CHAPTER XVII
A CROWDED NIGHT
Sec. 1
If there is one thing more than another which weighs upon the mind of astory-teller as he chronicles the events which he has set out todescribe, it is the thought that the reader may be growing impatientwith him for straying from the main channel of his tale and devotinghimself to what are, after all, minor developments. This story, forinstance, opened with Mrs. Horace Hignett, the world-famous writer onTheosophy, going over to America to begin a lecturing-tour; and no onerealises more keenly than I do that I have left Mrs. Hignett flat. Ihave thrust that great thinker into the background and concentrated myattention on the affairs of one who is both her mental and her moralinferior, Samuel Marlowe. I seem at this point to see the reader--agreat brute of a fellow with beetling eyebrows and a jaw like the ram ofa battleship, the sort of fellow who is full of determination and willstand no nonsense--rising to remark that he doesn't care what happenedto Samuel Marlowe and that what he wants to know is, how Mrs. Hignettmade 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 acyclone in St. Louis? Those are the points on which he desiresinformation, or give him his money back.
I cannot supply the information. And, before you condemn me, let mehastily 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 shepenetrate to St. Louis. For the very morning after her son Eustacesailed for England in the liner "Atlantic," she happened to read in thepaper one of those abridged passenger-lists which the journals of NewYork are in the habit of printing, and got a nasty shock when she sawthat, 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 thisinformation, she was at her desk writing out telegrams cancelling allher engagements. Iron-souled as this woman was, her fingers trembled asshe wrote. She had a vision of Eustace and the daughter of J. RufusBennett strolling together on moonlit decks, leaning over rails dampwith sea-spray and, in short, generally starting the whole trouble allover again.
In the height of the tourist season it is not always possible for onewho wishes to leave America to spring on to the next boat. A longmorning's telephoning to the offices of the Cunard and the White Starbrought Mrs. Hignett the depressing information that it would be a fullweek before she could sail for England. That meant that the inflammableEustace would have over two weeks to conduct an uninterrupted wooing,and Mrs. Hignett's heart sank, till suddenly she remembered that so poora sailor as her son was not likely to have had leisure for any strollingon the deck during the voyage on the "Atlantic."
Having realised this, she became calmer and went about her preparationsfor departure with an easier mind. The danger was still great, but therewas a good chance that she might be in time to intervene. She wound upher affairs in New York, and on the following Wednesday, boarded the"Nuronia" bound for Southampton.
The "Nuronia" is one of the slowest of the Cunard boats. It was built ata time when delirious crowds used to swoon on the dock if an ocean linerbroke the record by getting across in nine days. It rolled over toCherbourg, dallied at that picturesque port for some hours, thensauntered across the Channel and strolled into Southampton Water in theevening of the day on which Samuel Marlowe had sat in the lane plottingwith Webster, the valet. At almost the exact moment when Sam, sidlingthrough the windows of the drawing-room, slid into the cupboard behindthe piano, Mrs. Hignett was standing at the Customs barrier telling theofficials that she had nothing to declare.
Mrs. Hignett was a general who believed in forced marches. A lesserwoman might have taken the boat-train to London and proceeded to Windlesat her ease on the following afternoon. Mrs. Hignett was made of sternerstuff. Having fortified herself with a late dinner, she hired a car andset out on the cross-country journey. It was only when the car, agenuine antique, had broken down three times in the first ten miles,that she directed the driver to take her instead to the "Blue Boar" inWindlehurst, where she arrived, tired but thankful to have reached it atall, at about eleven o'clock.
At this point many, indeed most, women would have gone to bed; but thefamiliar Hampshire air and the knowledge that half an hour's walkingwould take her to her beloved home acted on Mrs. Hignett like arestorative. One glimpse of Windles she felt that she must have beforeshe retired for the night, if only to assure herself that it was stillthere. She had a cup of coffee and a sandwich brought to her by thenight-porter whom she had roused from sleep, for bedtime is early inWindlehurst, and then informed him that she was going for a short walkand would ring when she returned.
Her heart leaped joyfully as she turned in at the drive gates of herhome and felt the well-remembered gravel crunching under her feet. Thesilhouette of the ruined castle against the summer sky gave her thefeeling which all returning wanderers know. And, when she stepped on tothe lawn and looked at the black bulk of the house, indistinct andshadowy with its backing of trees, tears came into her eyes. Sheexperienced a rush of emotion which made her feel quite faint, and whichlasted until, on tiptoeing nearer to the house in order to gloat moreadequately upon it, she perceived that the French windows of thedrawing-room were standing ajar. Sam had left them like this in order tofacilitate departure, if a hurried departure should by any mischance berendered necessary, and drawn curtains had kept the household fromnoticing the fact.
All the proprietor in Mrs. Hignett was roused. This, she feltindignantly, was the sort of thing she had been afraid would happen themoment her back was turned. Evidently laxity--one might almost sayanarchy--had set in directly she had removed the eye of authority. Shemarched to the window and pushed it open. She had now completelyabandoned her kindly scheme of refraining from rousing the sleepinghouse and spending the night at the inn. She stepped into thedrawing-room with the single-minded purpose of routing Eustace out ofhis sleep and giving him a good talking-to for having failed tomaintain her own standard of efficiency among the domestic staff. Ifthere was one thing on which Mrs. Horace Hignett had always insisted itwas 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 whichmade her resolute heart jump and flutter. It was too dark to seeanything distinctly, but, in the instant before it turned and fled, shecaught sight of a shadowy male figure, and knew that her worst fears hadbeen realised. The figure was too tall to be Eustace, and Eustace, sheknew, was the only man in the house. Male figures, therefore, that wentflitting about Windles, must be the figures of burglars.
Mrs. Hignett, bold woman though she was, stood for an instantspell-bound, and for one moment of not unpardonable panic tried to tellherself that she had been mistaken. Almost immediately, however, therecame from the direction of the hall a dull chunky sound as thoughsomething soft had been kicked, followed by a low gurgle and the noiseof staggering feet. Unless he were dancing a _pas seul_ out of sheerlightness of heart, the nocturnal visitor must have tripped oversomething.
The latter theory was the correct one. Montagu Webster was a man who, atmany a subscription ball, had shaken a gifted dancing-pump, and nothingin the proper circumstances pleased him better than to exercise theskill which had become his as the result of twelve private lessons athalf-a-crown a visit; but he recognised the truth of the scripturaladage that there is a time for dancing, and that this was not it. Hisonly desire when, stealing into the drawing-room he had been confrontedthrough the curtains by a female figure, was to get back to his bedroomundetected. He supposed that one of the feminine members of thehouse-party must have been taking a stroll in the grounds, and he didnot wish to stay and be compelled to make laborious explanations of hispresence there in the dark. He decided to postpone the knocking on thecupboard door, which had been the signal arrange
d between himself andSam, until a more suitable occasion. In the meantime he bounded silentlyout into the hall, and instantaneously tripped over the portly form ofSmith, the bulldog, who, roused from a light sleep to the knowledge thatsomething was going on, and being a dog who always liked to be in thecentre of the maelstrom of events, had waddled out to investigate.
By the time Mrs. Hignett had pulled herself together sufficiently tofeel brave enough to venture into the hall, Webster's presence of mindand Smith's gregariousness had combined to restore that part of thehouse to its normal nocturnal condition of emptiness. Webster's staggerhad carried him almost up to the green baize door leading to theservants' staircase, and he proceeded to pass through it withoutchecking his momentum, closely followed by Smith who, now convinced thatinteresting events were in progress which might possibly culminate incake, had abandoned the idea of sleep, and meant to see the thingthrough. He gambolled in Webster's wake up the stairs and along thepassage leading to the latter's room, and only paused when the door wasbrusquely shut in his face. Upon which he sat down to think the thingover. He was in no hurry. The night was before him, promising, as far ashe could judge from the way it had opened, excellent entertainment.
Mrs. Hignett had listened fearfully to the uncouth noises from the hall.The burglars--she had now discovered that there were at least two ofthem--appeared to be actually romping. The situation had grown beyondher handling. If this troupe of terpsichorean marauders was to bedislodged she must have assistance. It was man's work. She made a bravedash through the hall mercifully unmolested; found the stairs; raced upthem; and fell through the doorway of her son Eustace's bedroom like aspent Marathon runner staggering past the winning-post.
Sec. 2
At about the moment when Mrs. Hignett was crunching the gravel of thedrive, Eustace was lying in bed, listening to Jane Hubbard as she toldthe story of how an alligator had once got into her tent while she wascamping on the banks of the Issawassi River in Central Africa. Eversince he had become ill, it had been the large-hearted girl's kindlypractice to soothe him to rest with some such narrative from herenergetic past.
"And what happened then?" asked Eustace, breathlessly.
He had raised himself on one elbow in his bed. His eyes shone excitedlyfrom a face which was almost the exact shape of an Association football;for he had reached the stage of mumps when the patient begins to swellas though somebody were inflating him with a bicycle-pump.
"Oh, I jabbed him in the eye with a pair of nail-scissors, and he wentaway!" said Jane Hubbard.
"You know, you're wonderful!" cried Eustace. "Simply wonderful!"
Jane Hubbard flushed a little beneath her tan. She loved his prettyenthusiasm. He was so genuinely stirred by what were to her the merestcommonplaces of life.
"Why, if an alligator got into _my_ tent," said Eustace, "I simplywouldn't know what to do! I should be nonplussed."
"Oh, it's just a knack," said Jane, carelessly. "You soon pick it up."
"Nail-scissors!"
"It ruined them, unfortunately. They were never any use again. For therest of the trip I had to manicure myself with a hunting-spear."
"You're a marvel!"
Eustace lay back in bed and gave himself up to meditation. He hadadmired Jane Hubbard before, but the intimacy of the sick-room and thestories which she had told him to relieve the tedium of his invalidstate had set the seal on his devotion. It has always been like thissince Othello wooed Desdemona. For three days Jane Hubbard had beenweaving her spell about Eustace Hignett, and now she monopolised hisentire horizon. She had spoken, like Othello, of antres vast and desertsidle, rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touched heaven, and ofthe cannibals that each other eat, the Anthropophagi, and men whoseheads do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear would EustaceHignett seriously incline, and swore, in faith, 'twas strange, 'twaspassing strange, 'twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful. He loved her forthe dangers she had passed, and she loved him that he did pity them. Infact, one would have said that it was all over except buying thelicence, had it not been for the fact that his very admiration served tokeep Eustace from pouring out his heart. It seemed incredible to himthat the queen of her sex, a girl who had chatted in terms of equalitywith African head-hunters and who swatted alligators as though they wereflies, could ever lower herself to care for a man who looked like the"after-taking" advertisement of a patent food.
But even those whom Nature has destined to be mates may misunderstandeach other, and Jane, who was as modest as she was brave, had comerecently to place a different interpretation on his silence. In the lastfew days of the voyage she had quite made up her mind that EustaceHignett loved her and would shortly intimate as much in the usualmanner; but, since coming to Windles, she had begun to have doubts. Shewas not blind to the fact that Billie Bennett was distinctly prettierthan herself and far more the type to which the ordinary man isattracted. And, much as she loathed the weakness and despised herselffor yielding to it, she had become distinctly jealous of her. True,Billie was officially engaged to Bream Mortimer, but she had hadexperience of the brittleness of Miss Bennett's engagements, and shecould by no means regard Eustace as immune.
"Do you suppose they will be happy?" she asked.
"Eh? Who?" said Eustace, excusably puzzled, for they had only justfinished talking about alligators. But there had been a pause since hislast remark, and Jane's thoughts had flitted back to the subject thatusually occupied them.
"Billie and Bream Mortimer."
"Oh!" said Eustace. "Yes, I suppose so."
"She's a delightful girl."
"Yes," said Eustace without much animation.
"And, of course, it's nice their fathers being so keen on the match. Itdoesn't often happen that way."
"No. People's people generally want people to marry people people don'twant to marry," said Eustace, clothing in words a profound truth whichfrom the earliest days of civilisation has deeply affected the youth ofevery country.
"I suppose your mother has got somebody picked out for you to marry?"said Jane casually.
"Mother doesn't want me to marry anybody," said Eustace with gloom. Itwas another obstacle to his romance.
"What, never?"
"No."
"Why ever not?"
"As far as I can make out, if I marry, I get this house and mother hasto clear out. Silly business!"
"Well, you wouldn't let your mother stand in the way if you ever reallyfell in love?" said Jane.
"It isn't so much a question of _letting_ her stand in the way. Thetough job would be preventing her. You've never met my mother!"
"No, I'm looking forward to it!"
"You're looking forward...!" Eustace eyed her with honest amazement.
"But what could your mother do? I mean, supposing you had made up yourmind to marry somebody."
"What could she do? Why, there isn't anything she wouldn't do. Why,once...." Eustace broke off. The anecdote which he had been about totell contained information which, on reflection, he did not wish toreveal.
"Once--...?" said Jane.
"Oh, well, I was just going to show you what mother is like. I--I wasgoing out to lunch with a man, and--and--" Eustace was not a readyimprovisator--"and she didn't want me to go, so she stole all mytrousers!"
Jane Hubbard started, as if, wandering through one of her favouritejungles, she had perceived a snake in her path. She was thinking hard.That story which Billie had told her on the boat about the man to whomshe had been engaged, whose mother had stolen his trousers on thewedding morning ... it all came back to her with a topical significancewhich it had never had before. It had lingered in her memory, as storieswill, but it had been a detached episode, having no personal meaning forher. But now.... "She did that just to stop you going out to lunch witha man?" she said slowly.
"Yes, rotten thing to do, wasn't it?"
Jane Hubbard moved to the foot of the bed, and her forceful gaze,shooting across the intervening counterpane, pinned Eustace to thepill
ow. She was in the mood which had caused spines in Somaliland tocurl like withered leaves.
"Were you ever engaged to Billie Bennett?" she demanded.
Eustace Hignett licked dry lips. His face looked like a hunted melon.The flannel bandage, draped around it by loving hands, hardly supportedhis sagging jaw.
"Why--er--"
"_Were_ you?" cried Jane, stamping an imperious foot. There was that inher eye before which warriors of the lower Congo had become as chewedblotting-paper. Eustace Hignett shrivelled in the blaze. He was filledwith an unendurable sense of guilt.
"Well--er--yes," he mumbled weakly.
Jane Hubbard buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. Shemight know what to do when alligators started exploring her tent, butshe was a woman.
This sudden solution of steely strength into liquid weakness had onEustace Hignett the stunning effects which the absence of the last stairhas on the returning reveller creeping up to bed in the dark. It was asthough his spiritual foot had come down hard on empty space and causedhim to bite his tongue. Jane Hubbard had always been to him a rock ofsupport. And now the rock had melted away and left him wallowing in adeep pool.
He wallowed gratefully. It had only needed this to brace him to thepoint of declaring his love. His awe of this girl had momentarilyvanished. He felt strong and dashing. He scrambled down the bed andpeered over the foot of it at her huddled form.
"Have some barley-water," he urged. "Try a little barley-water."
It was all he had to offer her except the medicine which, by thedoctor's instructions, he took three times a day in a quarter of a glassof water.
"Go away!" sobbed Jane Hubbard.
The unreasonableness of this struck Eustace.
"But I can't. I'm in bed. Where could I go?"
"I hate you!"
"Oh, don't say that!"
"You're still in love with her!"
"Nonsense! I never was in love with her."
"Then why were you going to marry her?"
"Oh, I don't know. It seemed a good idea at the time."
"Oh! Oh! Oh!"
Eustace bent a little further over the end of the bed and patted herhair.
"Do have some barley-water," he said. "Just a sip!"
"You _are_ in love with her!" sobbed Jane.
"I'm _not_! I love _you_!"
"You don't!"
"Pardon _me_!" said Eustace firmly. "I've loved you ever since you gaveme that extraordinary drink with Worcester sauce in it on the boat."
"They why didn't you say so before?"
"I hadn't the nerve. You always seemed so--I don't know how to put it--Ialways seemed such a worm. I was just trying to get the courage topropose when I caught the mumps, and that seemed to me to finish it. Nogirl could love a man with three times the proper amount of face."
"As if that could make any difference! What does your outside matter? Ihave seen your inside!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I mean...."
Eustace fondled her back hair.
"Jane! Queen of my soul! Do you really love me?"
"I've loved you ever since we met on the Subway." She raised atear-stained face. "If only I could be sure that you really loved me!"
"I can prove it!" said Eustace proudly. "You know how scared I am of mymother. Well, for your sake I overcame my fear, and did somethingwhich, if she ever found out about it, would make her sorer than asunburned neck! This house. She absolutely refused to let it to oldBennett and old Mortimer. They kept after her about it, but she wouldn'thear of it. Well, you told me on the boat that Wilhelmina Bennett hadinvited you to spend the summer with her, and I knew that, if theydidn't come to Windles, they would take some other place, and that meantI wouldn't see you. So I hunted up old Mortimer, and let it to him onthe quiet, without telling my mother anything about it!"
"Why, you darling angel child," cried Jane Hubbard joyfully. "Did youreally do that for my sake? Now I know you love me!"
"Of course, if mother ever got to hear of it...!"
Jane Hubbard pushed him gently into the nest of bedclothes, and tuckedhim in with strong, calm hands. She was a very different person from thegirl who so short a while before had sobbed on the carpet. Love is awonderful thing.
"You mustn't excite yourself," she said. "You'll be getting atemperature. Lie down and try to get to sleep." She kissed his bulbousface. "You have made me so happy, Eustace darling."
"That's good," said Eustace cordially. "But it's going to be an awfuljar for mother!"
"Don't you worry about that. I'll break the news to your mother. I'msure she will be quite reasonable about it."
Eustace opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.
"Lie back quite comfortably, and don't worry," said Jane Hubbard. "I'mgoing to my room to get a book to read you to sleep. I shan't be fiveminutes. And forget about your mother. I'll look after her."
Eustace closed his eyes. After all, this girl had fought lions, tigers,pumas, cannibals, and alligators in her time with a good deal ofsuccess. There might be a sporting chance of victory for her when shemoved a step up in the animal kingdom and tackled his mother. He was notunduly optimistic, for he thought she was going out of her class; but hefelt faintly hopeful. He allowed himself to drift into pleasantmeditation.
There was a scrambling sound outside the door. The handle turned.
"Hullo! Back already?" said Eustace, opening his eyes.
The next moment he opened them wider. His mouth gaped slowly like a holein a sliding cliff. Mrs. Horace Hignett was standing at his bedside.
Sec. 3
In the moment which elapsed before either of the two could calm theiragitated brains to speech, Eustace became aware, as never before, of thetruth of that well-known line--"Peace, perfect peace, with loved onesfar away." There was certainly little hope of peace with loved ones inhis bedroom. Dully, he realised that in a few minutes Jane Hubbardwould be returning with her book, but his imagination refused toenvisage the scene which would then occur.
"Eustace!"
Mrs. Hignett gasped, hand on heart.
"Eustace!" For the first time Mrs. Hignett seemed to become aware thatit was a changed face that confronted hers. "Good gracious! How stoutyou've grown!"
"It's mumps."
"Mumps!"
"Yes, I've got mumps."
Mrs. Hignett's mind was too fully occupied with other matters to allowher to dwell on this subject.
"Eustace, there are men in the house!"
This fact was just what Eustace had been wondering how to break to her.
"I know," he said uneasily.
"You know!" Mrs. Hignett stared. "Did you hear them?"
"Hear them?" said Eustace, puzzled.
"The drawing-room window was left open, and there are two burglars inthe hall!"
"Oh, I say, no! That's rather rotten!" said Eustace.
"I saw them and heard them! I--oh!" Mrs. Hignett's sentence trailed offinto a suppressed shriek, as the door opened and Jane Hubbard came in.
Jane Hubbard was a girl who by nature and training was well adapted tobear shocks. Her guiding motto in life was that helpful line ofHorace--_Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem_. (For thebenefit of those who have not, like myself, enjoyed an expensiveclassical education,--memento--Take mytip--servare--preserve--aequam--an unruffled--mentem--mind--rebus inarduis--in every crisis). She had only been out of the room a fewminutes, and in that brief period a middle-aged lady of commandingaspect had apparently come up through a trap. It would have been enoughto upset most girls, but Jane Hubbard bore it calmly. All through hervivid life her bedroom had been a sort of cosy corner for murderers,alligators, tarantulas, scorpions, and every variety of snake, so sheaccepted the middle-aged lady without comment.
"Good evening," she said placidly.
Mrs. Hignett, having rallied from her moment of weakness, glared at thenew arrival dumbly. She could not place Jane. From the airy way in whichshe had strolled into the room, s
he appeared to be some sort of a nurse;but she wore no nurse's uniform.
"Who are you?" she asked stiffly.
"Who are _you_?" asked Jane.
"I," said Mrs. Hignett portentously, "am the owner of this house, and Ishould be glad to know what you are doing in it. I am Mrs. HoraceHignett."
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?" said Mrs. Hignett coldly. "And now I should like to hear alittle about you."
"I've read all your books," said Jane. "I think they're wonderful."
In spite of herself, in spite of a feeling that this young woman wasstraying from the point, Mrs. Hignett could not check a slight influx ofamiability. She was an authoress who received a good deal of incensefrom admirers, but she could always do with a bit more. Besides, most ofthe incense came by post. Living a quiet and retired life in thecountry, it was rarely that she got it handed to her face to face. Shemelted quite perceptibly. She did not cease to look like a basilisk, butshe began to look like a basilisk who has had a good lunch.
"My favourite," said Jane, who for a week had been sitting daily in achair in the drawing-room adjoining the table on which the authoress'scomplete works were assembled, "is 'The Spreading Light.' I _do_ like'The Spreading Light!'"
"It was written some years ago," said Mrs. Hignett with somethingapproaching cordiality, "and I have since revised some of the views Istate 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," saidJane. "But I read 'The Spreading Light' first, and of course that makesa difference."
"I can quite see that it would," agreed Mrs. Hignett. "One's first stepacross the threshold of a new mind, one's first glimpse...."
"Yes, it makes you feel...."
"Like some watcher of the skies," said Mrs. Hignett, "when a new planetswims into his ken, or like...."
"Yes, doesn't it!" said Jane.
Eustace, who had been listening to the conversation with every muscletense, in much the same mental attitude as that of a peaceful citizen ina Wild West Saloon who holds himself in readiness to dive under a tabledirectly the shooting begins, began to relax. What he had shrinkinglyanticipated would be the biggest thing since the Dempsey-Carpentierfight seemed to be turning into a pleasant social and literary eveningnot unlike what he imagined a meeting of old Girton students must be.For the first time since his mother had come into the room he indulgedin the luxury of a deep breath.
"But what are you doing here?" asked Mrs. Hignett, returning almostreluctantly to the main issue.
Eustace perceived that he had breathed too soon. In an unobtrusive wayhe subsided into the bed and softly pulled the sheets over his head,following the excellent tactics of the great Duke of Wellington in hisPeninsular campaign. "When in doubt," the Duke used to say, "retire anddig yourself in."
"I'm nursing dear Eustace," said Jane.
Mrs. Hignett quivered, and cast an eye on the hump in the bedclotheswhich represented dear Eustace. A cold fear had come upon her.
"'Dear Eustace!'" she repeated mechanically.
"We're engaged," said Jane.
"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." Shewent on quickly. "He doesn't want to deprive you of it, because he knowswhat it means to you. So he is hoping--we are both hoping--that you willaccept 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'tyou--to please us?"
We all of us, even the greatest of us, have our moments of weakness.Only a short while back, in this very room, we have seen Jane Hubbard,that indomitable girl, sobbing brokenly on the carpet. Let us then notexpress any surprise at the sudden collapse of one of the world'sgreatest female thinkers. As the meaning of this speech smote on Mrs.Horace Hignett's understanding, she sank weeping into a chair. Theever-present fear that had haunted her had been exorcised. Windles washers in perpetuity. The relief was too great. She sat in her chair andgulped; and Eustace, greatly encouraged, emerged slowly from thebedclothes like a worm after a thunderstorm.
How long this poignant scene would have lasted, one cannot say. It is apity that it was cut short, for I should have liked to dwell upon it.But at this moment, from the regions downstairs, there suddenly burstupon the silent night such a whirlwind of sound as effectuallydissipated the tense emotion in the room. Somebody appeared to havetouched off the orchestrion in the drawing-room, and that willinginstrument had begun again in the middle of a bar at the point whereJane Hubbard had switched it off four afternoons ago. Its wailing lamentfor the passing of Summer filled the whole house.
"That's too bad!" said Jane, a little annoyed. "At this time of night!"
"It's the burglars!" quavered Mrs. Hignett. In the stress of recentevents she had completely forgotten the existence of those enemies ofSociety. "They were dancing in the hall when I arrived, and now they'replaying the orchestrion!"
"Light-hearted chaps!" said Eustace, admiring the sang-froid of thecriminal world. "Full of spirits!"
"This won't do," said Jane Hubbard, shaking her head. "We can't havethis sort of thing. I'll go and fetch my gun."
"They'll murder you, dear!" panted Mrs. Hignett, clinging to her arm.
Jane Hubbard laughed.
"Murder _me_!" she said amusedly. "I'd like to catch them at it!"
Mrs. Hignett stood staring at the door as Jane closed it softly behindher.
"Eustace," she said solemnly, "that is a wonderful girl!"
"Yes! She once killed a panther--or a puma, I forget which--with ahat-pin!" said Eustace with enthusiasm.
"I could wish you no better wife!" said Mrs. Hignett.
She broke off with a sharp wail. Out in the passage something like abattery of artillery had roared.
The door opened and Jane Hubbard appeared, slipping a fresh cartridgeinto the elephant-gun.
"One of them was popping about outside here," she announced. "I took ashot at him, but I'm afraid I missed. The visibility was bad. At anyrate he went away."
In this last statement she was perfectly accurate. Bream Mortimer, whohad been aroused by the orchestrion and who had come out to see what wasthe matter, had gone away at the rate of fifty miles an hour. He hadbeen creeping down the passage when he found himself suddenly confrontedby a dim figure which, without a word, had attempted to slay him with anenormous gun. The shot had whistled past his ears and gone singing downthe corridor. This was enough for Bream. He had returned to his room inthree strides, and was now under the bed. The burglars might takeeverything in the house and welcome, so that they did not molest hisprivacy. That was the way Bream looked at it. And very sensible of him,too, I consider.
"We'd better go downstairs," said Jane. "Bring the candle. Not you,Eustace darling. You stay where you are or you may catch a chill. Don'tstir out of bed!"
"I won't," said Eustace obediently.
Sec. 4
Of all the leisured pursuits, there are few less attractive to thethinking man than sitting in a dark cupboard waiting for a house-partyto go to bed; and Sam, who had established himself in the one behind thepiano at a quarter to eight, soon began to feel as if he had been therefor an eternity. He could dimly remember a previous existence in whichhe had not been sitting in his present position, but it seemed so longago that it was shadowy and unreal to him. The ordeal of spending theevening in this retreat had not appeared formidable when he hadcontemplated it that afternoon in the lane; but, now that he wasactually undergoing it, it was extraordinary how many disadvantages ithad.
Cupboards, as a class, are badly ventilated, and this one seemed tocontain no air at all; and the warmth of the night, combined with thecupboard's natural stuffiness, had soon begun to reduce Sam to acondition of pulp. He seemed to himself t
o be sagging like an ice-creamin front of a fire. The darkness, too, weighed upon him. He wasabominably thirsty. Also he wanted to smoke. In addition to this, thesmall of his back tickled, and he more than suspected the cupboard ofharbouring mice. Not once or twice but many hundred times he wished thatthe ingenious Webster had thought of something simpler.
His was a position which would just have suited one of those Indianmystics who sit perfectly still for twenty years, contemplating theInfinite, but it reduced Sam to an almost imbecile state of boredom. Hetried counting sheep. He tried going over his past life in his mind fromthe earliest moment he could recollect, and thought he had neverencountered a duller series of episodes. He found a temporary solace byplaying a succession of mental golf-games over all the courses he couldremember, and he was just teeing up for the sixteenth at Muirfield,after playing Hoylake, St. Andrew's, Westward Ho, Hanger Hill,Mid-Surrey, Walton Heath, and Sandwich, when the light ceased to shinethrough the crack under the door, and he awoke with a sense of dullincredulity to the realisation that the occupants of the drawing-roomhad called it a day and that his vigil was over.
But was it? Once more alert, Sam became cautious. True, the light seemedto be off, but did that mean anything in a country-house, where peoplehad the habit of going and strolling about the garden to all hours?Probably they were still popping about all over the place. At any rate,it was not worth risking coming out of his lair. He remembered thatWebster had promised to come and knock an all-clear signal on the door.It would be safer to wait for that.
But the moments went by, and there was no knock. Sam began to growimpatient. The last few minutes of waiting in a cupboard are always thehardest. Time seemed to stretch out again interminably. Once he thoughthe heard footsteps but they led to nothing. Eventually, having strainedhis ears and finding everything still, he decided to take a chance. Hefished in his pocket for the key, cautiously unlocked the door, openedit by slow inches, and peered out.
The room was in blackness. The house was still. All was well. With thefeeling of a life-prisoner emerging from the Bastille, he began to crawlstiffly forward; and it was just then that the first of the disturbingevents occurred which were to make this night memorable to him.Something like a rattlesnake suddenly went off with a whirr, and hishead, 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 withanother rattle; but to Sam it sounded like the end of the world.
He sat in the darkness, massaging his bruised skull. His hours ofimprisonment in the cupboard had had a bad effect on his nervous system,and he vacillated between tears of weakness and a militant desire to getat the cuckoo-clock with a hatchet. He felt that it had done it onpurpose and was now chuckling to itself in fancied security. For quite aminute he raged silently, and any cuckoo-clock which had strayed withinhis reach would have had a bad time of it. Then his attention wasdiverted.
So concentrated was Sam on his private vendetta with the clock that noordinary happening would have had the power to distract him. Whatoccurred now was by no means ordinary, and it distracted him like anelectric shock. As he sat on the floor, passing a tender hand over theegg-shaped bump which had already begun to manifest itself beneath hishair, something cold and wet touched his face, and paralysed him socompletely both physically and mentally that he did not move a musclebut just congealed where he sat into a solid block of ice. He feltvaguely that this was the end. His heart had stopped beating and hesimply could not imagine it ever starting again, and, if your heartrefuses to beat, what hope is there for you?
At this moment something heavy and solid struck him squarely in thechest, rolling him over. Something gurgled asthmatically in thedarkness. Something began to lick his eyes, ears, and chin in a sort ofecstasy; and, clutching out, he found his arms full of totallyunexpected bulldog.
"Get out!" whispered Sam tensely, recovering his faculties with a jerk."Go away!"
Smith took the opportunity of Sam's lips having opened to lick the roofof his mouth. Smith's attitude in the matter was that Providence in itsall-seeing wisdom had sent him a human being at a moment when he hadreluctantly been compelled to reconcile himself to a total absence ofsuch indispensable adjuncts to a good time. He had just trotteddownstairs in rather a disconsolate frame of mind after waiting with noresult in front of Webster's bedroom door, and it was a real treat tohim to meet a man, especially one seated in such a jolly and sociablemanner on the floor. He welcomed Sam like a long-lost friend.
Between Smith and the humans who provided him with dog-biscuits andoccasionally with sweet cakes there had always existed a state ofmisunderstanding which no words could remove. The position of the humanswas quite clear; they had elected Smith to his present position on astraight watch-dog ticket. They expected him to be one of those dogs whorouse the house and save the spoons. They looked to him to pin burglarsby the leg and hold on till the police arrived. Smith simply could notgrasp such an attitude of mind. He regarded Windles not as a privatehouse but as a social club, and was utterly unable to see any differencebetween the human beings he knew and the strangers who dropped in for alate chat after the place was locked up. He had no intention of bitingSam. The idea never entered his head. At the present moment what he feltabout Sam was that he was one of the best fellows he had ever met andthat he loved him like a brother.
Sam, in his unnerved state, could not bring himself to share theseamiable sentiments. He was thinking bitterly that Webster might have hadthe intelligence to warn him of bulldogs on the premises. It was justthe sort of woollen-headed thing fellows did, forgetting facts likethat. He scrambled stiffly to his feet and tried to pierce the darknessthat hemmed him in. He ignored Smith, who snuffled sportively about hisankles, and made for the slightly less black oblong which he took to bethe door leading into the hall. He moved warily, but not warily enoughto prevent his cannoning into and almost upsetting a small table with avase on it. The table rocked and the vase jumped, and the first bit ofluck that had come to Sam that night was when he reached out at aventure and caught 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 loudenough to wake a dozen sleeping houses. This sort of thing could not goon. He must have light. It might be a risk; there might be a chance ofsomebody upstairs seeing it and coming down to investigate; but it was arisk that must be taken. He declined to go on stumbling about in thisdarkness any longer. He groped his way with infinite care to the door,on the wall adjoining which, he presumed, the electric-light switchwould be. It was nearly ten years since he had last been inside Windles,and it never occurred to him that in this progressive age even a womanlike his Aunt Adeline, of whom he could believe almost anything, wouldstill be using candles and oil-lamps as a means of illumination. Hisonly doubt was whether the switch was where it was in most houses, nearthe door.
It is odd to reflect that, as his searching fingers touched the knob, adelicious feeling of relief came to Samuel Marlowe. This misguided youngman actually felt at that moment that his troubles were over. Hepositively smiled as he placed a thumb on the knob and shoved.
He shoved strongly and sharply, and instantaneously there leaped at himout of the darkness a blare of music which appeared to his disorderedmind quite solid. It seemed to wrap itself round him. It was all overthe place. In a single instant the world had become one vast bellow ofTosti's "Good-bye."
How long he stood there, frozen, he did not know; nor can one say howlong he would have stood there had nothing further come to invite hisnotice elsewhere. But, suddenly, drowning even the impromptu concert,there came from somewhere upstairs the roar of a gun; and, when he heardthat, Sam's rigid limbs relaxed and a violent activity descended uponhim. He bounded out into the hall, looking to right and to left for ahiding-place. One of the suits of armour which had been familiar to himin his boyhood
loomed up in front of him, and with the sight came therecollection of how, when a mere child on his first visit to Windles,playing hide and seek with his cousin Eustace, he had concealed himselfinside this very suit, and had not only baffled Eustace through a longsummer evening but had wound up by almost scaring him into a decline bybooing at him through the vizor of the helmet. Happy days, happy days!He leaped at the suit of armour. Having grown since he was last insideit, he found the helmet a tight fit, but he managed to get his head intoit 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 bulldog, well satisfied with the way the entertainment hadopened, sat down, wheezing slightly, to await developments.
Sec. 5
He had not long to wait. In a few minutes the hall had filled up nicely.There was Mr. Mortimer in his shirt-sleeves, Mr. Bennett in blue pyjamasand a dressing-gown, Mrs. Hignett in a travelling costume, Jane Hubbardwith her elephant-gun, and Billie in a dinner dress. Smith welcomed themall impartially.
Somebody lit a lamp, and Mrs. Hignett stared speechlessly at the mob.
"Mr. Bennett! Mr. Mortimer!"
"Mrs. Hignett! 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 rented it to me for the summer. At least, your son did."
"Eustace let you Windles for the summer!" said Mrs. Hignettincredulously.
Jane Hubbard returned from the drawing-room, where she had beenswitching off the orchestrion.
"Let us talk all that over cosily to-morrow," she said. "The point nowis that there are burglars in the house."
"Burglars!" cried Mr. Bennett aghast. "I thought it was you playing thatinfernal instrument, Mortimer."
"What on earth should I play it for at this time of night?" said Mr.Mortimer irritably.
"It woke me up," said Mr. Bennett complainingly. "And I had had greatdifficulty in dropping off to sleep. I was in considerable pain. Ibelieve I've caught the mumps from young Hignett."
"Nonsense! You're always imagining yourself ill," snapped Mr. Mortimer.
"My face hurts," persisted Mr. Bennett.
"You can't expect a face like that not to hurt," said Mr. Mortimer.
It appeared only too evident that the two old friends were again on theverge of one of their distressing fallings-out; but Jane Hubbardintervened once more. This practical-minded girl disliked theintroducing of side-issues into the conversation. She was there to talkabout burglars, and she intended to do so.
"For goodness sake stop it!" she said, almost petulantly for one usuallyso superior to emotion. "There'll be lots of time for quarrellingto-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!"
"You are!"
"Don't argue!"
"I'm not arguing!"
"You are!"
"I'm not!"
Jane Hubbard had practically every noble quality which a woman canpossess with the exception of patience. A patient woman would have stoodby, shrinking from interrupting the dialogue. Jane Hubbard's robustercourse was to raise the elephant-gun, point it at the front door, andpull the trigger.
"I thought that would stop you," she said complacently, as the echoesdied away and Mr. Bennett had finished leaping into the air. Sheinserted a fresh cartridge, and sloped arms. "Now, the question is...."
"You made me bite my tongue!" said Mr. Bennett, deeply aggrieved.
"Serve you right!" said Jane placidly. "Now, the question is, have thefellows got away or are they hiding somewhere in the house? I thinkthey're still in the house."
"The police!" exclaimed Mr. Bennett, forgetting his lacerated tongue andhis other grievances. "We must summon the police!"
"Obviously!" said Mrs. Hignett, withdrawing her fascinated gaze from theragged hole in the front door, the cost of repairing which she had beenmentally assessing. "We must send for the police at once."
"We don't really need them, you know," said Jane. "If you'll all go tobed and just leave me to potter round with my gun...."
"And blow the whole house to pieces!" said Mrs. Hignett tartly. She hadbegun to revise her original estimate of this girl. To her, Windles wassacred, and anyone who went about shooting holes in it forfeited heresteem.
"Shall I go for the police?" said Billie. "I could bring them back inten minutes in the car."
"Certainly not!" said Mr. Bennett. "My daughter gadding about all overthe countryside in an automobile at this time of night!"
"If you think 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 presenteditself to the company.
"Where can he be?" said Billie.
Jane Hubbard laughed the wholesome, indulgent laugh of one who isbroad-minded enough to see the humour of the situation even when thejoke is at her expense.
"What a silly girl I am!" she said. "I do believe that was Bream I shotat 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. Thoughhow I came to do it beats me. I don't suppose I've missed a sitter likethat since I was a child in the nursery. Of course," she proceeded,looking on the reasonable side, "the visibility wasn't good, but it's nouse saying I oughtn't at least to have winged him, because I ought." Sheshook her head with a touch of self-reproach. "I shall get chaffed aboutthis if it comes out," she said regretfully.
"The poor boy must be in his room," said Mr. Mortimer.
"Under the bed, if you ask me," said Jane, blowing on the barrel of hergun and polishing it with the side of her hand. "_He's_ all right! Leavehim 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 wasengaged to marry should be displaying such a craven spirit. At thatmoment she despised and hated Bream Mortimer. I think she was wrong,mind you. It is not my place to criticise the little group of peoplewhose simple annals I am relating--my position is merely that of areporter--; but personally I think highly of Bream's sturdycommon-sense. If somebody loosed off an elephant-gun at me in a darkcorridor, 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 hermind that Samuel Marlowe, scoundrel though he was, would not havebehaved like this. And for a moment a certain wistfulness added itselfto the varied emotions then engaging her mind.
"I'll go and look, if you like," said Jane agreeably. "You amuseyourselves somehow till I come back."
She ran easily up the stairs, three at a time. Mr. Mortimer turned toMr. Bennett.
"It's all very well your saying Wilhelmina mustn't go, but, if shedoesn't, how can we get the police? The house isn't on the 'phone, andnobody else can drive the car."
"That's true," said Mr. Bennett, wavering.
"Of course, we could drop them a post-card first thing to-morrowmorning," said Mr. Mortimer in his nasty sarcastic way.
"I'm going," said Billie resolutely. It occurred to her, as it hasoccurred to so many women before her, how helpless men are in a crisis.The temporary withdrawal of Jane Hubbard had had the effect which theremoval of the rudder has on a boat. "It's the only thing to do. I shallbe back in no time."
She stepped firmly to the coat-rack, and began to put on hermotoring-cloak. And just then Jane Hubbard came downstairs, shepherdingbefore her a pale and glassy-eyed Bream.
"Right under the bed," she announced cheerfully, "making a noise like apiece of fluff in order to deceive burglars."
Billie cast a scornful look at her fiance. Absolutely unjustified, i
n myopinion, but nevertheless she cast it. But it had no effect at all.Terror had stunned Bream Mortimer's perceptions. His was what thedoctors call a penumbral mental condition.
"Bream," said Billie, "I want you to come in the car with me to fetchthe police."
"All right," said Bream.
"Get your coat."
"All right," said Bream.
"And cap."
"All right," said Bream.
He followed Billie in a docile manner out through the front door, andthey made their way to the garage at the back of the house, bothsilent. The only difference between their respective silences was thatBillie's was thoughtful, while Bream's was just the silence of a man whohas unhitched his brain and is getting along as well as he can withoutit.
In the hall they had left, Jane Hubbard once more took command ofaffairs.
"Well, that's something done," she said, scratching Smith's broad backwith the muzzle of her weapon. "Something accomplished, something done,has earned a night's repose. Not that we're going to get it yet. I thinkthose fellows are hiding somewhere, and we ought to search the house androut them out. It's a pity Smith isn't a bloodhound. He's a goodcake-hound, but as a watch-dog he doesn't finish in the first ten."
The cake-hound, charmed at the compliment, frisked about her feet like ayoung elephant.
"The first thing to do," continued Jane, "is to go through theground-floor rooms...." She paused to strike a match against the suit ofarmour nearest to her, a proceeding which elicited a sharp cry ofprotest from Mrs. Hignett, and lit a cigarette. "I'll go first, as I'vegot a gun...." She blew a cloud of smoke. "I shall want somebody with meto carry a light, and...."
"Tchoo!"
"What?" said Jane.
"I didn't speak," said Mr. Mortimer. "Who am I to speak?" he went onbitterly. "Who am I that it should be supposed that I have anythingsensible to suggest?"
"Somebody spoke," said Jane. "I...."
"Achoo!"
"Do you feel a draught, Mr. Bennett?" cried Jane sharply, wheeling roundon 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 thereisn't anything behind me from which it could have...." She stoppedsuddenly, in her eyes the light of understanding, on her face the setexpression which was wont to come to it on the eve of action. "Oh!" shesaid in a different voice, a voice which was cold and tense andsinister. "Oh, I see!" She raised her gun, and placed a muscularforefinger on the trigger. "Come out of that!" she said. "Come out ofthat suit of armour and let's have a look at you!"
"I can explain everything," said a muffled voice through the vizor ofthe helmet. "I can--_achoo_!" The smoke of the cigarette tickled Sam'snostrils again, and he suspended his remarks.
"I shall count 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 into the hall, a picturesque figure which combined thecostumes of two widely separated centuries. Modern as far as the neck,he slipped back at that point to the Middle Ages.
"Hands up!" commanded Jane Hubbard.
"My hands _are_ up!" retorted Sam querulously, as he wrenched at hisunbecoming head-wear.
"Never mind trying to raise your hat," said Jane. "If you've lost thecombination, we'll dispense with the formalities. What we're anxious tohear is what you're doing in the house at this time of night, and whoyour pals are. Come along, my lad, make a clean breast of it and perhapsyou'll get off easier. Are you a gang?"
"Do I look like a gang?"
"If you ask me what you look like...."
"My name is Marlowe ... Samuel Marlowe...."
"Alias what?"
"Alias nothing! 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?" saidMrs. 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 knowthis 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! Idecline to have anything to do with him!"
"But you identify him?"
"If he says he's Samuel Marlowe," assented Mr. Bennett grudgingly, "Isuppose he is. I can't imagine anybody saying he was Samuel Marlowe ifhe didn't know it could 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'sand mine. Isn't that right, Henry?"
"Dead right," said Mr. Mortimer.
"There!" said Mr. Bennett. "You hear? And when Henry Mortimer says athing, it's so. There's nobody's word I'd take before Henry Mortimer's."
"When Rufus Bennett makes an assertion," said Mr. Mortimer, highlyflattered by these kind words, "you can bank on it. Rufus Bennett's wordis his bond. Rufus Bennett is a white man!"
The two old friends, reconciled once more, clasped hands with a gooddeal of feeling.
"I am not disputing Mr. Bennett's claim to belong to the Caucasianrace," said Mrs. Hignett testily. "I merely maintain that this house ism...."
"Yes, yes, yes, yes!" interrupted Jane. "You can thresh all that outsome other time. The point is, if this fellow is your nephew, I don'tsee what we can do. We'll have to let him go."
"I came to this house," said Sam, raising his vizor to facilitatespeech, "to make a social call...."
"At this hour of the night!" snapped Mrs. Hignett. "You always were aninconsiderate boy, Samuel."
"I came to inquire after poor Eustace's mumps. I've only just heard thatthe poor chap was ill."
"He's getting along quite well," said Jane, melting. "If I had known youwere so fond of Eustace...."
"All right, is he?" said Sam.
"Well, not quite 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 thoseJohnnies in the old days ever contrived to put up a scrap with thingslike this on their heads beats me--but you sound a good sort. I hopeyou'll be very happy."
"Thank you ever so much, Mr. Marlowe. I'm sure we shall."
"Eustace is one of the best."
"How nice of you to say so."
"All this," interrupted Mrs. Hignett, who had been a chaffing auditor ofthis interchange of courtesies, "is beside the point. Why did you dancein the hall, Samuel, 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, "lamentablylacking in consideration for others and concentrated only on yourselfish pleasures. You seem to have altered very little."
"Don't ballyrag the poor man," said Jane Hubbard. "Be human! Lend him asardine opener!"
"I shall do nothing of the sort," said Mrs. Hignett. "I never liked himand I dislike him now. He has got himself into this trouble through hisown 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 trespassfurther on your hospitality, Aunt Adeline. I have no doubt the localblacksmith wil
l be able to get this damned thing off me. I shall go tohim now. I will let you have the helmet back by parcel-post at theearliest opportunity. Good-night!" He walked coldly to the front door."And there are people," he remarked sardonically, "who say that blood isthicker than water! I'll bet they never had any aunts!"
He tripped over the mat and withdrew.
Sec. 6
Billie meanwhile, with Bream trotting docilely at her heels, had reachedthe garage and started the car. Like all cars which have been spending aconsiderable time in secluded inaction, it did not start readily. Ateach application of Billie's foot on the self-starter, it emitted atinny and reproachful sound and then seemed to go to sleep again.Eventually, however, the engines began to revolve and the machine movedreluctantly out into the drive.
"The battery must be run down," said Billie.
"All right," said Bream.
Billie cast a glance of contempt at him out of the corner of her eyes.She hardly knew why she had spoken to him except that, as all motoristsare aware, the impulse to say rude things about their battery is almostirresistible. To a motorist the art of conversation consists in rappingout scathing remarks either about the battery or the oiling-system.
Billie switched on the head-lights and turned the car down the darkdrive. She was feeling thoroughly upset. Her idealistic nature hadreceived 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 greatbelt of saffron encircling his whole soul. That she, WilhelminaBennett, who had gone through the world seeking a Galahad, should finishher career as the wife of a man who hid under beds simply because peopleshot at him with elephant guns was abhorrent to her. Why, Samuel Marlowewould have perished rather than do such a thing. You might say what youliked about Samuel Marlowe--and, of course, his habit of playingpractical jokes put him beyond the pale--but nobody could question hiscourage. Look at the way he had dived overboard that time in the harbourat New York! Billie found herself thinking wistfully about SamuelMarlowe.
There are only a few makes of car in which you can think about anythingexcept the actual driving without stalling the engines, and Mr.Bennett's Twin-Six Complex was not one of them. It stopped as if it hadbeen waiting for the signal.... The noise of the engine died away. Thewheels ceased to revolve. The car did everything except lie down. It wasa particularly pig-headed car and right from the start it had beenunable to see the sense in this midnight expedition. It seemed now tohave the idea that if it just lay low and did nothing, presently itwould 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 cranking a car is one that is not given to all men. Some ofour greatest and wisest stand helpless before the task. It is a jobtowards the consummation of which a noble soul and a fine brain help notat all. A man may have all the other gifts and yet be unable toaccomplish a task which the fellow at the garage does with one quietflick of the wrist without even bothering to remove his chewing gum.This being so, it was not only unkind but foolish of Billie to growimpatient as Bream's repeated efforts failed of their object. It waswrong of her to click her tongue, and certainly she ought not to havetold Bream that he was not fit to churn butter. But women are anemotional sex and must be forgiven much in moments of mental stress.
"Give it a good sharp twist," she said.
"All right," said Bream.
"Here, let me do it," cried Billie.
She jumped down and snatched the thingummy from his hand. With bentbrows and set teeth she wrenched it round. The engine gave a faintprotesting mutter, like a dog that has been disturbed in its sleep, andwas still once more.
"May I help?"
It was not Bream who spoke but a strange voice--a sepulchral voice, thesort of voice someone would have used in one of Edgar Allen Poe'scheerful little tales if he had been buried alive and were speaking fromthe family vault. Coming suddenly out of the night it affected Breampainfully. He uttered a sharp exclamation and gave a bound which, if hehad been a Russian dancer would undoubtedly have caused the managementto raise his salary. He was in no frame of mind to bear up under suddensepulchral voices.
Billie, on the other hand, was pleased. The high-spirited girl was justbeginning to fear that she was unequal to the task which she had chidedBream for being unable to perform and this was mortifying her.
"Oh, would you mind? Thank you so much. The self-starter has gonewrong."
Into the glare of the headlights there stepped a strange figure,strange, that is to say, in these tame modern times. In the Middle Ageshe would have excited no comment at all. Passers by would simply havesaid to themselves, "Ah, another of those knights off after thedragons!" and would have gone on their way with a civil greeting. But inthe present age it is always somewhat startling to see a helmeted headpop up in front of your motor car. At any rate, it startled Bream. Iwill go further. It gave Bream the shock of a lifetime. He had hadshocks already that night, but none to be compared with this. Or perhapsit was that this shock, coming on top of those shocks, affected him moredisastrously than it would have done if it had been the first of theseries instead of the last. One may express the thing briefly by sayingthat, as far as Bream was concerned, Sam's unconventional appearance putthe lid on it. He did not hesitate. He did not pause to make commentsor ask questions. With a single cat-like screech which took years offthe lives of the abruptly wakened birds roosting in the neighbouringtrees, he dashed away towards the house and, reaching his room, lockedthe door and pushed the bed, the chest of drawers, two chairs, the towelstand, and three pairs of boots against it.
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 wouldstand no nonsense, set the engine going again.
"Why--why," she stammered, "why are you wearing that thing on yourhead?"
"Because I can't get it off."
Hollow as the voice was, Billie recognised it.
"S--Mr. Marlowe!" she exclaimed.
"Get in," said Sam. He had seated himself at the steering wheel. "Wherecan I take you?"
"Go away!" said Billie.
"Get in!"
"I don't want to talk to you."
"I want to talk to _you_! Get in!"
"I won't."
Sam bent over the side of the car, put his hands under her arms, liftedher like a kitten, and deposited her on the seat beside him. Thenthrowing in the clutch, he drove at an ever-increasing speed down thedrive and out into the silent road. Strange creatures of the night cameand went in the golden glow of the head-lights.
Sec. 7
"Put me down," said Billie.
"You'd get hurt 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!" said Sam.
The car took a corner and purred down a lane. Billie reached out a handand grabbed at the steering wheel.
"Of course, if you _want_ to smash up in a ditch!" said Sam, rightingthe car with a wrench.
"You're a brute!" said Billie.
"Caveman 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 you would be."
"I'm not going 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 ever been to Scotland?"
"What do you mean?"
"I thought we might push up there. We've got to go somewhere and, oddlyenough, I've never been to Scotland."
Billie regarded him blankly.
"Are you crazy?"
"I'm crazy about you. If you knew what I've gone through to-night foryour sake you'd be more sympathetic. I love you," said Sam, swerving toavoid a rabbit. "And what's more, you know it."
"I don't care."
"You will!" said Sam confidently. "How about North Wales? I've heardpeople 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!"
"Right off!" said Sam firmly. "You could never bring yourself to marry aman who dashed away like that and deserted you in your hour of need.Why, for all 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 exactly what Billie was feeling herself that she could notbring herself to dispute it.
"Anyway, I hate _you_!" she said, giving the conversation another turn.
"Why? In the name of goodness, why?"
"How dared you make a fool of me in your father's office that morning?"
"It was a sudden inspiration. I had to do something to make you thinkwell of me, and I thought it might meet the case if I saved you from alunatic with a pistol. It wasn't my fault that you found out."
"I shall never forgive you!"
"Why not Cornwall?" said Sam. "The Riviera of England! Let's go toCornwall. I beg your pardon. What were you saying?"
"I said I should never forgive you and I won't."
"Well, I hope you're fond of motoring," said Sam, "because we're goingon till you do."
"Very well! Go on, then!"
"I intend to. Of course, it's all right now while it's dark. But haveyou considered what is going to happen when the sun gets up? We shallhave a sort of triumphal procession. How the small boys will laugh whenthey see a man in a helmet go by in a car! I shan't notice them myselfbecause it's a little difficult to notice anything from inside thisthing, but I'm afraid it will be rather unpleasant for you.... I knowwhat we'll do. We'll go to London and drive up and down Piccadilly! Thatwill be fun!"
There was a long silence.
"Is my helmet on straight?" said Sam.
Billie made no reply. She was looking before her down the hedge-borderedroad. Always a girl of sudden impulses, she had just made a curiousdiscovery, to wit that she was enjoying herself. There was something sonovel and exhilarating about this midnight ride that imperceptibly herdismay and resentment had ebbed away. She found herself struggling witha desire to laugh.
"Lochinvar!" said Sam suddenly. "That's the name of the chap I've beentrying to think 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 very highly of him. I suppose in those days ahelmet was just an ordinary part of what the well-dressed man shouldwear. Odd how fashions change!"
Till now dignity and wrath combined had kept Billie from making anyinquiries into a matter which had excited in her a quite painfulcuriosity. 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'tsuppose I'm trying to set a new style in gents' head-wear, do you?"
"But why did you ever put it on?"
"Well, it was this way. After I came out of the cupboard in thedrawing-room...."
"What!"
"Didn't I tell you about that? Oh yes, I was sitting in the cupboard inthe drawing-room from dinner-time onwards. After that I came out andstarted cannoning about among Aunt Adeline's china, so I thought I'dbetter switch the light on. Unfortunately I switched on some sort ofmusical instrument instead. And then somebody started shooting. So, whatwith one thing and another, I thought it would be best to hidesomewhere. I hid in one of the suits of armour in the hall."
"Were you inside there all the time we were...?"
"Yes. I say, that was funny about Bream, wasn't it? Getting under thebed, 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'sget 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, perhaps not actually to see you." Sam was a little perplexed fora moment. Something told him that it would be injudicious to reveal histrue motive and thereby risk disturbing the harmony which he felt hadbegun to exist between them. "To be near you! To be in the same housewith you!" he went on vehemently feeling that he had struck the rightnote. "You don't know the anguish I went through after I read thatletter of yours. I was mad! I was ... well, to return to the point, willyou marry me?"
Billie sat looking straight before her. The car, now on the main road,moved smoothly on.
"Will you marry me?"
Billie rested her hand on her chin and searched the darkness withthoughtful eyes.
"Will you marry me?"
The car raced on.
"Will you marry me?" said Sam. "Will you marry me? Will you marry me?"
"Oh, don't talk like a parrot," cried Billie. "It reminds me of Bream."
"But will you?"
"Yes," said Billie.
Sam brought the car to a standstill with a jerk, probably very bad forthe tyres.
"Did you say 'yes'?"
"Yes!"
"Darling!" said Sam, leaning towards her. "Oh, curse this helmet!"
"Why?"
"Well, I rather 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 thefloor of the car and rubbing his smarting ears. "Billie!"
"Sam!"
"You angel!"
"You're rather a darling after all," said Billie. "But you want keepingin order," she added severely.
"You will do that when we're married. When we're married!" he repeatedluxuriously. "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 likemyself knows that, by going to Doctors' Commons or the Court of Archesor somewhere or by routing the Archbishop of Canterbury out of bed orsomething, you can get a special licence and be married almost beforeyou know where you are. My scheme--roughly--is to dig this speciallicence out of whoever keeps such things, have a bit of breakfast, andthen get married at our leisure before lunch at a registrar's."
"Oh, not a registrar's!" said Billie.
"No?"
"I should hate a registrar's."
"Very well, angel. Just as you say. We'll go to a church. There aremillions of churches in London. I've seen them all over the place." Hemused for a moment. "Yes, you're quite right," he said. "A church is thething. It'll please Webster."
"Webster?"
"Yes, he's rather keen on the church bells never having rung out soblithe a peal before. And we must consider Webster's feelings. Afterall, he brought us together."
"Webster? How?"
"Oh, I'll tell you all about that some other time," said Sam. "Just forthe moment 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 grumpilyas the noise of the engine disturbed their slumbers. But, if they hadonly known it, they were in luck. At any rate, the worst had notbefallen them, for Sam was too happy to
sing.
THE END
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