CHAPTER XV
DRAMA AT A COUNTRY HOUSE
As I read over the last few chapters of this narrative, I see that Ihave been giving the reader rather too jumpy a time. To almost a painfuldegree I have excited his pity and terror; and, though that is whatAristotle says one ought to do, I feel that a little respite would notbe out of order. The reader can stand having his emotions tortured up toa certain point; after that he wants to take it easy for a bit. It iswith pleasure, therefore, that I turn now to depict a quiet, peacefulscene in domestic life. It won't last long--three minutes, perhaps, by agood stop-watch--but that is not my fault. My task is to record facts asthey happened.
The morning sunlight fell pleasantly on the garden of Windles, turningit into the green and amber Paradise which Nature had intended it to be.A number of the local birds sang melodiously in the undergrowth at theend of the lawn, while others, more energetic, hopped about the grassin quest of worms. Bees, mercifully ignorant that, after they had workedthemselves to the bone gathering honey, the proceeds of their labourwould be collared and consumed by idle humans, buzzed industriously toand fro and dived head foremost into flowers. Winged insects dancedsarabands in the sunshine. In a deck-chair under the cedar-tree BillieBennett, with a sketching-block on her knee, was engaged in drawing apicture of the ruined castle. Beside her, curled up in a ball, lay herPekinese dog, Pinky-Boodles. Beside Pinky-Boodles slept Smith, thebulldog. In the distant stable-yard, unseen but audible, a boy inshirt-sleeves was washing the car and singing as much as a treacherousmemory would permit of a popular sentimental 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, clad inwhite flannels and buckskin shoes, supplying just the finishing touchthat was needed.
Mr. Bennett crossed the lawn, and sat down beside his daughter. Smith,the bulldog, raising a sleepy head, breathed heavily; but Mr. Bennettdid not quail. Since their last unfortunate meeting, relations ofdistant, but solid, friendship had come to exist between pursuer andpursued. Sceptical at first, Mr. Bennett had at length allowed himselfto be persuaded of the mildness of the animal's nature and the essentialpurity of his motives; and now it was only when they encountered eachother unexpectedly round sharp corners that he ever betrayed theslightest alarm. So now, while Smith slept on the grass, Mr. Bennettreclined in the chair. It was the nearest thing modern civilisation hasseen 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, suddenlystriking a lyrical note, "are extraordinary. I had three for breakfastthis morning which defied competition, simply defied competition. Theywere 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 I callham! I don't know when I've had ham like that. I suppose it's somethingthey feed the pigs on!" he concluded, in soft meditation. And he gave alittle 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 swiftside-glance at her father--the unconscious ogre in her fairy-story. Whatwould he say if he knew? But Mr. Bennett did not know, and consequentlycontinued to meditate 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 secondassistant 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.
"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 grey 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--had writtenthat he would call. To-day was Friday; no doubt the man was sailing fromSouthampton to-morrow.
He crossed the lawn, entered the drawing-room, and found Mr. Jno. Peterswith an expression on his ill-favoured face, which looked like one ofconsternation, 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 it seemedto leave his peace of mind behind him. Jno. Peters had been feelingnotably happy during his journey in the train from London, and thesubsequent walk from the station. The splendour 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 inher 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, whe
n shecame into our office to see Mr. Samuel, but her personality andappearance stamped themselves 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! What!"
"Those were her exact words."
"Five!" ejaculated Mr. Bennett, in a strangled voice. "By the great hornspoon, number five!"
Mr. Peters could make nothing of this exclamation, and he was deterredfrom seeking light by the sudden action of his host, who, bounding fromhis seat with a vivacity of which one would not have believed himcapable, charged to the French window and emitted a bellow.
"Wilhelmina!"
Billie looked up from her sketching-block 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, she didnot know; but she dropped her block and hurried to his assistance.
"What is it, father?"
Mr. Bennett had retired within the room when she arrived; and, going inafter him, she perceived at once what had caused his alarm. There beforeher, looking more sinister than ever, stood the lunatic Peters; andthere was an ominous bulge in his right coat-pocket which to her excitedsenses betrayed the presence of the revolver. What Jno. Peters was, as amatter of fact, carrying in his right coat-pocket was a bag of mixedchocolates 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 bulged at any point, that bulge must be caused by a pistol. Shescreamed, and backed against the wall. Her whole acquaintance with JnoPeters had been one constant backing against walls.
"Don't shoot!" she cried, as Mr. Peters absent-mindedly dipped his handinto the pocket of his coat. "Oh, please don't shoot!"
"What the deuce do you mean?" said Mr. Bennett irritably. "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 his 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 was 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. IfSam Marlowe--at that moment carolling blithely in his bedroom at theBlue Boar in Windlehurst, washing his hands preparatory to descending tothe coffee-room for a bit of cold lunch--could have seen her, the songwould have frozen on his lips. Which, one might mention, as showing thatthere is always a bright side, would have been much appreciated by thetravelling gentleman in the adjoining room, who had had a wild nightwith some other travelling gentlemen, and was then nursing a rathersevere headache, separated from Sam's penetrating baritone only by thethickness 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 Samuel Marlowe. Billie, now inpossession of the facts, had examined them and come to the conclusionthat Sam had played a practical joke on her, and she was a girl whostrongly disapproved of practical humour 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 were MissMilliken. Naturally, when you came in and called me Miss Milliken, andbrandished 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--you don'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, andher eyes still gleamed coldly.
"Miss?" said Webster politely, throwing away the cigarette with which hehad 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 is alittle lane...."
"I know it, miss," said Webster, with a faint smile. Twice had heescorted Miss Trimblett, Billie's maid, thither. "A delightfullyromantic spot. What with the overhanging trees, the wealth ofblackberry bushes, the varied wild-flowers...."
"Yes, never mind about the wild-flowers now. I want you after lunch, totake this note to a g
entleman 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 likely to be anybody else there, so you can't makea 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?" inquiredWebster, 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 me withnotes for him to the bottom of lanes."
"And her engaged 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, "goshoving your oar 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 sort ofunderstanding between our Miss B. and this S. Marlowe, and she's thoughtbetter 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 themitten. There was a rather similar situation in 'Cupid or Mammon,' thatNosegay Novelette I was reading in the train coming down here, only thatended different. For my part I'd be better pleased if our Miss B. wouldlet the cash go, and obey the dictates of her own heart; but thesemodern 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. Forbeneath that immaculate shirt-front there beat a warm heart. MontaguWebster was a sentimentalist.