CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As I read over the last few chapters of this narrative, I see that Ihave been giving the reader a rather too jumpy time. To almost apainful degree I have excited his pity and terror; and, though that iswhat Aristotle tells one ought to do, I feel that a little respitewould not be out of order. The reader can stand having his emotionschurned up to a certain point; after that he wants to take it easy. Itis 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 torecord facts as they happened.
The morning sunlight fell pleasantly on the garden of Windles, turningit into the green and amber Paradise which Nature had intended it tobe. A number of the local birds sang melodiously in the under-growth atthe end of the lawn, while others, more energetic, hopped about thegrass in quest of worms. Bees, mercifully ignorant that, afterthey had worked themselves to the bone gathering honey, theproceeds of their labour would be collared and consumed by idle humans,buzzed industriously to and fro and dived head foremost into flowers.Winged insects danced sarabands in the sunshine. And in a deck-chairunder the cedar-tree Billie Bennett, with a sketching-block on herknee, was engaged in drawing a picture of the ruined castle. Besideher, curled up in a ball, lay her Pekinese dog, Pinky-Boodles. BesidePinky-Boodles slept Smith, the bulldog. In the distant stable-yard,unseen but audible, a boy in shirt sleeves was washing the car andsinging as much as treacherous memory would permit of a popularsentimental ballad.
You may think that was all. You may suppose that nothing could be addedto deepen the atmosphere of peace and content. Not so. At this moment,Mr. Bennett emerged from the French windows of the drawing-room, cladin white flannels and buckskin shoes, supplying just the finishingtouch that was needed.
Mr. Bennett crossed the lawn, and sat down beside his daughter. Smith,the bull-dog, raising a sleepy head, breathed heavily; but Mr. Bennettdid not quail. Of late, relations of distant but solid friendship hadcome to exist between them. Sceptical at first, Mr. Bennett had atlength allowed himself to be persuaded of the mildness of the animal'snature and the essential purity of his motives; and now it was only whenthey encountered each other unexpectedly round sharp corners that heever betrayed the slightest alarm. So now, while Smith slept on the grass,Mr. Bennett reclined in the chair. It was the nearest thing moderncivilization had seen to the lion lying down with the lamb.
"Sketching?" said Mr. Bennett.
"Yes," said Billie, for there were no secrets between this girl and herfather. At least, not many. She occasionally omitted to tell him somesuch trifle as that she had met Samuel Marlowe on the previous morningin a leafy lane, and intended to meet him again this afternoon, butapart from that her mind was an open book.
"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 forbreakfast this morning which defied competition, simply defiedcompetition. They were large and brown, and as fresh as new-mown-hay!"
He mused for a while in a sort of ecstasy.
"And the hams!" he went on. "The ham I had for breakfast was what Icall ham! I don't know when I've had ham like that. I suppose it'ssomething they feed the pigs," he concluded, in soft meditation. And hegave a little sigh. Life was very beautiful.
Silence fell, broken only by the snoring of Smith. Billie was thinkingof Sam, and of what Sam had said to her in the lane yesterday; of hisclean-cut face, and the look in his eyes--so vastly superior to anylook that ever came into the eyes of Bream Mortimer. She was tellingherself that her relations with Sam were an idyll; for, being young andromantic, she enjoyed this freshet of surreptitious meetings which hadcome to enliven the stream of her life. It was pleasant to go warilyinto deep lanes where forbidden love lurked. She cast a swift side-glanceat her father--the unconscious ogre in her fairy-story. What would he sayif he knew? But Mr. Bennett did not know, and consequently continued tomeditate peacefully on ham.
They had sat like this for perhaps a minute--two happy mortals lulled bythe gentle beauty of the day--when from the window of the drawing-roomthere stepped out a white-capped maid. And one may just as well say atonce--and have done with it--that this is the point where the quiet,peaceful scene in domestic life terminates with a jerk, and pity andterror resume work at the old stand.
The maid--her name, not that it matters, was Susan, and she was engagedto be married, though the 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?" said Mr. Bennett, torn from a dream of large pink slices edgedwith bread-crumbed fat. "Eh?"
"A gentleman to see you, sir. In the drawing-room. He says you areexpecting him."
"Of course, yes. To be sure."
Mr. Bennett heaved himself out of the deck-chair. Beyond the Frenchwindows he could see an indistinct form in a gray suit, and rememberedthat this was the morning on which Sir Mallaby Marlowe's clerk--who wastaking those Schultz and Bowen papers for him to America--hadwritten that he would call. To-day was Friday; no doubt the man wassailing from Southampton to-morrow.
He crossed the lawn, entered the drawing-room, and found Mr. Jno.Peters with an expression on his ill-favored face, which looked likeone of consternation, of uneasiness, even 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 aboutthe 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 atthe unpleasantness of the duty which he had to perform, but it was aduty, and he did not intend to shrink from performing it. Ever since,gazing appreciatively through the drawing-room windows at the charmingscene outside, he had caught sight of the unforgettable form of Billie,seated in her chair with the sketching-block on her knee, he hadrealised that he could not go away in silence, leaving Mr. Bennettignorant of what he was up against.
One almost inclines to fancy that there must have been a curse of somekind on this house of Windles. Certainly everybody who entered itseemed to leave his peace of mind behind him. Jno. Peters had beenfeeling notably happy during his journey in the train from London, andthe subsequent walk from the station. The splendor of the morning hadsoothed his nerves, and the faint wind that blew inshore from the seaspoke to him hearteningly of adventure and romance. There was a jar ofpot-pourri on the drawing-room table, and he had derived considerablepleasure 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 andseen Billie.
"Mr. Bennett," he said, "I don't want to do anybody any harm, and, ifyou know all about it, and she suits you, well and good; but I think itis my duty to inform you that your stenographer is not quite right inthe head. I don't say she's dangerous, but she isn't compos. Shedecidedly is _not_ compos, Mr. Bennett!"
Mr. Bennett stared at his well-wisher dumbly for a moment. The thoughtcrossed his mind that, if ever there was a case of the pot calling thekettle black, this was it. His opinion of Jno. Peters' sanity went downto zero.
"What are you talking about? My stenographer? What stenographer?"
It occurred to Mr. Peters that a man of the other's wealth and businessconnections might well have a troupe of these useful females. Heparticularised.
"I mean the young lady out in the garden there, to whom you weredictating just now. The young lady with the writing-pad on her knee."
"What! What!" Mr. Bennett spluttered. "Do you know who that is?" heexclaimed.
"Oh, yes, indeed!" said Jno. Peters. "I have only met her once, whenshe came into our office to see Mr. Samuel, but her personality andappearance stamped themse
lves so forcibly on my mind, that I know I amnot mistaken. I am sure it is my duty to tell you exactly what happenedwhen I was left alone with her in the office. We had hardly exchanged adozen words, Mr. Bennett, when--" here Jno. Peters, modest to the core,turned vividly pink, "when she told me--she told me that I was the onlyman she loved!"
Mr. Bennett uttered a loud cry.
"Sweet spirits of nitre!"
Mr. Peters could make nothing of this exclamation, and he was deterredfrom seeking light, by the sudden action of his host, who, boundingfrom his seat, with a vivacity of which one could not have believed himcapable, charged to the French window and emitted a bellow.
"Wilhelmina!"
Billie looked up from her sketching-book with a start. It seemed to herthat there was a note of anguish, of panic, in that voice. What herfather could have found in the drawing-room to be frightened at, shedid not know; but she dropped her block and hurried to his assistance.
"What it is, father?"
Mr. Bennett had retired within the room when she arrived; and, going inafter him, she perceived at once what had caused his alarm. Therebefore her, looking more sinister than ever, stood the lunatic Peters;and there was an ominous bulge in his right coat-pocket which betrayedthe presence of the revolver. What Jno. Peters was, as a matter offact, carrying in his right coat-pocket was a bag of mixed chocolateswhich he had purchased in Windlehurst. But Billie's eyes,though bright, had no X-ray quality. Her simple creed was that, if Jno.Peters bulged at any point, that bulge must be caused by a pistol. Shescreamed, and backed against the wall. Her whole acquaintance with Jno.Peters had been on constant backing against walls.
"Don't shoot!" she cried, as Mr. Peters absent-mindedly dipped hishand into the pocket of his coat. "Oh, please don't shoot!"
"What the deuce 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 clutched 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'llexplain the whole thing later, when...."
"Father!" 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 called 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 myname?"
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 thereand found me when I was--talking to Sam."
Mr. Peters uttered a subdued gargling sound. He was finding this sceneoppressive 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 asstenographer for the guv'--for Sir Mallaby, and sent me in to show youmy revolver, because he said you were interested and wanted to see it."
Billie uttered an exclamation. So did Mr. Bennett, who hated mysteries.
"What revolver? Which revolver? What's all this about a revolver? Haveyou a revolver?"
"Why, yes, Mr. Bennett. It is packed now in my trunk, but usually Icarry it about with me everywhere in order to take a little practice atthe Rupert Street range. I bought it when Sir Mallaby told me he wassending me to America, because I thought I ought to be prepared--becauseof the Underworld, you know."
A cold gleam had come into Billie's eyes. Her face was pale and hard.If Sam Marlowe--at that moment carolling blithely in his bedroom at theBlue Boar in Windlehurst, washing his hands preparatory to descendingto the coffee-room for a bit of cold lunch--could have seen her, thesong would have frozen on his lips. Which, one might mention, asshowing that there is always a bright side, would have been muchappreciated by the travelling gentleman in the adjoining room, who hadhad a wild night with some other travelling gentlemen, and was thennursing a rather severe headache, separated from Sam's penetratingbaritone, only by the thickness of a wooden wall.
Billie knew all. And, terrible though the fact is as an indictment ofthe male sex, when a woman knows all, there is invariably trouble aheadfor some man.
There was trouble ahead for Sam Marlowe. Billie, now in possession ofthe facts, had examined them and come to the conclusion that Sam hadplayed a practical joke on her, and she was a girl who stronglydisapproved of practical humor at her expense.
"That morning I met you at Sir Mallaby's office, Mr. Peters," she saidin a frosty voice, "Mr. Marlowe had just finished telling me a long andconvincing story to the effect that you were madly in love with a MissMilliken, who had jilted you, and that this had driven you off yourhead, and that you spent your time going about with a pistol, trying toshoot every red-haired woman you saw, because you thought they wereMiss Milliken. Naturally, when you came in and called me Miss Milliken,and brandished a revolver, I was very frightened. I thought it would beuseless to tell you that I wasn't Miss Milliken, so I tried to persuadeyou that I was, and hadn't jilted you after all."
"Good gracious!" said Mr. Peters, vastly relieved; and yet--for alwaysthere is bitter mixed with the sweet--a shade disappointed. "Then--er--youdon't love me after all?"
"No!" said Billie. "I am engaged to Bream Mortimer, and I love him andnobody else in the world!"
The last portion of her observation was intended for the consumption ofMr. Bennett, rather than that of Mr. Peters, and he consumed itjoyfully. He folded Billie in his ample embrace.
"I always thought you had a grain of sense hidden away somewhere," hesaid, paying her a striking tribute. "I hope now that we've heard thelast of all this foolishness about that young hound Marlowe."
"You certainly have! I don't want ever to see him again! I hate him!"
"You couldn't do better, my dear," said Mr. Bennett, approvingly. "Andnow run away. Mr. Peters and I have some business to discuss."
A quarter of an hour later, Webster, the valet, sunning himself in thestable-yard, was aware of the daughter of his employer approaching him.
"Webster," 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 whichhe had been refreshing himself.
"Will you do something for me?"
"I should be more than delighted, miss."
Billie whisked into view an envelope which had been concealed in therecesses of her dress.
"Do you know the country about here, well, Webster?"
"Within a certain radius, not unintimately, Miss. I have been forseveral enjoyable rambles since the fine weather set in."
"Do you know the place where there is a road leading to Havant, andanother to Cosham? It's about a mile down...."
"I know the spot well, miss."
"Well, straight in front of you when you get to the sign-post there isa little lane...."
"I know it, miss," said Webster. "A delightfully romantic spot. Whatwith the overhanging trees, the wealth of blackberry bushes, the variedwild-flowers...."
"Yes, never mind about the wild-flowers now. I want you after lunch totake this note to a gentleman you will find sitting on the gate at thebottom of the lane...."
"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 li
kely to be anybody else there, so you can'tmake a mistake. Give him this, will you?"
"Certainly, miss. Er--any message?"
"Any what?"
"Any verbal message, miss?"
"No, certainly not! You won't forget, will you, Webster?"
"On no account whatever, miss. Shall I wait for an answer?"
"There won't be any answer," said Billie, setting her teeth for aninstant. "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?" enquiredWebster, entering 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 there's something jolly well up! Our Miss B. is sending mewith notes for him to the bottom of lanes."
"And her engaged to young Mr. Mortimer!" said the scullery-maidshocked. "The way they go on! Chronic!" said the scullery-maid.
"Don't you go getting alarmed. And don't you," added Webster, "goshoving your ear in when your social superiors are talking. I've had tospeak to you about that 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 steamykettle handy, in about half a moment we could ... but no, perhaps, it'swiser not to risk it. And, come to that, I don't need to unstick theenvelope to know what's inside here. It's the raspberry, ma'am, or I'velost all my power to read the human female countenance. Very cold andproud-looking she was! I don't know who this S. Marlowe is, but I doknow one thing; in this hand I hold the instrument that's going to giveit him in the neck, proper! Right in the neck, or my name isn't MontaguWebster!"
"Well!" said Mrs. Withers comfortably, pausing for a moment from herlabours. "Think of that!"
"The way I look at it," said Webster, "is that there's been some sortof understanding between our Miss B. and this S. Marlowe, and she'sthought better of it and decided to stick to the man of her parent'schoice. She's chosen wealth and made up her mind to hand the humblesuitor the mitten. There was a rather similar situation in 'Cupid orMammon,' that Nosegay Novelette I was reading in the train coming downhere, only that ended different. For my part I'd be better pleased ifour Miss B. would let the cash go, and obey the dictates of her ownheart; 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 anot unmanly sigh. For beneath that immaculate shirt-front there beat awarm heart. Montagu Webster was a sentimentalist.