi=
rst
to speak.
"Why,
father," she said, "I didn't expect you!"
As an explanation=
of
her behaviour this might, no doubt, have been considered sufficient, but as=
an
excuse for it Mr. Bennett thought it inadequate. He tried to convey a fathe=
rly
reproof by puffing like a seal after a long dive in search of fish.
"This is
Sam," proceeded Billie. "Sam Marlowe."
Mr. Bennett became
aware that the young man was moving towards him with outstretched hand. It =
took
a lot to disconcert Sam, and he was the calmest person present. He gave
evidence of this in a neat speech. He did not in so many words congratulate=
Mr.
Bennett on the piece of luck which had befallen him, but he tried to make h=
im
understand by his manner that he was distinctly to be envied as the prospec=
tive
father-in-law of such a one as himself.
Mr. Bennett stare=
d in
a frozen sort of way at the hand. He had placed Sam by now. He knew that Sir
Mallaby had a son. This, presumably, was he. But the discovery did not dimi=
nish
his indignation.
"I am deligh=
ted
to meet you, Mr. Bennett," said Sam. "You could not have come at a
more fortunate moment. You see for yourself how things are. There is no need
for a long explanation. You came to find a daughter, Mr. Bennett, and you h=
ave
found a son!"
And he would like=
to
see the man, thought Sam, who could have put it more cleverly and pleasantly
and tactfully than that.
"What are you
talking about?" said Mr. Bennett, recovering breath. "I haven't g=
ot a
son."
"I will be a=
son
to you! I will be the prop of your declining years...."
"What the de= vil do you mean, my declining years?" demanded Mr. Bennett with asperity.<= o:p>
"He means wh=
en
they do decline, father dear," said Billie.
"Of course, =
of
course," said Sam. "When they do decline. Not till then, of cours=
e! I
wouldn't dream of it. But, once they do decline, count on me! And I should =
like
to say for my part," he went on handsomely, "what an honour I thi=
nk
it, to become the son-in-law of a man like Mr. Bennett. Bennett of New
York!" he added spaciously, not so much because he knew what he meant,=
for
he would have been the first to admit that he did not, but because it sound=
ed
well.
"Oh!" s=
aid
Mr. Bennett "You do, do you?"
Mr. Bennett sat d=
own.
He put away his handkerchief, which had certainly earned a rest. Then he
fastened a baleful stare upon his newly-discovered son. It was not the sort=
of
look a proud and happy father-in-law-to-be ought to have directed at a
prospective relative. It was not, as a matter of fact, the sort of look whi=
ch
anyone ought to have directed at anybody except possibly an exceptionally
prudish judge at a criminal in the dock, convicted of a more than usually
atrocious murder. Billie, not being in the actual line of fire, only caught=
the
tail end of it, but it was enough to create a misgiving.
"Oh, father!=
You
aren't angry."
"Angry!"=
;
"You can't be
angry!"
"Why can't I=
be
angry!" demanded Mr. Bennett, with that sense of injury which comes to
self-willed men when their whims are thwarted. "Why the devil shouldn'=
t I
be angry? I am angry! I come here and find you like--like this, and you see=
m to
expect me to throw my hat in the air and give three rousing cheers! Of cour=
se
I'm angry! You are engaged to be married to an excellent young man of the
highest character, one of the finest young men I have ever met...."
"Oh, well!&q=
uot;
said Sam, straightening his tie modestly. "Of course, if you say so ...
It's awfully good of you...."
"But,
father," cried Billie, "I never really loved Bream. I like him ve=
ry
much, but I could never love him. I only got engaged to him because you wer=
e so
anxious for it, and because ... because I had quarrelled with the man I rea=
lly
loved ... I don't want to marry Bream."
"Naturally!&=
quot;
said Sam. "Naturally! Quite out of the question. In a few days we'll a=
ll
be roaring with laughter at the very idea."
Mr. Bennett scorc=
hed
him with a look compared with which his earlier effort had been a loving
glance.
"Wilhelmina,=
"
he said, "go into the outer office."
"But, father,
you don't understand. You don't realise that Sam has just saved my life.&qu=
ot;
"Saved your
life? What do you mean?"
"There was a
lunatic in here with a pistol, and Sam saved me."
"It was
nothing," said Sam modestly. "Nothing."
"Go into the
outer office!" thundered Mr. Bennett, quite unmoved by this story.
"Very
well," said Billie. "I shall always love you, Sam," she said=
, pausing
mutinously at the door.
"I shall alw=
ays
love you," said Sam.
"Nobody can =
keep
us apart."
"They're was=
ting
their time, trying," said Sam.
"You're the =
most
wonderful man in the world."
"There never=
was
a girl like you!"
"Get out!&qu=
ot;
bellowed Mr. Bennett, on whose equanimity this love-scene, which I think
beautiful, was jarring profoundly.
"Now, sir!&q=
uot;
he said to Sam, as the door closed.
"Yes, let's =
talk
it over calmly," said Sam.
"I will not =
talk
it over calmly!"
"Oh, come! Y=
ou
can do it if you try."
"Bream Morti=
mer
is the son of Henry Mortimer."
"I know,&quo=
t;
said Sam. "And, while it is no doubt unfair to hold that against him, =
it's
a point you can't afford to ignore. Henry Mortimer! You and I have Henry
Mortimer's number. We know what Henry Mortimer is like! A man who spends his
time thinking up ways of annoying you. You can't seriously want to have the
Mortimer family linked to you by marriage."
"Henry Morti=
mer
is my oldest friend."
"That makes =
it
all the worse. Fancy a man who calls himself your friend treating you like
that!"
"The
misunderstanding to which you allude has been completely smoothed over. My
relations with Mr. Mortimer are thoroughly cordial."
"Well, have =
it
your own way. Personally, I wouldn't trust a man like that. And, as for let=
ting
my daughter marry his son...!"
"I have deci=
ded
once and for all...."
"If you'll t=
ake
my advice, you will break the thing off."
"I will not =
take
your advice."
"I wouldn't
expect to charge you for it," explained Sam, reassuringly. "I giv=
e it
you as a friend, not as a lawyer. Six-and-eightpence to others, free to
you."
"Will you
understand that my daughter is going to marry Bream Mortimer? What are you
giggling about?"
"It sounds so
silly. The idea of anyone marrying Bream Mortimer, I mean."
"Let me tell=
you
he is a thoroughly estimable young man."
"And there y=
ou
put the whole thing in a nutshell. Your daughter is a girl of spirit. She w=
ould
hate to be tied for life to an estimable young man."
"She will do=
as
I tell her."
Sam regarded him
sternly.
"Have you no
regard for her happiness?"
"I am the be=
st
judge of what is best for her."
"If you ask
me," said Sam candidly, "I think you're a rotten judge."
"I did not c=
ome
here to be insulted!"
"I like that!
You have been insulting me ever since you arrived. What right have you to s=
ay
that I'm not fit to marry your daughter?"
"I did not s=
ay
that."
"You've impl=
ied
it. And you've been looking at me as if I were a leper or something the Pure
Food Committee has condemned. Why? That's what I ask you," said Sam,
warming up. This, he fancied, was the way Widgery would have tackled a
troublesome client. "Why? Answer me that!"
"I...."=
Sam rapped sharpl=
y on
the desk.
"Be careful,
sir. Be very careful!" He knew that this was what lawyers always said.=
Of
course, there is a difference in position between a miscreant whom you susp=
ect
of an attempt at perjury and the father of the girl you love, whose consent=
to
the match you wish to obtain, but Sam was in no mood for these nice
distinctions. He only knew that lawyers told people to be very careful, so =
he
told Mr. Bennett to be very careful.
"What do you
mean, be very careful?" said Mr. Bennett.
"I'm dashed =
if I
know," said Sam frankly. The question struck him as a mean attack. He
wondered how Widgery would have met it. Probably by smiling quietly and
polishing his spectacles. Sam had no spectacles. He endeavoured, however, to
smile quietly.
"Don't laugh=
at
me!" roared Mr. Bennett.
"I'm not
laughing at you."
"You are!&qu=
ot;
"I'm not!&qu=
ot;
"Well, don't
then!" said Mr. Bennett. He glowered at his young companion. "I d=
on't
know why I'm wasting my time, talking to you. The position is clear to the
meanest intelligence. You cannot have any difficulty in understanding it. I=
have
no objection to you personally...."
"Come, this =
is
better!" said Sam.
"I don't know
you well enough to have any objection to you or any opinion of you at all. =
This
is the first time I have ever met you in my life."
"Mark you,&q=
uot;
said Sam. "I think I am one of those fellows who grow on people....&qu=
ot;
"As far as I=
am
concerned, you simply do not exist. You may be the noblest character in Lon=
don
or you may be wanted by the police. I don't know. And I don't care. It does=
n't
matter to me. You mean nothing in my life. I don't know you."
"You must
persevere," said Sam. "You must buckle to and get to know me. Don=
't
give the thing up in this half-hearted way. Everything has to have a beginn=
ing.
Stick to it, and in a week or two you will find yourself knowing me quite
well."
"I don't wan=
t to
know you!"
"You say that
now, but wait!"
"And thank
goodness I have not got to!" exploded Mr. Bennett, ceasing to be calm =
and
reasonable with a suddenness which affected Sam much as though half a pound=
of
gunpowder had been touched off under his chair. "For the little I have
seen of you has been quite enough! Kindly understand that my daughter is
engaged to be married to another man, and that I do not wish to see or hear
anything of you again! I shall try to forget your very existence, and I sha=
ll
see to it that Wilhelmina does the same! You're an impudent scoundrel, sir!=
An
impudent scoundrel! I don't like you! I don't wish to see you again! If you
were the last man in the world I wouldn't allow my daughter to marry you! I=
f that
is quite clear, I will wish you good morning!"
Mr. Bennett thund=
ered
out of the room, and Sam, temporarily stunned by the outburst, remained whe=
re
he was, gaping. A few minutes later life began to return to his palsied lim=
bs.
It occurred to him that Mr. Bennett had forgotten to kiss him good-bye, and=
he
went into the outer office to tell him so. But the outer office was empty. =
Sam stood
for a moment in thought, then he returned to the inner office, and, picking=
up
a time-table, began to look out trains to the village of Windlehurst in
Hampshire, the nearest station to his aunt Adeline's charming old-world hou=
se,
Windles.
As I read over the last few chapter=
s of
this narrative, I see that I have been giving the reader a rather too jumpy
time. To almost a painful degree I have excited his pity and terror; and,
though that is what Aristotle tells one ought to do, I feel that a little
respite would not be out of order. The reader can stand having his emotions=
churned
up to a certain point; after that he wants to take it easy. It is with
pleasure, therefore, that I turn now to depict a quiet, peaceful scene in
domestic life. It won't last long--three minutes, perhaps, by a stop-watch-=
-but
that is not my fault. My task is to record facts as they happened.
The morning sunli=
ght
fell pleasantly on the garden of Windles, turning it into the green and amb=
er
Paradise which Nature had intended it to be. A number of the local birds sa=
ng
melodiously in the under-growth at the end of the lawn, while others, more
energetic, hopped about the grass in quest of worms. Bees, mercifully ignor=
ant
that, after they had worked themselves to the bone gathering honey, the pro=
ceeds
of their labour would be collared and consumed by idle humans, buzzed
industriously to and fro and dived head foremost into flowers. Winged insec=
ts
danced sarabands in the sunshine. And in a deck-chair under the cedar-tree
Billie Bennett, with a sketching-block on her knee, was engaged in drawing a
picture of the ruined castle. Beside her, curled up in a ball, lay her Peki=
nese
dog, Pinky-Boodles. Beside Pinky-Boodles slept Smith, the bulldog. In the
distant stable-yard, unseen but audible, a boy in shirt sleeves was washing=
the
car and singing as much as treacherous memory would permit of a popular sen=
timental
ballad.
You may think that
was all. You may suppose that nothing could be added to deepen the atmosphe=
re
of peace and content. Not so. At this moment, Mr. Bennett emerged from the
French windows of the drawing-room, clad in white flannels and buckskin sho=
es,
supplying just the finishing touch that was needed.
Mr. Bennett cross=
ed
the lawn, and sat down beside his daughter. Smith, the bull-dog, raising a
sleepy head, breathed heavily; but Mr. Bennett did not quail. Of late,
relations of distant but solid friendship had come to exist between them.
Sceptical at first, Mr. Bennett had at length allowed himself to be persuad=
ed
of the mildness of the animal's nature and the essential purity of his moti=
ves;
and now it was only when they encountered each other unexpectedly round sha=
rp
corners that he ever betrayed the slightest alarm. So now, while Smith slep=
t on
the grass, Mr. Bennett reclined in the chair. It was the nearest thing mode=
rn civilization
had seen to the lion lying down with the lamb.
"Sketching?&=
quot;
said Mr. Bennett.
"Yes," =
said
Billie, for there were no secrets between this girl and her father. At leas=
t,
not many. She occasionally omitted to tell him some such trifle as that she=
had
met Samuel Marlowe on the previous morning in a leafy lane, and intended to
meet him again this afternoon, but apart from that her mind was an open boo=
k.
"It's a great
morning," said Mr. Bennett.
"So
peaceful," said Billie.
"The eggs you
get in the country in England," said Mr. Bennett, suddenly striking a
lyrical note, "are extraordinary. I had three for breakfast this morni=
ng
which defied competition, simply defied competition. They were large and br=
own,
and as fresh as new-mown-hay!"
He mused for a wh=
ile
in a sort of ecstasy.
"And the
hams!" he went on. "The ham I had for breakfast was what I call h=
am!
I don't know when I've had ham like that. I suppose it's something they feed
the pigs," he concluded, in soft meditation. And he gave a little sigh.
Life was very beautiful.
Silence fell, bro=
ken
only by the snoring of Smith. Billie was thinking of Sam, and of what Sam h=
ad
said to her in the lane yesterday; of his clean-cut face, and the look in h=
is
eyes--so vastly superior to any look that ever came into the eyes of Bream
Mortimer. She was telling herself that her relations with Sam were an idyll;
for, being young and romantic, she enjoyed this freshet of surreptitious
meetings which had come to enliven the stream of her life. It was pleasant =
to
go warily into deep lanes where forbidden love lurked. She cast a swift
side-glance at her father--the unconscious ogre in her fairy-story. What wo=
uld
he say if he knew? But Mr. Bennett did not know, and consequently continued=
to meditate
peacefully on ham.
They had sat like
this for perhaps a minute--two happy mortals lulled by the gentle beauty of=
the
day--when from the window of the drawing-room there stepped out a white-cap=
ped
maid. And one may just as well say at once--and have done with it--that thi=
s is
the point where the quiet, peaceful scene in domestic life terminates with a
jerk, and pity and terror resume work at the old stand.
The maid--her nam=
e,
not that it matters, was Susan, and she was engaged to be married, though t=
he
point is of no importance, to the second assistant at Green's Grocery Stores=
in
Windlehurst--approached Mr. Bennett.
"Please, sir=
, a
gentleman to see you."
"Eh?" s=
aid
Mr. Bennett, torn from a dream of large pink slices edged with bread-crumbed
fat. "Eh?"
"A gentleman=
to
see you, sir. In the drawing-room. He says you are expecting him."
"Of course, =
yes.
To be sure."
Mr. Bennett heaved
himself out of the deck-chair. Beyond the French windows he could see an
indistinct form in a gray suit, and remembered that this was the morning on
which Sir Mallaby Marlowe's clerk--who was taking those Schultz and Bowen
papers for him to America--had written that he would call. To-day was Frida=
y;
no doubt the man was sailing from Southampton to-morrow.
He crossed the la=
wn,
entered the drawing-room, and found Mr. Jno. Peters with an expression on h=
is
ill-favored face, which looked like one of consternation, of uneasiness, ev=
en
of alarm.
"Morning, Mr.
Peters," said Mr. Bennett. "Very good of you to run down. Take a
seat, and I'll just go through the few notes I have made about the
matter."
"Mr.
Bennett," exclaimed Jno. Peters. "May--may I speak?"
"What do you
mean? Eh? What? Something to say? What is it?"
Mr. Peters cleared
his throat awkwardly. He was feeling embarrassed at the unpleasantness of t=
he
duty which he had to perform, but it was a duty, and he did not intend to
shrink from performing it. Ever since, gazing appreciatively through the
drawing-room windows at the charming scene outside, he had caught sight of =
the
unforgettable form of Billie, seated in her chair with the sketching-block =
on
her knee, he had realised that he could not go away in silence, leaving Mr.
Bennett ignorant of what he was up against.
One almost inclin=
es
to fancy that there must have been a curse of some kind on this house of
Windles. Certainly everybody who entered it seemed to leave his peace of mi=
nd
behind him. Jno. Peters had been feeling notably happy during his journey in
the train from London, and the subsequent walk from the station. The splend=
or
of the morning had soothed his nerves, and the faint wind that blew inshore
from the sea spoke to him hearteningly of adventure and romance. There was a
jar of pot-pourri on the drawing-room table, and he had derived considerabl=
e pleasure
from sniffing at it. In short, Jno. Peters was in the pink, without a care =
in
the world, until he had looked out of the window and seen Billie.
"Mr.
Bennett," he said, "I don't want to do anybody any harm, and, if =
you
know all about it, and she suits you, well and good; but I think it is my d=
uty
to inform you that your stenographer is not quite right in the head. I don't
say she's dangerous, but she isn't compos. She decidedly is not compos, Mr.
Bennett!"
Mr. Bennett stare=
d at
his well-wisher dumbly for a moment. The thought crossed his mind that, if =
ever
there was a case of the pot calling the kettle black, this was it. His opin=
ion
of Jno. Peters' sanity went down to zero.
"What are you
talking about? My stenographer? What stenographer?"
It occurred to Mr.
Peters that a man of the other's wealth and business connections might well
have a troupe of these useful females. He particularised.
"I mean the
young lady out in the garden there, to whom you were dictating just now. The
young lady with the writing-pad on her knee."
"What!
What!" Mr. Bennett spluttered. "Do you know who that is?" he=
exclaimed.
"Oh, yes,
indeed!" said Jno. Peters. "I have only met her once, when she ca=
me
into our office to see Mr. Samuel, but her personality and appearance stamp=
ed
themselves so forcibly on my mind, that I know I am not mistaken. I am sure=
it
is my duty to tell you exactly what happened when I was left alone with her=
in
the office. We had hardly exchanged a dozen words, Mr. Bennett, when--"
here Jno. Peters, modest to the core, turned vividly pink, "when she t=
old
me--she told me that I was the only man she loved!"
Mr. Bennett utter=
ed a
loud cry.
"Sweet spiri=
ts
of nitre!"
Mr. Peters could =
make
nothing of this exclamation, and he was deterred from seeking light, by the
sudden action of his host, who, bounding from his seat, with a vivacity of
which one could not have believed him capable, charged to the French window=
and
emitted a bellow.
"Wilhelmina!=
"
Billie looked up =
from
her sketching-book with a start. It seemed to her that there was a note of
anguish, of panic, in that voice. What her father could have found in the
drawing-room to be frightened at, she did not know; but she dropped her blo=
ck
and hurried to his assistance.
"What it is,
father?"
Mr. Bennett had
retired within the room when she arrived; and, going in after him, she perc=
eived
at once what had caused his alarm. There before her, looking more sinister =
than
ever, stood the lunatic Peters; and there was an ominous bulge in his right
coat-pocket which betrayed the presence of the revolver. What Jno. Peters w=
as,
as a matter of fact, carrying in his right coat-pocket was a bag of mixed
chocolates which he had purchased in Windlehurst. But Billie's eyes, though
bright, had no X-ray quality. Her simple creed was that, if Jno. Peters bul=
ged
at any point, that bulge must be caused by a pistol. She screamed, and back=
ed
against the wall. Her whole acquaintance with Jno. Peters had been on const=
ant
backing against walls.
"Don't
shoot!" she cried, as Mr. Peters absent-mindedly dipped his hand into =
the
pocket of his coat. "Oh, please don't shoot!"
"What the de=
uce
do you mean?" said Mr. Bennett, irritably.
He hated to have
people gibbering around him in the morning.
"Wilhelmina,
this man says that you told him you loved him."
"Yes, I did,=
and
I do. Really, really, Mr. Peters, I do!"
"Suffering
cats!"
Mr. Bennett clutc=
hed
at the back of a chair.
"But you've =
only
met him once!" he added almost pleadingly.
"You don't
understand, father dear," said Billie desperately. "I'll explain =
the
whole thing later, when...."
"Father!&quo=
t;
ejaculated Jno. Peters feebly. "Did you say 'father'?"
"Of course I
said 'father'!"
"This is my
daughter, Mr. Peters."
"My daughter=
! I
mean, your daughter! Are--are you sure?"
"Of course I=
'm
sure. Do you think I don't know my own daughter?"
"But she cal=
led
me 'Mr. Peters'!"
"Well, it's =
your
name, isn't it?"
"But, if she=
--if
this young lady is your daughter, how did she know my name?"
The point seemed =
to
strike Mr. Bennett. He turned to Billie.
"That's true.
Tell me, Wilhelmina, when did you and Mr. Peters meet?"
"Why, in--in=
Sir
Mallaby Marlowe's office, the morning you came there and found me when I
was--talking to Sam."
Mr. Peters uttere=
d a
subdued gargling sound. He was finding this scene oppressive to a not very
robust intellect.
"He--Mr.
Samuel--told me your name, Miss Milliken," he said dully.
Billie stared at =
him.
"Mr. Marlowe
told you my name was Miss Milliken!" she repeated.
"He told me =
that
you were the sister of the Miss Milliken who acts as stenographer for the
guv'--for Sir Mallaby, and sent me in to show you my revolver, because he s=
aid
you were interested and wanted to see it."
Billie uttered an
exclamation. So did Mr. Bennett, who hated mysteries.
"What revolv=
er?
Which revolver? What's all this about a revolver? Have you a revolver?"=
;
"Why, yes, M= r. Bennett. It is packed now in my trunk, but usually I carry it about with me everywhere in order to take a little practice at the Rupert Street range. I bought it when Sir Mallaby told me he was sending me to America, because I thought I ought to be prepared--because of the Underworld, you know."<= o:p>
A cold gleam had =
come
into Billie's eyes. Her face was pale and hard. If Sam Marlowe--at that mom=
ent
carolling blithely in his bedroom at the Blue Boar in Windlehurst, washing =
his
hands preparatory to descending to the coffee-room for a bit of cold
lunch--could have seen her, the song would have frozen on his lips. Which, =
one
might mention, as showing that there is always a bright side, would have be=
en
much appreciated by the travelling gentleman in the adjoining room, who had=
had
a wild night with some other travelling gentlemen, and was then nursing a
rather severe headache, separated from Sam's penetrating baritone, only by =
the
thickness of a wooden wall.
Billie knew all. =
And,
terrible though the fact is as an indictment of the male sex, when a woman
knows all, there is invariably trouble ahead for some man.
There was trouble
ahead for Sam Marlowe. Billie, now in possession of the facts, had examined
them and come to the conclusion that Sam had played a practical joke on her,
and she was a girl who strongly disapproved of practical humor at her expen=
se.
"That mornin=
g I
met you at Sir Mallaby's office, Mr. Peters," she said in a frosty voi=
ce,
"Mr. Marlowe had just finished telling me a long and convincing story =
to
the effect that you were madly in love with a Miss Milliken, who had jilted
you, and that this had driven you off your head, and that you spent your ti=
me
going about with a pistol, trying to shoot every red-haired woman you saw,
because you thought they were Miss Milliken. Naturally, when you came in and
called me Miss Milliken, and brandished a revolver, I was very frightened. I
thought it would be useless to tell you that I wasn't Miss Milliken, so I t=
ried
to persuade you that I was, and hadn't jilted you after all."
"Good
gracious!" said Mr. Peters, vastly relieved; and yet--for always there=
is
bitter mixed with the sweet--a shade disappointed. "Then--er--you don't
love me after all?"
"No!" s=
aid
Billie. "I am engaged to Bream Mortimer, and I love him and nobody els=
e in
the world!"
The last portion =
of
her observation was intended for the consumption of Mr. Bennett, rather than
that of Mr. Peters, and he consumed it joyfully. He folded Billie in his am=
ple
embrace.
"I always
thought you had a grain of sense hidden away somewhere," he said, payi=
ng
her a striking tribute. "I hope now that we've heard the last of all t=
his
foolishness about that young hound Marlowe."
"You certain=
ly
have! I don't want ever to see him again! I hate him!"
"You couldn'=
t do
better, my dear," said Mr. Bennett, approvingly. "And now run awa=
y.
Mr. Peters and I have some business to discuss."
A quarter of an h=
our
later, Webster, the valet, sunning himself in the stable-yard, was aware of=
the
daughter of his employer approaching him.
"Webster,&qu=
ot;
said Billie. She was still pale. Her face was still hard, and her eyes still
gleamed coldly.
"Miss?"
said Webster politely, throwing away the cigarette with which he had been
refreshing himself.
"Will you do
something for me?"
"I should be
more than delighted, miss."
Billie whisked in=
to
view an envelope which had been concealed in the recesses of her dress.
"Do you know=
the
country about here, well, Webster?"
"Within a
certain radius, not unintimately, Miss. I have been for several enjoyable
rambles since the fine weather set in."
"Do you know=
the
place where there is a road leading to Havant, and another to Cosham? It's
about a mile down...."
"I know the =
spot
well, miss."
"Well, strai=
ght
in front of you when you get to the sign-post there is a little lane....&qu=
ot;
"I know it,
miss," said Webster. "A delightfully romantic spot. What with the
overhanging trees, the wealth of blackberry bushes, the varied wild-flowers=
...."
"Yes, never =
mind
about the wild-flowers now. I want you after lunch to take this note to a
gentleman you will find sitting on the gate at the bottom of the lane....&q=
uot;
"Sitting on =
the
gate, miss. Yes, miss."
"Or leaning
against it. You can't mistake him. He is rather tall and.... Oh, well, there
isn't likely to be anybody else there, so you can't make a mistake. Give him
this, will you?"
"Certainly,
miss. Er--any message?"
"Any what?&q=
uot;
"Any verbal
message, miss?"
"No, certain=
ly
not! You won't forget, will you, Webster?"
"On no accou=
nt
whatever, miss. Shall I wait for an answer?"
"There won't=
be
any answer," said Billie, setting her teeth for an instant. "Oh,
Webster!"
"Miss?"=
"I can rely =
on
you to say nothing to anybody?"
"Most
undoubtedly, miss. Most undoubtedly!"
"Does anybody
know anything about a feller named S. Marlowe?" enquired Webster, ente=
ring
the kitchen. "Don't all speak at once! S. Marlowe. Ever heard of
him?"
He paused for a
reply, but nobody had any information to impart.
"Because the=
re's
something jolly well up! Our Miss B. is sending me with notes for him to the
bottom of lanes."
"And her eng=
aged
to young Mr. Mortimer!" said the scullery-maid shocked. "The way =
they
go on! Chronic!" said the scullery-maid.
"Don't you go
getting alarmed. And don't you," added Webster, "go shoving your =
ear
in when your social superiors are talking. I've had to speak to you about t=
hat
before. My remarks were addressed to Mrs. Withers here."
He indicated the =
cook
with a respectful gesture.
"Yes, here's=
the
note, Mrs. Withers. Of course, if you had a steamy kettle handy, in about h=
alf
a moment we could ... but no, perhaps, it's wiser not to risk it. And, come=
to
that, I don't need to unstick the envelope to know what's inside here. It's=
the
raspberry, ma'am, or I've lost all my power to read the human female counte=
nance.
Very cold and proud-looking she was! I don't know who this S. Marlowe is, b=
ut I
do know one thing; in this hand I hold the instrument that's going to give =
it
him in the neck, proper! Right in the neck, or my name isn't Montagu Webste=
r!"
"Well!"=
said
Mrs. Withers comfortably, pausing for a moment from her labours. "Thin=
k of
that!"
"The way I l=
ook
at it," said Webster, "is that there's been some sort of
understanding between our Miss B. and this S. Marlowe, and she's thought be=
tter
of it and decided to stick to the man of her parent's choice. She's chosen
wealth and made up her mind to hand the humble suitor the mitten. There was=
a
rather similar situation in 'Cupid or Mammon,' that Nosegay Novelette I was
reading in the train coming down here, only that ended different. For my pa=
rt
I'd be better pleased if our Miss B. would let the cash go, and obey the
dictates of her own heart; but these modern girls are all alike. All out for
the stuff, they are! Oh, well, it's none of my affair," said Webster, =
stifling
a not unmanly sigh. For beneath that immaculate shirt-front there beat a wa=
rm
heart. Montagu Webster was a sentimentalist.
A half-past two that afternoon, ful=
l of
optimism and cold beef, gaily unconscious that Webster, with measured strid=
es
was approaching ever nearer with the note that was to give it him in the ne=
ck,
proper, Samuel Marlowe dangled his feet from the top bar of the gate at the=
end
of the lane and smoked contentedly as he waited for Billie to make her appe=
arance.
He had had an excellent lunch; his pipe was drawing well, and all Nature
smiled. The breeze from the sea across the meadows, tickled pleasantly the =
back
of his head, and sang a soothing song in the long grass and ragged-robins at
his feet. He was looking forward with a roseate glow of anticipation to the
moment when the white flutter of Billie's dress would break the green of the
foreground. How eagerly he would jump from the gate! How lovingly he would.=
...
The elegant figur=
e of
Webster interrupted his reverie. Sam had never seen Webster before, and it =
was
with no pleasure that he saw him now. He had come to regard this lane as his
own property, and he resented trespassers. He tucked his legs under him, and
scowled at Webster under the brim of his hat.
The valet advanced
towards him with the air of an affable executioner stepping daintily to the
block.
"Mr. Marlowe,
sir?" he enquired politely.
Sam was startled.=
He
could make nothing of this.
"Eh? What?&q=
uot;
"Have I the
pleasure of addressing Mr. S. Marlowe?"
"Yes, that's=
my
name."
"Mine is
Webster, sir, I am Mr. Bennett's personal gentleman's gentleman. Miss Benne=
tt
entrusted me with this note to deliver to you, sir."
Sam began to grasp
the situation. For some reason or other, the dear girl had been prevented f=
rom
coming this afternoon, and she had written to explain and to relieve his
anxiety. It was like her. It was just the sweet, thoughtful thing he would =
have
expected her to do. His contentment with the existing scheme of things
returned. The sun shone out again, and he found himself amiably disposed
towards the messenger.
"Fine day,&q=
uot;
he said, as he took the note.
"Extremely,
sir," said Webster, outwardly unemotional, inwardly full of a grave pi=
ty.
It was plain to h=
im
that there had been no previous little rift to prepare the young man for the
cervical operation which awaited him, and he edged a little nearer, in orde=
r to
be handy to catch Sam if the shock knocked him off the gate.
As it happened, it
did not. Having read the opening words of the note, Sam rocked violently; b=
ut
his feet were twined about the lower bars and this saved him from
overbalancing. Webster stepped back, relieved.
The note fluttere=
d to
the ground. Webster, picking it up and handing it back, was enabled to get a
glimpse of the first two sentences. They confirmed his suspicions. The note=
was
hot stuff. Assuming that it continued as it began, it was about the warmest
thing of its kind that pen had ever written. Webster had received one or two
heated epistles from the sex in his time--your man of gallantry can hardly =
hope
to escape these unpleasantnesses--but none had got off the mark quite so
swiftly, and with quite so much frigid violence as this.
"Thanks,&quo=
t;
said Sam, mechanically.
"Not at all,
sir. You are very welcome."
Sam resumed his
reading. A cold perspiration broke out on his forehead. His toes curled, and
something seemed to be crawling down the small of his back. His heart had m=
oved
from its proper place and was now beating in his throat. He swallowed once =
or
twice to remove the obstruction, but without success. A kind of pall had
descended on the landscape, blotting out the sun.
Of all the rotten
sensations in this world, the worst is the realisation that a thousand-to-o=
ne
chance has come off, and caused our wrong-doing to be detected. There had
seemed no possibility of that little ruse of his being discovered, and yet =
here
was Billie in full possession of the facts. It almost made the thing worse =
that
she did not say how she had come into possession of them. This gave Sam tha=
t feeling
of self-pity, that sense of having been ill-used by Fate, which makes the
bringing home of crime so particularly poignant.
"Fine day!&q=
uot;
he muttered. He had a sort of subconscious feeling that it was imperative to
keep engaging Webster in light conversation.
"Yes, sir.
Weather still keeps up," agreed the valet suavely.
Sam frowned over =
the
note. He felt injured. Sending a fellow notes didn't give him a chance. If =
she
had come in person and denounced him it would not have been an agreeable ex=
perience,
but at least it would have been possible then to have pleaded and cajoled
and--and all that sort of thing. But what could he do now? It seemed to him
that his only possible course was to write a note in reply, begging her to =
see
him. He explored his pockets and found a pencil and a scrap of paper. For s=
ome
moments he scribbled desperately. Then he folded the note.
"Will you ta=
ke
this to Miss Bennett," he said, holding it out.
Webster took the
missive, because he wanted to read it later at his leisure; but he shook his
head.
"Useless, I
fear, sir," he said gravely.
"What do you
mean?"
"I am afraid=
it
would effect little or nothing, sir, sending our Miss B. notes. She is not =
in
the proper frame of mind to appreciate them. I saw her face when she handed=
me
the letter you have just read, and I assure you, sir, she is not in a malle=
able
mood."
"You seem to
know a lot about it!"
"I have stud=
ied
the sex, sir," said Webster modestly.
"I mean, abo=
ut
my business, confound it! You seem to know all about it!"
"Why, yes, s=
ir,
I think I may say that I have grasped the position of affairs. And, if you =
will
permit me to say so, sir, you have my respectful sympathy."
Dignity is a
sensitive plant which flourishes only under the fairest conditions. Sam's h=
ad
perished in the bleak east wind of Billie's note. In other circumstances he
might have resented this intrusion of a stranger into his most intimate
concerns. His only emotion now, was one of dull but distinct gratitude. The
four winds of heaven blew chilly upon his raw and unprotected soul, and he
wanted to wrap it up in a mantle of sympathy, careless of the source from w=
hich
he borrowed that mantle. If Webster, the valet, felt disposed, as he seemed=
to
indicate, to comfort him, let the thing go on. At that moment Sam would hav=
e accepted
condolences from a coal-heaver.
"I was readi=
ng a
story--one of the Nosegay Novelettes; I do not know if you are familiar with
the series, sir?--in which much the same situation occurred. It was entitled
'Cupid or Mammon!' The heroine, Lady Blanche Trefusis, forced by her parent=
s to
wed a wealthy suitor, despatches a note to her humble lover, informing him =
it
cannot be. I believe it often happens like that, sir."
"You're all
wrong," said Sam. "It's not that at all."
"Indeed, sir=
? I
supposed it was."
"Nothing like
it! I--I--"
Sam's dignity, on=
its
death-bed, made a last effort to assert itself.
"I don't know
what it's got to do with you!"
"Precisely,
sir!" said Webster, with dignity. "Just as you say! Good afternoo=
n,
sir!"
He swayed gracefu=
lly,
conveying a suggestion of departure without moving his feet. The action was
enough for Sam. Dignity gave an expiring gurgle, and passed away, regretted=
by
all.
"Don't go!&q=
uot;
he cried.
The idea of being
alone in this infernal lane, without human support, overpowered him. Moreov=
er,
Webster had personality. He exuded it. Already Sam had begun to cling to hi=
m in
spirit, and rely on his support.
"Don't go!&q=
uot;
"Certainly n=
ot,
if you do not wish it, sir."
Webster coughed
gently, to show his appreciation of the delicate nature of the conversation=
. He
was consumed with curiosity, and his threatened departure had been but a
pretence. A team of horses could not have moved Webster at that moment.
"Might I ask,
then what...?"
"There's bee=
n a misunderstanding,"
said Sam. "At least, there was, but now there isn't, if you see what I
mean."
"I fear I ha=
ve
not quite grasped your meaning, sir."
"Well,
I--I--played a sort of--you might almost call it a sort of trick on Miss
Bennett. With the best motives, of course!"
"Of course,
sir!"
"And she's f=
ound
out. I don't know how she's found out, but she has. So there you are!"=
"Of what nat=
ure
would the trick be, sir? A species of ruse, sir,--some kind of innocent
deception?"
"Well, it was
like this."
It was a complica=
ted
story to tell, and Sam, a prey to conflicting emotions, told it badly; but =
such
was the almost superhuman intelligence of Webster, that he succeeded in
grasping the salient points. Indeed, he said that it reminded him of someth=
ing
of much the same kind in the Nosegay Novelette, "All for Her," wh=
ere
the hero, anxious to win the esteem of the lady of his heart, had bribed a
tramp to simulate an attack upon her in a lonely road.
"The princip=
le's
the same," said Webster.
"Well what d=
id he
do when she found out?"
"She did not
find out, sir. All ended happily, and never had the wedding-bells in the old
village church rung out a blither peal than they did at the subsequent
union."
Sam was thoughtfu=
l.
"Bribed a tr=
amp
to attack her, did he?"
"Yes, sir. S=
he
had never thought much of him till that moment, sir. Very cold and haughty =
she
had been, his social status being considerably inferior to her own. But, wh=
en
she cried for help, and he dashed out from behind a hedge, well, it made all
the difference."
"I wonder wh=
ere
I could get a good tramp," said Sam, meditatively.
Webster shook his
head.
"I really wo=
uld
hardly recommend such a procedure, sir."
"No, it woul=
d be
difficult to make a tramp understand what you wanted."
Sam brightened.
"I've got it!
You pretend to attack her, and I'll...."
"I couldn't,
sir! I couldn't really! I should jeopardise my situation."
"Oh, come! B=
e a
man!"
"No, sir, I =
fear
not. There's a difference between handing in your resignation--I was compel=
led
to do that only recently, owing to a few words I had with the guv'nor, thou=
gh
subsequently prevailed upon to withdraw it--I say there's a difference betw=
een
handing in your resignation and being given the sack, and that's what would=
happen--without
a character, what's more, and lucky if it didn't mean a prison cell. No, si=
r; I
could not contemplate such a thing."
"Then I don't
see that there's anything to be done," said Sam morosely.
"Oh, I shoul=
dn't
say that, sir," said Webster, encouragingly. "It's simply a matte=
r of
finding the way. The problem confronting us--you, I should say...."
"Us," s=
aid
Sam. "Most decidedly us."
"Thank you v=
ery
much, sir. I would not have presumed, but if you say so--The problem
confronting us, as I envisage it, resolves itself into this. You have offen=
ded
our Miss B. and she has expressed a disinclination ever to see you again. H=
ow,
then, is it possible, in spite of her attitude, to recapture her esteem?&qu=
ot;
"Exactly,&qu=
ot;
said Sam.
"There are
several methods which occur to one...."
"They don't
occur to me!"
"Well, for
example, you might rescue her from a burning building as in 'True As
Steel'...."
"Set fire to=
the
house, eh?" said Sam, reflectively. "Yes, there might be somethin=
g in
that."
"I would har=
dly
advise such a thing," said Webster, a little hastily--flattered at the
readiness with which his disciple was taking his advice, yet acutely alive =
to
the fact that he slept at the top of the house himself.
"A little
drastic, if I may say so. It might be better to save her from drowning, as =
in
'The Earl's Secret'."
"Ah, but whe=
re
could she drown?"
"Well, there=
is
a lake in the grounds...."
"Excellent!&=
quot;
said Sam. "Terrific! I knew I could rely on you. Say no more! The whole
thing's settled. You take her out rowing on the lake, and upset the boat. I
plunge in ... I suppose you can swim?"
"No, sir.&qu=
ot;
"Oh? Well, n=
ever
mind. You'll manage somehow, I expect. Cling to the upturned boat or someth=
ing,
I shouldn't wonder. There's always a way. Yes, that's the plan. When is the
earliest you could arrange this?"
"I fear such=
a
course must be considered out of the question, sir. It really wouldn't
do."
"I can't see=
a
flaw in it."
"Well, in the
first place, it would certainly jeopardise my situation...."
"Oh, hang yo=
ur
situation! You talk as if you were Prime Minister or something. You can eas=
ily
get another situation. A valuable man like you," said Sam, ingratiatin=
gly.
"No, sir,&qu= ot; said Webster firmly. "From boyhood up I've always had a regular horror= of the water. I can't so much as go paddling without an uneasy feeling."<= o:p>
The image of Webs=
ter
paddling was arresting enough to occupy Sam's thoughts for a moment. It was=
an
inspiring picture, and for an instant uplifted his spirits. Then they fell
again.
"Well, I don=
't
see what there is to be done," he said, gloomily. "It's no good
making suggestions, if you have some frivolous objection to all of them.&qu=
ot;
"My idea,&qu=
ot;
said Webster, "would be something which did not involve my own personal
and active co-operation, sir. If it is all the same to you, I should prefer=
to
limit my assistance to advice. I am anxious to help, but I am a man of regu=
lar
habits, which I do not wish to disturb. Did you ever read 'Footpaths of Fat=
e,'
in the Nosegay series, sir? I've only just remembered it, and it contains t=
he
most helpful suggestion of the lot. There had been a misunderstanding betwe=
en
the heroine and the hero--their names have slipped my mind, though I fancy =
his
was Cyril--and she had told him to hop it...."
"To what?&qu=
ot;
"To leave her
for ever, sir. And what do you think he did?"
"How the deu=
ce
do I know?"
"He kidnapped
her little brother, sir, to whom she was devoted, kept him hidden for a bit,
and then returned him, and in her gratitude all was forgotten and forgiven,=
and
never...."
"I know. Nev=
er
had the bells of the old village church...."
"Rung out a
blither peal. Exactly, sir. Well, there, if you will allow me to say so, you
are, sir! You need seek no further for a plan of action."
"Miss Bennett
hasn't got a little brother."
"No, sir. But
she has a dog, and is greatly attached to it."
Sam stared. From =
the
expression on his face it was evident that Webster imagined himself to have
made a suggestion of exceptional intelligence. It struck Sam as the sillies=
t he
had ever heard.
"You mean I
ought to steal her dog?"
"Precisely,
sir."
"But, good
heavens! Have you seen that dog?"
"The one to
which I allude is a small brown animal with a fluffy tail."
"Yes, and a =
bark
like a steam siren, and, in addition to that, about eighty-five teeth, all
sharper than razors. I couldn't get within ten feet of that dog without its
lifting the roof off, and, if I did, it would chew me into small pieces.&qu=
ot;
"I had
anticipated that difficulty, sir. In 'Footpaths of Fate' there was a nurse =
who
assisted the hero by drugging the child."
"By Jove!&qu=
ot;
said Sam, impressed.
"He rewarded
her," said Webster, allowing his gaze to stray nonchalantly over the
country-side, "liberally, very liberally."
"If you mean
that you expect me to reward you if you drug the dog," said Sam,
"don't worry. Let me bring this thing off, and you can have all I've g=
ot,
and my cuff-links as well. Come, now, this is really beginning to look like
something. Speak to me more of this matter. Where do we go from here?"=
"I beg your
pardon, sir?"
"I mean, wha=
t's
the next step in the scheme? Oh, Lord!" Sam's face fell. The light of =
hope
died out of his eyes. "It's all off! It can't be done! How could I
possibly get into the house? I take it that the little brute sleeps in the
house?"
"That need
constitute no obstacle, sir; no obstacle at all. The animal sleeps in a bas=
ket
in the hall.... Perhaps you are familiar with the interior of the house,
sir?"
"I haven't b= een inside it since I was at school. I'm Mr. Hignett's cousin, you know."<= o:p>
"Indeed, sir=
? I
wasn't aware. Mr. Hignett sprained his ankle this morning, poor
gentleman."
"Has he?&quo=
t;
said Sam, not particularly interested. "I used to stay with him,"=
he
went on, "during the holidays sometimes, but I've practically forgotten
what the place is like inside. I remember the hall vaguely. Fireplace at one
side, one or two suits of armour standing about, a sort of window-ledge near
the front door.."
"Precisely, =
sir.
It is close beside that window-ledge that the animal's basket is situated. =
If I
administer a slight soporific...."
"Yes, but you
haven't explained yet how I am to get into the house in the first place.&qu=
ot;
"Quite easil=
y,
sir. I can admit you through the drawing-room windows while dinner is in
progress."
"Fine!"=
"You can then
secrete yourself in the cupboard in the drawing-room. Perhaps you recollect=
the
cupboard to which I refer, sir?"
"No, I don't
remember any cupboard. As a matter of fact, when I used to stay at the house
the drawing-room was barred.... Mrs. Hignett wouldn't let us inside it for =
fear
we should smash her china. Is there a cupboard?"
"Immediately
behind the piano, sir. A nice, roomy cupboard. I was glancing into it mysel=
f in
a spirit of idle curiosity only the other day. It contains nothing except a=
few
knick-knacks on an upper shelf. You could lock yourself in from the interio=
r,
and be quite comfortably seated on the floor till the household retired to
bed."
"When would =
that
be?"
"They retire
quite early, sir, as a rule. By half-past ten the coast is generally clear.=
At
that time I would suggest that I came down and knocked on the cupboard door=
to
notify you that all was well."
Sam was glowing w=
ith
frank approval.
"You know,
you're a master-mind!" he said, enthusiastically.
"You're very
kind, sir!"
"One of the
lads, by Jove!" said Sam. "And not the worst of them! I don't wan=
t to
flatter you, but there's a future for you in crime, if you cared to go in f=
or
it."
"I am glad t=
hat
you appreciate my poor efforts, sir. Then we will regard the scheme as pass=
ed
and approved?"
"I should sa=
y we
would! It's a bird!"
"Very good,
sir."
"I'll be rou=
nd
at about a quarter to eight. Will that be right?"
"Admirable,
sir."
"And, I say,
about that soporific.... Don't overdo it. Don't go killing the little
beast."
"Oh, no,
sir."
"Well,"
said Sam, "you can't say it's not a temptation. And you know what you
Napoleons of the Underworld are!"
1
If there is one t=
hing
more than another which weighs upon the mind of a story-teller as he chroni=
cles
the events which he has set out to describe, it is the thought that the rea=
der
may be growing impatient with him for straying from the main channel of his
tale and devoting himself to what are after all minor developments. This st=
ory,
for instance, opened with Mrs. Horace Hignett, the world-famous writer on T=
heosophy,
going over to America to begin a lecture-tour; and no one realises more kee=
nly
than I do that I have left Mrs. Hignett flat. I have thrust that great thin=
ker
into the background and concentrated my attention on the affairs of one who=
is
both her mental and moral inferior, Samuel Marlowe. I seem at this point to=
see
the reader--a great brute of a fellow with beetling eyebrows and a jaw like=
the
ram of a battleship, the sort of fellow who is full of determination and wi=
ll stand
no nonsense--rising to remark that he doesn't care what happened to Samuel
Marlowe and that what he wants to know is, how Mrs. Hignett made out on her
lecturing-tour. Did she go big in Buffalo? Did she have 'em tearing up the
seats in Schenectady? Was she a riot in Chicago and a cyclone in St. Louis?
Those are the points on which he desires information, or give him his money
back.
I cannot supply t=
he
information. And, before you condemn me, let me hastily add that the fault =
is
not mine but that of Mrs. Hignett herself. The fact is, she never went to
Buffalo. Schenectady saw nothing of her. She did not get within a thousand
miles of Chicago, nor did she penetrate to St. Louis. For the very morning
after her son Eustace sailed for England in the liner Atlantic, she happene=
d to
read in the paper one of those abridged passenger-lists which the journals =
of
New York are in the habit of printing, and got a nasty shock when she saw t=
hat,
among those whose society Eustace would enjoy during the voyage was Miss
Wilhelmina Bennett, daughter of J. Rufus Bennett, of Bennett, Mandelbaum and
Co. And within five minutes of digesting this information, she was at her d=
esk
writing out telegrams cancelling all her engagements. Iron-souled as this w=
oman
was, her fingers trembled as she wrote. She had a vision of Eustace and the
daughter of J. Rufus Bennett strolling together on moonlit decks, leaning o=
ver
rails damp with sea-spray, and, in short, generally starting the whole trou=
ble
over again.
In the height of =
the
tourist season it is not always possible for one who wishes to leave Americ=
a to
spring on to the next boat. A long morning's telephoning to the offices of =
the
Cunard and the White Star brought Mrs. Hignett the depressing information t=
hat
it would be a full week before she could sail for England. That meant that =
the
inflammable Eustace would have over two weeks to conduct an uninterrupted
wooing, and Mrs. Hignett's heart sank, till suddenly she remembered that so=
poor
a sailor as her son was not likely to have had leisure for any strolling on=
the
deck during the voyage of the Atlantic.
Having realised t=
his,
she became calmer and went about her preparations for departure with an eas=
ier
mind. The danger was still great, but there was a good chance that she migh=
t be
in time to intervene. She wound up her affairs in New York and, on the
following Wednesday, boarded the Nuronia bound for Southampton.
The Nuronia is on=
e of
the slowest of the Cunard boats. It was built at a time when delirious crow=
ds
used to swoon on the dock if an ocean liner broke the record by getting acr=
oss
in nine days. It rolled over to Cherbourg, dallied at that picturesque port=
for
some hours, then sauntered across the Channel and strolled into Southampton
Water in the evening of the day on which Samuel Marlowe had sat in the lane=
plotting
with Webster, the valet. At almost the exact moment when Sam, sidling throu=
gh
the windows of the drawing-room, slid into the cupboard behind the piano, M=
rs.
Hignett was standing at the Customs barrier telling the officials that she =
had nothing
to declare.
Mrs. Hignett was a
general who believed in forced marches. A lesser woman might have taken the
boat-train to London and proceeded to Windles at her ease on the following
afternoon. Mrs. Hignett was made of sterner stuff. Having fortified herself
with a late dinner, she hired an automobile and set out on the cross-country
journey. It was only when the car, a genuine antique, had broken down three
times in the first ten miles, that it became evident to her that it would be
much too late to go to Windles that night, and she directed the driver to t=
ake her
instead to the "Blue Boar" in Windlehurst, where she arrived, tir=
ed but
thankful to have reached it at all, at about eleven o'clock.
At this point man=
y,
indeed most, women, having had a tiring journey, would have gone to bed: but
the familiar Hampshire air and the knowledge that half an hour's walking wo=
uld
take her to her beloved home acted on Mrs. Hignett like a restorative. One
glimpse of Windles she felt that she must have before she retired for the
night, if only to assure herself that it was still there. She had a cup of
coffee and a sandwich brought to her by the night-porter, whom she had rous=
ed
from sleep, for bedtime is early in Windlehurst, and then informed him that=
she
was going for a short walk and would ring when she returned.
Her heart leaped
joyfully as she turned in at the drive gates of her home and felt the
well-remembered gravel crunching under her feet. The silhouette of the ruin=
ed
castle against the summer sky gave her the feeling which all returning
wanderers know. And, when she stepped on to the lawn and looked at the black
bulk of the house, indistinct and shadowy with its backing of trees, tears =
came
into her eyes. She experienced a rush of emotion which made her feel quite
faint, and which lasted until, on tiptoeing nearer to the house in order to
gloat more adequately upon it, she perceived that the French windows of the=
drawing-room
were standing ajar. Sam had left them like this in order to facilitate
departure, if a hurried departure should by any mischance be rendered
necessary, and drawn curtains had kept the household from noticing the fact=
.
All the proprieto=
r in
Mrs. Hignett was roused. This, she felt indignantly, was the sort of thing =
she
had been afraid would happen the moment her back was turned. Evidently
laxity--one might almost say anarchy--had set in directly she had removed t=
he
eye of authority. She marched to the window and pushed it open. She had now
completely abandoned her kindly scheme of refraining from rousing the sleep=
ing house
and spending the night at the inn. She stepped into the drawing-room with t=
he
single-minded purpose of rousing Eustace out of his sleep and giving him a =
good
talking to for having failed to maintain her own standard of efficiency amo=
ng
the domestic staff. If there was one thing on which Mrs. Horace Hignett had
always insisted it was that every window in the house must be closed at
lights-out.
She pushed the
curtains apart with a rattle and, at the same moment, from the direction of=
the
door there came a low but distinct gasp which made her resolute heart jump =
and
flutter. It was too dark to see anything distinctly, but, in the instant be=
fore
it turned and fled, she caught sight of a shadowy male figure, and knew that
her worst fears had been realised. The figure was too tall to be Eustace, a=
nd
Eustace, she knew, was the only man in the house. Male figures, therefore, =
that
went flitting about Windles, must be the figures of burglars.
Mrs. Hignett, bold
woman though she was, stood for an instant spellbound, and for one moment of
not unpardonable panic, tried to tell herself that she had been mistaken.
Almost immediately, however, there came from the direction of the hall a du=
ll
chunky sound as though something soft had been kicked, followed by a low gu=
rgle
and the noise of staggering feet. Unless he was dancing a pas seul out of s=
heer
lightness of heart, the nocturnal visitor must have tripped over something.=
The latter theory=
was
the correct one. Montagu Webster was a man who at many a subscription ball =
had
shaken a wicked dancing-pump, and nothing in the proper circumstances pleas=
ed
him better than to exercise the skill which had become his as the result of
twelve private lessons at half-a-crown a visit: but he recognized the truth=
of
the scriptural adage that there is a time for dancing, and that this was not
it. His only desire when, stealing into the drawing-room he had been confro=
nted
through the curtains by a female figure, was to get back to his bedroom und=
etected.
He supposed that one of the feminine members of the house-party must have b=
een
taking a stroll in the grounds, and he did not wish to stay and be compelle=
d to
make laborious explanations of his presence there in the dark. He decided to
postpone the knocking on the cupboard door, which had been the signal arran=
ged
between himself and Sam, until a more suitable occasion. In the meantime he
bounded silently out into the hall, and instantaneously tripped over the po=
rtly
form of Smith, the bulldog, who, roused from a light sleep to the knowledge
that something was going on, and being a dog who always liked to be in the
centre of the maelstrom of events, had waddled out to investigate.
By the time Mrs.
Hignett had pulled herself together sufficiently to feel brave enough to
venture into the hall, Webster's presence of mind and Smith's gregariousness
had combined to restore that part of the house to its normal nocturnal
condition of emptiness. Webster's stagger had carried him almost up to the
green baize door leading to the servants' staircase, and he proceeded to pa=
ss
through it without checking his momentum, closely followed by Smith who, now
convinced that interesting events were in progress which might possibly
culminate in cake, had abandoned the idea of sleep and meant to see the thi=
ng through.
He gambolled in Webster's wake up the stairs and along the passage leading =
to
the latter's room, and only paused when the door was brusquely shut in his
face. Upon which he sat down to think the thing over. He was in no hurry. T=
he
night was before him, promising, as far as he could judge from the way it h=
ad
opened, excellent entertainment.
Mrs. Hignett had
listened fearfully to the uncouth noises from the hall. The burglars--she h=
ad
now discovered that there were at least two of them--appeared to be actually
romping. The situation had grown beyond her handling. If this troupe of
terpsichorean marauders was to be dislodged she must have assistance. It was
man's work. She made a brave dash through the hall, mercifully unmolested:
found the stairs: raced up them: and fell through the doorway of her son
Eustace's bedroom like a spent Marathon runner staggering past the
winning-post.
2
In the moment whi=
ch
elapsed before either of the two could calm their agitated brains to speech,
Eustace became aware, as never before, of the truth of that well-known line,
"Peace, perfect Peace, with loved ones far away!"
"Eustace!&qu=
ot;
Mrs. Hignett gasp=
ed,
hand on heart.
"Eustace, th=
ere
are men in the house!"
This fact was just
the one which Eustace had been wondering how to break to her.
"I know,&quo=
t;
he said uneasily.
"You know!&q=
uot;
Mrs. Hignett stared. "Did you hear them!"
"Hear
them?" said Eustace, puzzled.
"The
drawing-room window was left open, and there are two burglars in the
hall."
"Oh, I say, =
no!
That's rather rotten!" said Eustace.
"I saw and h=
eard
them. Come with me and arrest them."
"But I can't.
I've sprained my ankle."
"Sprained yo=
ur
ankle? How very inconvenient! When did you do that?"
"This
morning."
"How did it
happen?"
Eustace hesitated=
.
"I was
jumping."
"Jumping!
But--oh!" Mrs. Hignett's sentence trailed off into a suppressed shriek=
, as
the door opened.
Immediately follo=
wing
on Eustace's accident, Jane Hubbard had constituted herself his nurse. It w=
as
she who had bound up his injured ankle in a manner which the doctor on his
arrival had admitted himself unable to improve upon. She had sat with him
through the long afternoon. And now, fearing lest a return of the pain might
render him sleepless, she had come to bring him a selection of books to see=
him
through the night.
Jane Hubbard was a
girl who by nature and training was well adapted to bear shocks. She accept=
ed
the advent of Mrs. Hignett without visible astonishment, though inwardly she
was wondering who the visitor might be.
"Good
evening," she said, placidly.
Mrs. Hignett, hav=
ing
rallied from her moment of weakness, glared at the new arrival dumbly. She
could not place Jane. She had the air of a nurse, and yet she wore no unifo=
rm.
"Who are
you?" she asked stiffly.
"Who are
you?" countered Jane.
"I," sa=
id
Mrs. Hignett portentously, "am the owner of this house, and I should be
glad to know what you are doing in it. I am Mrs. Horace Hignett."
A charming smile
spread itself over Jane's finely-cut face.
"I'm so glad=
to
meet you," she said. "I have heard so much about you."
"Indeed?&quo=
t;
said Mrs. Hignett. "And now I should like to hear a little about
you."
"I've read a=
ll
your books," said Jane. "I think they're wonderful."
In spite of herse=
lf,
in spite of a feeling that this young woman was straying from the point, Mr=
s.
Hignett could not check a slight influx of amiability. She was an authoress=
who
received a good deal of incense from admirers, but she could always do with=
a
bit more. Besides, most of the incense came by mail. Living a quiet and ret=
ired
life in the country, it was rarely that she got it handed to her face to fa=
ce.
She melted quite perceptibly. She did not cease to look like a basilisk, but
she began to look like a basilisk who has had a good lunch.
"My
favorite," said Jane, who for a week had been sitting daily in a chair=
in
the drawing-room adjoining the table on which the authoress's complete works
were assembled, "is 'The Spreading Light.' I do like 'The Spreading
Light!'"
"It was writ=
ten
some years ago," said Mrs. Hignett with something approaching cordiali=
ty,
"and I have since revised some of the views I state in it, but I still
consider it quite a good text-book."
"Of course, I
can see that 'What of the Morrow?' is more profound," said Jane. "=
;But
I read 'The Spreading Light' first, and of course that makes a
difference."
"I can quite=
see
that it would," agreed Mrs. Hignett. "One's first step across the
threshold of a new mind, one's first glimpse...."
"Yes, it mak=
es
you feel...."
"Like some w=
atcher
of the skies," said Mrs. Hignett, "when a new planet swims into h=
is
ken, or like...."
"Yes, doesn't
it!" said Jane.
Eustace, who had =
been
listening to the conversation with every muscle tense, in much the same men=
tal
attitude as that of a peaceful citizen in a Wild West saloon who holds hims=
elf
in readiness to dive under a table directly the shooting begins, began to
relax. What he had shrinkingly anticipated would be the biggest thing since=
the
Dempsey-Carpentier fight seemed to be turning into a pleasant social and
literary evening not unlike what he imagined a meeting of old Vassar alumni
must be. For the first time since his mother had come into the room he indu=
lged
in the luxury of a deep breath.
"But what are
you doing here?" asked Mrs. Hignett, returning almost reluctantly to t=
he
main issue.
Eustace perceived that he had breathed too soon. In an unobtrusive way he subsided into the b= ed and softly pulled the sheets over his head, following the excellent tactics= of the great Duke of Wellington in his Peninsular campaign. "When in doubt," the Duke used to say, "retire and dig yourself in."<= o:p>
"I'm nursing
dear Eustace," said Jane.
Mrs. Hignett
quivered, and cast an eye on the hump in the bed-clothes which represented =
dear
Eustace. A cold fear had come upon her.
"'Dear
Eustace'!" she repeated mechanically.
"We're
engaged," said Jane. "We got engaged this morning. That's how he =
sprained
his ankle. When I accepted him, he tried to jump a holly-bush."
"Engaged!
Eustace, is this true?"
"Yes," =
said
a muffled voice from the interior of the bed.
"And poor
Eustace is so worried," continued Jane, "about the house." S=
he
went on quickly. "He doesn't want to deprive you of it, because he kno=
ws
what it means to you. So he is hoping--we are both hoping--that you will ac=
cept
it as a present when we are married. We really shan't want it, you know. We=
are
going to live in London. So you will take it, won't you--to please us?"=
;
We all of us, even
the greatest of us, have our moments of weakness. Let us then not express a=
ny
surprise at the sudden collapse of one of the world's greatest female think=
ers.
As the meaning of this speech smote on Mrs. Horace Hignett's understanding,=
she
sank weeping into a chair. The ever-present fear that had haunted her had b=
een
exorcised. Windles was hers in perpetuity. The relief was too great. She sa=
t in
her chair and gulped: and Eustace, greatly encouraged, emerged slowly from =
the
bedclothes like a worm after a thunderstorm.
How long this
poignant scene would have lasted, one cannot say. It is a pity that it was =
cut
short, for I should have liked to dwell upon it. But at this moment, from t=
he
regions downstairs, there suddenly burst upon the silent night such a whirl=
wind
of sound as effectually dissipated the tense emotion in the room. Somebody =
had
touched off the orchestrion in the drawing-room, and that willing instrument
had begun again in the middle of a bar at the point where it had been switc=
hed off.
Its wailing lament for the passing of Summer filled the whole house.
"That's too bad!" said Jane, a little annoyed. "At this time of night!"<= o:p>
"It's the
burglars!" quavered Mrs. Hignett. In the stress of recent events she h=
ad
completely forgotten the existence of those enemies of society. "They =
were
dancing in the hall when I arrived, and now they're playing the
orchestrion!"
"Light-heart=
ed
chaps!" said Eustace, admiring the sang-froid of the criminal world.
"Full of spirits!"
"This won't
do," said Jane Hubbard, shaking her head. "We can't have this sor=
t of
thing. I'll go and fetch my gun."
"They'll mur=
der
you, dear!" panted Mrs. Hignett, clinging to her arm.
Jane Hubbard laug=
hed.
"Murder
me!" she said, amusedly. "I'd like to catch them at it!"
Mrs. Hignett stood
staring at the door as Jane closed it safely behind her.
"Eustace,&qu=
ot;
she said, solemnly, "that is a wonderful girl!"
"Yes! She on=
ce
killed a panther--or a puma, I forget which--with a hat-pin!" said Eus=
tace
with enthusiasm.
"I could wish
you no better wife!" said Mrs. Hignett.
She broke off wit=
h a
sharp wail.... Out in the passage something like a battery of artillery had
roared.
The door opened a=
nd
Jane Hubbard appeared, slipping a fresh cartridge into the elephant-gun.
"One of them=
was
popping about outside here," she announced. "I took a shot at him,
but I'm afraid I missed. The visibility was bad. At any rate he went
away."
In this last
statement she was perfectly accurate. Bream Mortimer, who had been aroused =
by
the orchestrion and who had come out to see what was the matter, had gone a=
way
at the rate of fifty miles an hour. He had been creeping down the passage w=
hen
he found himself suddenly confronted by a dim figure which, without a word,=
had
attempted to slay him with an enormous gun. The shot had whistled past his =
ears
and gone singing down the corridor. This was enough for Bream. He had retur=
ned to
his room in three strides, and was now under the bed. The burglars might ta=
ke
everything in the house and welcome, so that they did not molest his privac=
y.
That was the way Bream looked at it. And very sensible of him, too, I consi=
der.
"We'd better=
go
downstairs," said Jane. "Bring the candle. Not you, Eustace, darl=
ing.
Don't you stir out of bed!"
"I won't,&qu=
ot;
said Eustace obediently.
3
Of all the leisur=
ed
pursuits, there are few less attractive to the thinking man than sitting in=
a
dark cupboard waiting for a house-party to go to bed: and Sam, who had
established himself in the one behind the piano at a quarter to eight, soon
began to feel as if he had been there for an eternity. He could dimly remem=
ber
a previous existence in which he had not been sitting in his present positi=
on,
but it seemed so long ago that it was shadowy and unreal to him. The ordeal=
of
spending the evening in this retreat had not appeared formidable when he ha=
d contemplated
it that afternoon in the lane: but, now that he was actually undergoing it,=
it
was extraordinary how many disadvantages it had.
Cupboards, as a
class, are badly ventilated, and this one seemed to contain no air at all: =
and
the warmth of the night, combined with the cupboard's natural stuffiness, h=
ad
soon begun to reduce Sam to a condition of pulp. He seemed to himself to be
sagging like an ice-cream in front of a fire. The darkness, too, weighed up=
on
him. He was abominably thirsty. Also he wanted to smoke. In addition to thi=
s,
the small of his back tickled, and he more than suspected the cupboard of h=
arboring
mice. Not once nor twice but many hundred times he wished that the ingenious
Webster had thought of something simpler.
His was a position
which would just have suited one of those Indian mystics who sit perfectly
still for twenty years, contemplating the Infinite; but it reduced Sam to an
almost imbecile state of boredom. He tried counting sheep. He tried going o=
ver
his past life in his mind from the earliest moment he could recollect, and
thought he had never encountered a duller series of episodes. He found a
temporary solace by playing a succession of mental golf-games over all the
courses he could remember, and he was just teeing up for the sixteenth at
Muirfield, after playing Hoylake, St. Andrews, Westward Ho, Hanger Hill,
Mid-Surrey, Walton Heath, Garden City, and the Engineers' Club at Roslyn, L.
I., when the light ceased to shine through the crack under the door, and he
awoke with a sense of dull incredulity to the realisation that the occupant=
s of
the drawing-room had called it a day and that his vigil was over.
But was it? Once =
more
alert, Sam became cautious. True, the light seemed to be off, but did that =
mean
anything in a country-house, where people had the habit of going and stroll=
ing
about the garden at all hours? Probably they were still popping about all o=
ver
the place. At any rate, it was not worth risking coming out of his lair. He
remembered that Webster had promised to come and knock an all-clear signal =
on
the door. It would be safer to wait for that.
But the moments w=
ent
by, and there was no knock. Sam began to grow impatient. The last few minut=
es
of waiting in a cupboard are always the hardest. Time seemed to stretch out
again interminably. Once he thought he heard foot-steps, but that led to
nothing. Eventually, having strained his ears and finding everything still,=
he
decided to take a chance. He fished in his pocket for the key, cautiously
unlocked the door, opened it by slow inches, and peered out.
The room was in
blackness. The house was still. All was well. With the feeling of a
life-prisoner emerging from the Bastille, he began to crawl stiffly forward:
and it was just then that the first of the disturbing events occurred which
were to make this night memorable to him. Something like a rattlesnake sudd=
enly
went off with a whirr, and his head, jerking up, collided with the piano. It
was only the cuckoo-clock, which now, having cleared its throat as was its
custom before striking, proceeded to cuck eleven times in rapid succession =
before
subsiding with another rattle: but to Sam it sounded like the end of the wo=
rld.
He sat in the
darkness, massaging his bruised skull. His hours of imprisonment in the
cupboard had had a bad effect on his nervous system, and he vacillated betw=
een
tears of weakness and a militant desire to get at the cuckoo-clock with a
hatchet. He felt that it had done it on purpose and was now chuckling to it=
self
in fancied security. For quite a minute he raged silently, and any cuckoo-c=
lock
which had strayed within his reach would have had a bad time of it. Then hi=
s attention
was diverted.
So concentrated w=
as
Sam on his private vendetta with the clock that no ordinary happening would
have had the power to distract him. What occurred now was by no means ordin=
ary,
and it distracted him like an electric shock. As he sat on the floor, passi=
ng a
tender hand over the egg-shaped bump which had already begun to manifest it=
self
beneath his hair, something cold and wet touched his face, and paralysed hi=
m so
completely both physically and mentally that he did not move a muscle but j=
ust
congealed where he sat into a solid block of ice. He felt vaguely that this=
was
the end. His heart stopped beating and he simply could not imagine it ever =
starting
again, and, if your heart refuses to beat, what hope is there for you?
At this moment
something heavy and solid struck him squarely in the chest, rolling him ove=
r.
Something gurgled asthmatically in the darkness. Something began to lick his
eyes, ears, and chin in a sort of ecstasy: and, clutching out, he found his
arms full of totally unexpected bulldog.
"Get out!&qu=
ot;
whispered Sam tensely, recovering his faculties with a jerk. "Go
away!"
Smith took the
opportunity of his lips having opened to lick the roof of his mouth. Smith's
attitude in the matter was that providence in its all-seeing wisdom had sent
him a human being at a moment when he had reluctantly been compelled to
reconcile himself to a total absence of such indispensable adjuncts to a go=
od time,
and that now the revels might commence. He had just trotted downstairs in
rather a disconsolate frame of mind after waiting with no result in front of
Webster's bedroom door, and it was a real treat to him to meet a man,
especially one seated in such a jolly and sociable manner on the floor. He
welcomed Sam like a long-lost friend.
Between Smith and=
the
humans who provided him with dog-biscuits and occasionally with sweet cakes
there had always existed a state of misunderstanding which no words could
remove. The position of the humans was quite clear. They had elected Smith =
to
his present position on a straight watch-dog ticket. They expected him to be
one of those dogs who rouse the house and save the spoons. They looked to h=
im
to pin burglars by the leg and hold on till the police arrived. Smith simpl=
y could
not grasp such an attitude of mind. He regarded Windles not as a private ho=
use
but as a social club, and was utterly unable to see any difference between =
the
human beings he knew and the strangers who dropped in for a late chat after=
the
place was locked up. He had no intention of biting Sam. The idea never ente=
red
his head. At the present moment what he felt about Sam was that he was one =
of
the best fellows he had ever met and that he loved him like a brother.
Sam, in his unner=
ved
state, could not bring himself to share these amiable sentiments. He was
thinking bitterly that Webster might have had the intelligence to warn him =
of
bulldogs on the premises. It was just the sort of woollen-headed thing fell=
ows
did, forgetting facts like that. He scrambled stiffly to his feet and tried=
to
pierce the darkness that hemmed him in. He ignored Smith, who snuffled
sportively about his ankles, and made for the slightly less black oblong wh=
ich
he took to be the door leading into the hall. He moved warily, but not wari=
ly
enough to prevent him cannoning into and almost upsetting a small table wit=
h a
vase on it. The table rocked and the vase jumped, and the first bit of luck
that had come to Sam that night was when he reached out at a venture and ca=
ught
it just as it was about to bound on to the carpet.
He stood there,
shaking. The narrowness of the escape turned him cold. If he had been an
instant later, there would have been a crash loud enough to wake a dozen sl=
eeping
houses. This sort of thing could not go on. He must have light. It might be=
a
risk: there might be a chance of somebody upstairs seeing it and coming dow=
n to
investigate: but it was a risk that must be taken. He declined to go on
stumbling about in this darkness any longer. He groped his way with infinite
care to the door, on the wall adjoining which, he presumed, the electric-li=
ght
switch would be.
It was nearly ten
years since he had last been inside Windles, and it never occurred to him t=
hat
in this progressive age even a woman like his aunt Adeline, of whom he could
believe almost anything, would still be using candles and oil-lamps as a me=
ans
of illumination. His only doubt was whether the switch was where it was in =
most
houses, near the door.
It is odd to refl=
ect
that, as his searching fingers touched the knob, a delicious feeling of rel=
ief
came to Samuel Marlowe. This misguided young man actually felt at that mome=
nt
that his troubles were over. He positively smiled as he placed a thumb on t=
he
knob and shoved.
He shoved strongly
and sharply, and instantaneously there leaped at him out of the darkness a
blare of music which appeared to his disordered mind quite solid. It seemed=
to
wrap itself round him. It was all over the place. In a single instant the w=
orld
had become one vast bellow of Tosti's "Goodbye."
How long he stood
there, frozen, he did not know: nor can one say how long he would have stood
there had nothing further come to invite his notice elsewhere. But, suddenl=
y,
drowning even the impromptu concert, there came from somewhere upstairs the
roar of a gun, and, when he heard that, Sam's rigid limbs relaxed and a vio=
lent
activity descended upon him. He bounded out into the hall, looking to right=
and
to left for a hiding-place. One of the suits of armour which had been famil=
iar
to him in his boyhood loomed up in front of him, and with the sight came th=
e recollection
of how, when a mere child on his first visit to Windles, playing hide and s=
eek
with his cousin Eustace, he had concealed himself inside this very suit and=
had
not only baffled Eustace through a long summer evening but had wound up by
almost scaring him into a decline by booing at him through the vizor of the
helmet. Happy days, happy days! He leaped at the suit of armour. The helmet=
was
a tight fit, but he managed to get his head into it at last, and the body of
the thing was quite roomy.
"Thank
heaven!" said Sam.
He was not
comfortable, but comfort just then was not his primary need.
Smith, the bulldo=
g,
well satisfied with the way things had happened, sat down, wheezing slightl=
y,
to await developments.
4
He had not long to
wait. In a few minutes the hall had filled up nicely. There was Mr. Mortime=
r in
his shirt-sleeves, Mr. Bennett in his pyjamas and a dressing-gown, Mrs. Hig=
nett
in a travelling costume, Jane Hubbard with her elephant-gun, and Billie in a
dinner dress. Smith welcomed them all impartially.
Somebody lit a la=
mp,
and Mrs. Hignett stared speechlessly at the mob.
"Mr. Bennett!
Mr. Mortimer!"
"Mrs. Hignet=
t!
What are you doing here?"
Mrs. Hignett drew
herself up stiffly.
"What an odd
question, Mr. Mortimer! I am in my own house!"
"But you ren=
ted
it to me for the summer. At least, your son did."
"Eustace let=
you
Windles for the summer!" said Mrs. Hignett, incredulously.
Jane Hubbard retu=
rned
from the drawing-room, where she had been switching off the orchestrion.
"Let us talk=
all
that over cosily to-morrow," she said. "The point now is that the=
re
are burglars in the house."
"Burglars!&q=
uot;
cried Mr. Bennett aghast. "I thought it was you playing that infernal
instrument, Mortimer."
"What on ear=
th
should I play it for at this time of night?" said Mr. Mortimer irritab=
ly.
It appeared only =
too
evident that the two old friends were again on the verge of one of their di=
stressing
fallings-out: but Jane Hubbard intervened once more. This practical-minded =
girl
disliked the introducing of side-issues into the conversation. She was ther=
e to
talk about burglars, and she intended to do so.
"For goodness
sake stop it!" she said, almost petulantly for one usually so superior=
to
emotion. "There'll be lots of time for quarrelling to-morrow. Just now
we've got to catch these...."
"I'm not
quarrelling," said Mr. Bennett.
"Yes, you
are," said Mr. Mortimer.
"I'm not!&qu=
ot;
"You are!&qu=
ot;
"Don't
argue!"
"I'm not
arguing!"
"You are!&qu=
ot;
"I'm not!&qu=
ot;
Jane Hubbard had
practically every noble quality which a woman can possess with the exceptio=
n of
patience. A patient woman would have stood by, shrinking from interrupting =
the
dialogue. Jane Hubbard's robuster course was to raise the elephant-gun, poi=
nt
it at the front door, and pull the trigger.
"I thought t=
hat
would stop you," she said complacently, as the echoes died away and Mr.
Bennett had finished leaping into the air. She inserted a fresh cartridge, =
and
sloped arms. "Now, the question is...."
"You made me
bite my tongue!" said Mr. Bennett, deeply aggrieved.
"Serves you
right!" said Jane placidly. "Now, the question is, have the fello=
ws
got away or are they hiding somewhere in the house? I think they're still in
the house."
"The
police!" exclaimed Mr. Bennett, forgetting his lacerated tongue and his
other grievances. "We must summon the police!"
"Obviously!&=
quot;
said Mrs. Hignett, withdrawing her fascinated gaze from the ragged hole in =
the
front door, the cost of repairing which she had been mentally assessing.
"We must send for the police at once."
"We don't re=
ally
need them, you know," said Jane. "If you'll all go to bed and just
leave me to potter round with my gun...."
"And blow the
whole house to pieces!" said Mrs. Hignett tartly. She had begun to rev=
ise
her original estimate of this girl. To her, Windles was sacred, and anyone =
who
went about shooting holes in it forfeited her esteem.
"Shall I go =
for
the police?" said Billie. "I could bring them back in ten minutes=
in
the car."
"Certainly
not!" said Mr. Bennett. "My daughter gadding about all over the
countryside in an automobile at this time of night!"
"If you thin=
k I
ought not to go alone, I could take Bream."
"Where is
Bream?" said Mr. Mortimer.
The odd fact that
Bream was not among those present suddenly presented itself to the company.=
"Where can he
be?" said Billie.
Jane Hubbard laug=
hed
the wholesome, indulgent laugh of one who is broad-minded enough to see the
humor of the situation even when the joke is at her expense.
"What a silly
girl I am!" she said. "I do believe that was Bream I shot at
upstairs. How foolish of me making a mistake like that!"
"You shot my
only son!" cried Mr. Mortimer.
"I shot at
him," said Jane. "My belief is that I missed him. Though how I ca=
me
to do it beats me. I don't suppose I've missed a sitter like that since I w=
as a
child in the nursery. Of course," she proceeded, looking on the reason=
able
side, "the visibility wasn't good, and I fired from the hip, but it's =
no
use saying I oughtn't at least to have winged him, because I ought." S=
he
shook her head with a touch of self-reproach. "I shall be chaffed about
this if it comes out," she said regretfully.
"The poor boy
must be in his room," said Mr. Mortimer.
"Under the b=
ed,
if you ask me," said Jane, blowing on the barrel of her gun and polish=
ing
it with the side of her hand. "He's all right! Leave him alone, and the
housemaid will sweep him up in the morning."
"Oh, he can't
be!" cried Billie, revolted.
A girl of high
spirit, it seemed to her repellent that the man she was engaged to marry sh=
ould
be displaying such a craven spirit. At that moment she despised and hated B=
ream
Mortimer. I think she was wrong, mind you. It is not my place to criticise =
the
little group of people whose simple annals I am relating--my position is me=
rely
that of a reporter--: but personally I think highly of Bream's sturdy
common-sense. If somebody loosed off an elephant gun at me in a dark corrid=
or,
I would climb on to the roof and pull it up after me. Still, rightly or
wrongly, that was how Billie felt: and it flashed across her mind that Samu=
el Marlowe,
scoundrel though he was, would not have behaved like this. And for a moment=
a
certain wistfulness added itself to the varied emotions then engaging her m=
ind.
"I'll go and
look, if you like," said Jane agreeably. "You amuse yourselves
somehow till I come back."
She ran easily up=
the
stairs, three at a time. Mr. Mortimer turned to Mr. Bennett.
"It's all ve=
ry
well your saying Wilhelmina mustn't go, but, if she doesn't, how can we get=
the
police? The house isn't on the 'phone, and nobody else can drive the car.&q=
uot;
"That's
true," said Mr. Bennett, wavering.
"I'm
going," said Billie resolutely. It occurred to her, as it has occurred=
to
so many women before her, how helpless men are in a crisis. The temporary
withdrawal of Jane Hubbard had had the effect which the removal of a rudder=
has
on a boat. "It's the only thing to do. I shall be back in no time.&quo=
t;
She stepped firml=
y to
the coat-rack, and began to put on her motoring-cloak. And just then Jane
Hubbard came downstairs, shepherding before her a pale and glassy-eyed Brea=
m.
"Right under=
the
bed," she announced cheerfully, "making a noise like a piece of f=
luff
in order to deceive burglars."
Billie cast a
scornful look at her fiancee. Absolutely unjustified, in my opinion, but
nevertheless she cast it. But it had no effect at all. Terror had stunned B=
ream
Mortimer's perceptions. His was what the doctors call a penumbral mental co=
ndition.
He was in a sort of trance.
"Bream,"
said Billie, "I want you to come in the car with me to fetch the
police."
"All
right," said Bream.
"Get your
coat."
"All
right," said Bream.
"And cap.&qu=
ot;
"All
right," said Bream.
He followed Billi=
e in
a docile manner out through the front door, and they made their way to the
garage at the back of the house, both silent. The only difference between t=
heir
respective silences was that Billie's was thoughtful, while Bream's was just
the silence of a man who has unhitched his brain and is getting along as we=
ll
as he can without it.
In the hall they =
had
left, Jane Hubbard once more took command of affairs.
"Well, that's
something done," she said, scratching Smith's broad back with the muzz=
le
of her weapon. "Something accomplished, something done, has earned a
night's repose. Not that we're going to get it yet. I think those fellows a=
re
hiding somewhere, and we ought to search the house and rout them out. It's a
pity Smith isn't a bloodhound. I like you personally, Smithy, but you're ab=
out
as much practical use in a situation like this as a cold in the head. You'r=
e a
good cake-hound, but as a watch-dog you don't finish in the first ten."=
;
The cake-hound,
charmed at the compliment, frisked about her feet like a young elephant.
"The first t=
hing
to do," continued Jane, "is to go through the ground-floor
rooms...." She paused to strike a match against the suit of armour nea=
rest
to her, a proceeding which elicited a sharp cry of protest from Mrs. Hignet=
t,
and lit a cigarette. "I'll go first, as I've got a gun...." She b=
lew
a cloud of smoke. "I shall want somebody with me to carry a light,
and...."
"Tchoo!"=
;
"What?"
said Jane.
"I didn't
speak," said Mr. Mortimer. "Who am I to speak?" he went on b=
itterly.
"Who am I that it should be supposed that I have anything sensible to
suggest?"
"Somebody
spoke," said Jane. "I...."
"Achoo!"=
;
"Do you feel=
a
draught, Mr. Bennett?" cried Jane sharply, wheeling round on him.
"There is a
draught," began Mr. Bennett.
"Well, finish
sneezing and I'll go on."
"I didn't
sneeze!"
"Somebody
sneezed."
"It seemed to
come from just behind you," said Mrs. Hignett nervously.
"It couldn't
have come from just behind me," said Jane, "because there isn't
anything behind me from which it could have...." She stopped suddenly,=
in
her eyes the light of understanding, on her face the set expression which w=
as
wont to come to it on the eve of action. "Oh!" she said in a
different voice, a voice which was cold and tense and sinister. "Oh, I
see!" She raised her gun, and placed a muscular forefinger on the trig=
ger.
"Come out of that!" she said. "Come out of that suit of armo=
ur
and let's have a look at you!"
"I can expla=
in
everything," said a muffled voice through the vizor of the helmet. &qu=
ot;I
can--achoo." The smoke of the cigarette tickled Sam's nostrils again, =
and
he suspended his remarks.
"I shall cou=
nt
three," said Jane Hubbard. "One--two--"
"I'm coming!=
I'm
coming!" said Sam petulantly.
"You'd
better!" said Jane.
"I can't get
this dashed helmet off!"
"If you don't
come quick, I'll blow it off."
Sam stepped out i=
nto
the hall, a picturesque figure which combined the costumes of two widely
separated centuries. Modern as far as the neck, he slipped back at that poi=
nt
to the Middle Ages.
"Hands up!&q=
uot;
commanded Jane Hubbard.
"My hands are
up!" retorted Sam querulously, as he wrenched at his unbecoming head-w=
ear.
"Never mind
trying to raise your hat," said Jane. "If you've lost the combina=
tion,
we'll dispense with the formalities. What we're anxious to hear is what you=
're
doing in the house at this time of night, and who your pals are. Come along=
, my
lad, make a clean breast of it and perhaps you'll get off easier. Are you a
gang?"
"Do I look l=
ike
a gang?"
"If you ask =
me
what you look like...."
"My name is
Marlowe ... Samuel Marlowe...."
"Alias
what?"
"Alias nothi=
ng!
I say my name is Samuel Marlowe...."
An explosive roar
burst from Mr. Bennett. "The scoundrel! I know him! I forbade him the
house, and...."
"And by what
right did you forbid people my house, Mr. Bennett?" said Mrs. Hignett =
with
acerbity.
"I've rented=
the
house, Mortimer and I rented it from your son...."
"Yes, yes,
yes," said Jane Hubbard. "Never mind about that. So you know this
fellow, do you?"
"I don't know
him!"
"You said you
did."
"I refuse to
know him!" went on Mr. Bennett. "I won't know him! I decline to h=
ave
anything to do with him!"
"But you
identify him?"
"If he says =
he's
Samuel Marlowe," assented Mr. Bennett grudgingly, "I suppose he i=
s. I
can't imagine anybody saying he was Samuel Marlowe if he didn't know it cou=
ld
be proved against him."
"Are you my
nephew Samuel?" said Mrs. Hignett.
"Yes," =
said
Sam.
"Well, what =
are
you doing in my house?"
"It's my
house," said Mr. Bennett, "for the summer, Henry Mortimer's and m=
ine.
Isn't that right, Henry?"
"Dead
right," said Mr. Mortimer.
"There!"
said Mr. Bennett. "You hear? And when Henry Mortimer says a thing, it's
so. There's nobody's word I'd take before Henry Mortimer's."
"When Rufus
Bennett makes an assertion," said Mr. Mortimer, highly flattered by th=
ese
kind words, "you can bank on it, Rufus Bennett's word is his bond. Ruf=
us
Bennett is a white man!"
The two old frien=
ds
clasped hands with a good deal of feeling.
"I am not
disputing Mr. Bennett's claim to belong to the Caucasian race," said M=
rs.
Hignett, "I merely maintain that this house is...."
"Yes, yes, y=
es,
yes!" interrupted Jane. "You can thresh all that out some other t=
ime.
The point is, if this fellow is your nephew, I don't see what we can do. We=
'll
have to let him go."
"I came to t=
his
house," said Sam, raising his vizor to facilitate speech, "to mak=
e a
social call...."
"At this hou=
r of
the night!" snapped Mrs. Hignett. "You always were an inconsidera=
te
boy, Samuel."
"I came to
enquire after poor Eustace's ankle. I've only just heard that the poor chap=
was
ill."
"He's getting
along quite well," said Jane, melting. "If I had known you were so
fond of Eustace...."
"All right, =
is
he?" said Sam.
"Well, not q=
uite
all right, but he's going on very nicely."
"Fine!"=
"Eustace and=
I
are engaged, you know!"
"No, really?
Splendid! I can't see you very distinctly--how those Johnnies in the old da=
ys
ever contrived to put up a scrap with things like this on their heads beats
me--but you sound a good sort. I hope you'll be very happy."
"Thank you e=
ver
so much, Mr. Marlowe. I'm sure we shall."
"Eustace is =
one
of the best."
"How nice of=
you
to say so."
"All this,&q=
uot;
interrupted Mrs. Hignett, who had been a chafing auditor of this interchang=
e of
courtesies, "is beside the point. Why did you dance in the hall, Samue=
l,
and play the orchestrion?"
"Yes," =
said
Mr. Bennett, reminded of his grievance, "waking people up."
"Scaring us =
all
to death!" complained Mr. Mortimer.
"I remember =
you
as a boy, Samuel," said Mrs. Hignett, "lamentably lacking in
consideration for others and concentrated only on your selfish pleasures. Y=
ou
seem to have altered very little."
"Don't bally=
rag
the poor man," said Jane Hubbard. "Be human! Lend him a can-opene=
r!"
"I shall do
nothing of the sort," said Mrs. Hignett. "I never liked him and I
dislike him now. He has got himself into this trouble through his own
wrong-headedness."
"It's not his
fault his head's the wrong size," said Jane.
"He must get
himself out as best he can," said Mrs. Hignett.
"Very
well," said Sam with bitter dignity. "Then I will not trespass fu=
rther
on your hospitality, Aunt Adeline. I have no doubt the local blacksmith wil=
l be
able to get this damned thing off me. I shall go to him now. I will let you
have the helmet back by parcel-post at the earliest possible opportunity. G=
ood
night!" He walked coldly to the front door. "And there are
people," he remarked sardonically, "who say that blood is thicker
than water! I'll bet they never had any aunts!"
5
Billie, meanwhile,
with Bream trotting docilely at her heels, had reached the garage and start=
ed
the car. Like all cars which have been spending a considerable time in secl=
uded
inaction, it did not start readily. At each application of Billie's foot on=
the
self-starter, it emitted a tinny and reproachful sound and then seemed to g=
o to
sleep again. Eventually, however, the engines began to revolve and the mach=
ine
moved reluctantly out into the drive.
"The battery
must be run down," said Billie.
"All
right," said Bream.
Billie cast a gla=
nce
of contempt at him out of the corner of her eyes. She hardly knew why she h=
ad
spoken to him except that, as all automobilists are aware, the impulse to s=
ay
rude things about their battery is almost irresistible. To an automobilist =
the
art of conversation consists in rapping out scathing remarks either about t=
he battery
or the oiling-system.
Billie switched on
the head-lights and turned the car down the dark drive. She was feeling
thoroughly upset. Her idealistic nature had received a painful shock on the
discovery of the yellow streak in Bream. To call it a yellow streak was to
understate the facts. It was a great belt of saffron encircling his whole s=
oul.
That she, Wilhelmina Bennett, who had gone through the world seeking a Gala=
had,
should finish her career as the wife of a man who hid under beds simply bec=
ause
people shot at him with elephant guns was abhorrent to her. Why, Samuel Mar=
lowe
would have perished rather than do such a thing. You might say what you lik=
ed
about Samuel Marlowe--and, of course, his habit of playing practical jokes =
put
him beyond the pale--but nobody could question his courage. Look at the way=
he
had dived overboard that time in the harbour at New York! Billie found hers=
elf
thinking hard about Samuel Marlowe.
There are only a =
few
makes of car in which you can think hard about anything except the actual
driving without stalling the engines, and Mr. Bennett's Twin-Six Complex was
not one of them. It stopped as if it had been waiting for the signal. The n=
oise
of the engine died away. The wheels ceased to revolve. The automobile did
everything except lie down. It was a particularly pig-headed car and right =
from
the start it had been unable to see the sense in this midnight expedition. =
It
seemed now to have the idea that if it just lay low and did nothing, presen=
tly it
would be taken back to its cosy garage.
Billie trod on the
self-starter. Nothing happened.
"You'll have=
to
get down and crank her," she said curtly.
"All
right," said Bream.
"Well, go
on," said Billie impatiently.
"Eh?"
"Get out and
crank her."
Bream emerged for=
an
instant from his trance.
"All
right," he said.
The art of cranki=
ng a
car is one that is not given to all men. Some of our greatest and wisest st=
and
helpless before the task. It is a job towards the consummation of which a n=
oble
soul and a fine brain help not at all. A man may have all the other gifts a=
nd
yet be unable to accomplish a task the fellow at the garage does with one q=
uiet
quick flick of the wrist without even bothering to remove his chewing gum. =
This
being so, it was not only unkind but foolish of Billie to grow impatient as
Bream's repeated efforts failed of their object. It was wrong of her to cli=
ck
her tongue, and certainly she ought not to have told Bream that he was not =
fit
to churn butter. But women are an emotional sex and must be forgiven much in
moments of mental stress.
"Give it a g=
ood
sharp twist," she said.
"All
right," said Bream.
"Here, let m=
e do
it," cried Billie.
She jumped down a=
nd
snatched the thingummy from his hand. With bent brows and set teeth she
wrenched it round. The engine gave a faint protesting mutter, like a dog th=
at
has been disturbed in its sleep, and was still once more.
"May I
help?"
It was not Bream =
who
spoke but a strange voice--a sepulchral voice, the sort of voice someone wo=
uld
have used in one of Edgar Allen Poe's cheerful little tales if he had been
buried alive and were speaking from the family vault. Coming suddenly out of
the night it affected Bream painfully. He uttered a sharp exclamation and g=
ave
a bound which, if he had been a Russian dancer, would probably have caused =
the management
to raise his salary. He was in no frame of mind to bear up under sudden
sepulchral voices.
Billie, on the ot=
her
hand, was pleased. The high-spirited girl was just beginning to fear that s=
he
was unequal to the task which she had chided Bream for being unable to perf=
orm
and this was mortifying her.
"Oh, would y=
ou
mind? Thank you so much. The self-starter has gone wrong."
Into the glare of=
the
head-lights there stepped a strange figure, strange, that is to say, in the=
se
tame modern times. In the Middle Ages he would have excited no comment at a=
ll.
Passers-by would simply have said to themselves, "Ah, another of those
knights off after the dragons!" and would have gone on their way with a
civil greeting. But in the present age it is always somewhat startling to s=
ee a
helmeted head pop up in front of your automobile. At any rate, it startled =
Bream.
I will go further. It gave Bream the shock of a lifetime. He had had shocks
already that night, but none to be compared with this. Or perhaps it was th=
at
this shock, coming on top of those shocks, affected him more disastrously t=
han
it would have done if it had been the first of the series instead of the la=
st.
One may express the thing briefly by saying that, as far as Bream was
concerned, Sam's unconventional appearance put the lid on it. He did not
hesitate. He did not pause to make comments or ask questions. With a single
cat-like screech which took years off the lives of the abruptly wakened bir=
ds
roosting in the neighbouring trees, he dashed away towards the house and,
reaching his room, locked the door and pushed the bed, the chest of drawers,
two chairs, the towel stand, and three pairs of boots against it. Only then=
did
he feel comparatively safe.
Out on the drive
Billie was staring at the man in armour who had now, with a masterful wrench
which informed the car right away that he would stand no nonsense, set the
engine going again.
"Why--why,&q=
uot;
she stammered, "why are you wearing that thing on your head?"
"Because I c=
an't
get it off."
Hollow as the voi=
ce
was, Billie recognised it.
"S--Mr.
Marlowe!" she exclaimed.
"Get in,&quo=
t;
said Sam. He had seated himself at the steering wheel. "Where can I ta=
ke
you?"
"Go away!&qu=
ot;
said Billie.
"Get in!&quo=
t;
"I don't wan=
t to
talk to you."
"I want to t=
alk
to you! Get in!"
"I won't.&qu=
ot;
Sam bent over the
side of the car, put his hands under her arms, lifted her like a kitten and
deposited her on the seat beside him. Then throwing in the clutch, he drove=
at
an ever increasing speed down the drive and out into the silent road. Stran=
ge
creatures of the night came and went in the golden glow of the head-lights.=
6
"Put me
down," said Billie.
"You'd get h=
urt
if I did, travelling at this pace."
"What are you
going to do?"
"Drive about
till you promise to marry me."
"You'll have=
to
drive a long time."
"Right ho!&q=
uot;
said Sam.
The car took a co=
rner
and purred down a lane. Billie reached out a hand and grabbed at the steeri=
ng
wheel. "Of course, if you want to smash up in a ditch!" said Sam,
righting the car with a wrench.
"You're a
brute!" said Billie.
"Cave-man
stuff," explained Sam, "I ought to have tried it before."
"I don't know
what you expect to gain by this."
"That's all
right," said Sam, "I know what I'm about."
"I'm glad to
hear it."
"I thought y=
ou
would be."
"I'm not goi=
ng
to talk to you."
"All right. =
Lean
back and doze off. We've the whole night before us."
"What do you
mean?" cried Billie, sitting up with a jerk.
"Have you ev=
er
been to Scotland?"
"What do you
mean?"
"I thought we
might push up there. We've got to go somewhere and, oddly enough, I've never
been to Scotland."
Billie regarded h=
im
blankly.
"Are you
crazy?"
"I'm crazy a=
bout
you. If you knew what I've gone through to-night for your sake you'd be more
sympathetic. I love you," said Sam swerving to avoid a rabbit. "A=
nd
what's more, you know it."
"I don't
care."
"You will!&q=
uot;
said Sam confidently. "How about North Wales? I've heard people speak =
well
of North Wales. Shall we head for North Wales?"
"I'm engaged=
to
Bream Mortimer."
"Oh no, that=
's
all off," Sam assured her.
"It's not!&q=
uot;
"Right
off!" said Sam firmly. "You could never bring yourself to marry a=
man
who dashed away like that and deserted you in your hour of need. Why, for a=
ll
he knew, I might have tried to murder you. And he ran away! No, no, we
eliminate Bream Mortimer once and for all. He won't do!"
This was so exact=
ly
what Billie was feeling herself that she could not bring herself to dispute=
it.
"Anyway, I h=
ate
you!" she said, giving the conversation another turn.
"Why? In the
name of goodness, why?"
"How dared y=
ou
make a fool of me in your father's office that morning?"
"It was a su=
dden
inspiration. I had to do something to make you think well of me, and I thou=
ght
it might meet the case if I saved you from a lunatic with a pistol. It wasn=
't
my fault that you found out."
"I shall nev=
er
forgive you!"
"Why not
Cornwall?" said Sam. "The Riviera of England! Let's go to Cornwal=
l. I
beg your pardon. What were you saying?"
"I said I sh=
ould
never forgive you and I won't."
"Well, I hope
you're fond of motoring," said Sam, "because we're going on till =
you
do."
"Very well! =
Go
on, then!"
"I intend to=
. Of
course, it's all right now while it's dark. But have you considered what is
going to happen when the sun gets up? We shall have a sort of triumphal
procession. How the small boys will laugh when they see a man in a helmet g=
o by
in a car! I shan't notice them myself because it's a little difficult to no=
tice
anything from inside this thing, but I'm afraid it will be rather unpleasant
for you ... I know what we'll do. We'll go to London and drive up and down
Piccadilly! That will be fun!"
There was a long
silence.
"Is my helme=
t on
straight?" said Sam.
Billie made no re=
ply.
She was looking before her down the hedge-bordered road. Always a girl of
sudden impulse, she had just made a curious discovery, to wit, that she was
enjoying herself. There was something so novel and exhilarating about this
midnight ride that imperceptibly her dismay and resentment had ebbed away. =
She
found herself struggling with a desire to laugh.
"Lochinvar!&=
quot;
said Sam suddenly. "That's the name of the chap I've been trying to th=
ink
of! Did you ever read about Lochinvar? 'Young Lochinvar' the poet calls him
rather familiarly. He did just what I'm doing now, and everybody thought ve=
ry
highly of him. I suppose in those days a helmet was just an ordinary part of
what the well-dressed man should wear. Odd how fashions change!"
Till now dignity =
and
wrath combined had kept Billie from making any enquiries into a matter which
had excited in her a quite painful curiosity. In her new mood she resisted =
the
impulse no longer.
"Why are you
wearing that thing?"
"I told you.
Purely and simply because I can't get it off. You don't suppose I'm trying =
to
set a new style in gents' headwear, do you?"
"But why did=
you
ever put it on?"
"Well, it was
this way. After I came out of the cupboard in the drawing-room...."
"What!"=
"Didn't I te=
ll
you about that? Oh yes, I was sitting in the cupboard in the drawing-room f=
rom
dinner-time onwards. After that I came out and started cannoning about among
Aunt Adeline's china, so I thought I'd better switch the light on.
Unfortunately I switched on some sort of musical instrument instead. And th=
en
somebody started shooting. So, what with one thing and another, I thought it
would be best to hide somewhere. I hid in one of the suits of armour in the
hall."
"Were you in=
side
there all the time we were...?"
"Yes. I say,
that was funny about Bream, wasn't it? Getting under the bed, I mean."=
"Don't let's
talk about Bream."
"That's the
right spirit! I like to see it! All right, we won't. Let's get back to the =
main
issue. Will you marry me?"
"But why did=
you
come to the house at all?"
"To see
you."
"To see me! =
At
that time of night?"
"Well, perha=
ps
not actually to see you." Sam was a little perplexed for a moment.
Something told him that it would be injudicious to reveal his true motive a=
nd
thereby risk disturbing the harmony which he felt had begun to exist between
them. "To be near you! To be in the same house with you!" he went=
on
vehemently feeling that he had struck the right note. "You don't know =
the
anguish I went through after I read that letter of yours. I was mad! I was =
...
well, to return to the point, will you marry me?"
Billie sat looking
straight before her. The car, now on the main road, moved smoothly on.
"Will you ma=
rry
me?"
Billie rested her
hand on her chin and searched the darkness with thoughtful eyes.
"Will you ma=
rry
me?"
The car raced on.=
"Will you ma=
rry
me?" said Sam. "Will you marry me? Will you marry me?"
"Oh, don't t=
alk
like a parrot," cried Billie. "It reminds me of Bream."
"But will
you?"
"Yes," =
said
Billie.
Sam brought the c=
ar
to a standstill with a jerk, probably very bad for the tires.
"Did you say
'yes'?"
"Yes!"<= o:p>
"Darling!&qu=
ot;
said Sam, leaning towards her, "Oh, curse this helmet!"
"Why?"<= o:p>
"Well, I rat=
her
wanted to kiss you and it hampers me."
"Let me try =
and
get it off. Bend down!"
"Ouch!"
said Sam.
"It's coming.
There! How helpless men are!"
"We need a
woman's tender care," said Sam depositing the helmet on the floor of t=
he
car, and rubbing his smarting ears. "Billie!"
"Sam!"<= o:p>
"You
angel!"
"You're rath=
er a
darling after all," said Billie. "But you want keeping in
order," she added severely.
"You will do
that when we're married. When we're married!" he repeated luxuriously.
"How splendid it sounds!"
"The only
trouble is," said Billie, "father won't hear of it."
"No, he won'=
t.
Not till it is all over," said Sam.
He started the car
again.
"What are you
going to do?" said Billie. "Where are you going?"
"To
London," said Sam. "It may be news to you but the old lawyer like=
myself
knows that, by going to Doctors' Commons or the Court of Arches or somewher=
e or
by routing the Archbishop of Canterbury out of bed or something, you can ge=
t a
special license and be married almost before you know where you are. My
scheme--roughly--is to dig this special license out of whoever keeps such
things, have a bit of breakfast, and then get married at our leisure before
lunch at a registrar's."
"Oh, not a
registrar's!" said Billie.
"No?"
"I should ha=
te a
registrar's."
"Very well,
angel. Just as you say. We'll go to a church. There are millions of churche=
s in
London. I've seen them all over the place." He mused for a moment.
"Yes, you're quite right," he said. "A church is the thing.
It'll please Webster."
"Webster?&qu=
ot;
"Yes, he's
rather keen on the church bells never having rung out so blithe a peal befo=
re.
And we must consider Webster's feelings. After all, he brought us
together."
"Webster?
How?"
"Oh, I'll te=
ll
you all about that some other time," said Sam. "Just for the mome=
nt I
want to sit quite still and think. Are you comfortable? Fine! Then off we
go."
The birds in the
trees fringing the road stirred and twittered grumpily as the noise of the
engine disturbed their slumbers. But, if they had known it, they were in lu=
ck.
At any rate, the worst had not befallen them, for Sam was too happy to sing=
.
THE END