The Girl on the Boat
vanished childhood. “Go on! I dare you!”
“I’ve a perfect legal right.... Oh well,” he said, “there are lots of
other things I can do!”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Mr. Bennett, alarmed.
“Never mind!” said Mr. Mortimer, taking up a book.
Mr. Bennett went back to bed in an uneasy frame of mind.
He brooded for half an hour, and, at the expiration of that period,
rang for Webster and requested that Billie should be sent to him.
“I want you to go to London,” he said, when she appeared. “I must have
legal advice. I want you to go and see Sir Mallaby Marlowe. Tell him
that Henry Mortimer is annoying me in every possible way and sheltering
himself behind his knowledge of the law, so that I can’t get at him.
Ask Sir Mallaby to come down here. And, if he can’t come himself, tell
him to send someone who can advise me. His son would do, if he knows
anything about the business.”
“Oh, I’m sure he does!”
“Eh? How do you know?”
“Well, I mean, he looks as if he does!” said Billie hastily. “He looks
so clever!”
“I didn’t notice it myself. Well, he’ll do, if Sir Mallaby’s too busy
to come himself. I want you to go up to-night, so that you can see him
first thing to-morrow morning. You can stop the night at the Savoy.
I’ve sent Webster to look out a train.”
“There’s a splendid train in about an hour. I’ll take that.”
“It’s giving you a lot of trouble,” said Mr. Bennett, with belated
consideration.
“Oh, _no!_” said Billie. “I’m only too glad to be able to do this for
you, father dear!”
CHAPTER XI.
MR. BENNETT HAS A BAD NIGHT
The fragment of a lobster-shell which had entered Mr. Bennett’s tongue
at twenty minutes to two in the afternoon was still in occupation at
half-past eleven that night, when that persecuted gentleman blew out
his candle and endeavoured to compose himself for a night’s slumber.
Its unconscious host had not yet been made aware of its presence. He
had a vague feeling that the tip of his tongue felt a little sore, but
his mind was too engrossed with the task of keeping a look-out for the
preliminary symptoms of mumps to have leisure to bestow much attention
on this phenomenon. The discomfort it caused was not sufficient to keep
him awake, and presently he turned on his side and began to fill the
room with a rhythmical snoring.
How pleasant if one could leave him so—the good man taking his rest.
Facts, however, are facts; and, having crept softly from Mr. Bennett’s
side with the feeling that at last everything is all right with him, we
are compelled to return three hours later to discover that everything
is all wrong. It is so dark in the room that our eyes can at first
discern nothing; then, as we grow accustomed to the blackness, we
perceive him sitting bolt upright in bed, staring glassily before him,
while with the first finger of his right hand he touches apprehensively
the tip of his protruding tongue.
At this point Mr. Bennett lights his candle—one of the charms of
Windles was the old-world simplicity of its lighting system—and we are
enabled to get a better view of him.
Mr. Bennett sat in the candlelight with his tongue out and the first
beads of a chilly perspiration bedewing his forehead. It was impossible
for a man of his complexion to turn pale, but he had turned as pale as
he could. Panic gripped him. A man whose favourite reading was medical
encyclopædias, he needed no doctor to tell him that this was the end.
Fate had dealt him a knockout blow; his number was up; and in a very
short while now people would be speaking of him in the past tense and
saying what a pity it all was.
A man in Mr. Bennett’s position experiences strange emotions, and many
of them. In fact, there are scores of writers, who, reckless of the
cost of white paper, would devote two chapters at this point to an
analysis of the unfortunate man’s reflections and be glad of the
chance. It is sufficient, however, merely to set on record that there
was no stint. Whatever are the emotions of a man in such a position,
Mr. Bennett had them. He had them all, one after another, some of them
twice. He went right through the list from soup to nuts, until finally
he reached remorse. And, having reached remorse, he allowed that to
monopolise him.
In his early days, when he was building up his fortune, Mr. Bennett had
frequently done things to his competitors in Wall Street which would
not have been tolerated in the purer atmosphere of a lumber-camp, and,
if he was going to be remorseful about anything, he might well have
started by being remorseful about that. But it was on his most
immediate past that his wistful mind lingered. He had quarrelled with
his lifelong friend, Henry Mortimer. He had broken off his daughter’s
engagement with a deserving young man. He had spoken harsh words to his
faithful valet. The more Mr. Bennett examined his conduct, the deeper
the iron entered into his soul.
Fortunately, none of his acts were irreparable. He could undo them. He
could make amends. The small hours of the morning are not perhaps the
most suitable time for making amends, but Mr. Bennett was too
remorseful to think of that. Do It Now had ever been his motto, so he
started by ringing the bell for Webster.
The same writers who would have screamed with joy at the chance of
dilating on Mr. Bennett’s emotions would find a congenial task in
describing the valet’s thought-processes when the bell roused him from
a refreshing sleep at a few minutes after three a.m. However, by the
time he entered his employer’s room he was his own calm self again.
“Good morning, sir,” he remarked equably. “I fear that it will be the
matter of a few minutes to prepare your shaving water. I was not
aware,” said Webster in manly apology for having been found wanting,
“that you intended rising so early.”
“Webster,” said Mr. Bennett, “I’m a dying man!”
“Indeed, sir?”
“A dying man!” repeated Mr. Bennett.
“Very good, sir. Which of your suits would you wish me to lay out?”
Mr. Bennett had the feeling that something was going wrong with the
scene.
“Webster,” he said, “this morning we had an unfortunate
misunderstanding. I’m sorry.”
“Pray don’t mention it, sir.”
“I was to blame. Webster, you have been a faithful servant! You have
stuck to me, Webster, through thick and thin!” said Mr. Bennett, who
had half persuaded himself by this time that the other had been in the
family for years instead of having been engaged at a registry-office a
little less than a month ago. “Through thick and thin!” repeated Mr.
Bennett.
“I have endeavoured to give satisfaction, sir.”
“I want to reward you, Webster.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“Take my trousers!”
Webster raised a deprecating hand.
“No, no, sir, thanking you exceedingly, I couldn’t really! You will
need them, sir, and I assure you I have an ample supply.”
“Take my trousers,” repeated Mr. Bennett, “and feel in the right-hand
pocket. There is some money there.”
“I’m sure I’m very much obliged, sir,” said Webster, beginning for the
first time to feel that there was a bright side. He embarked upon the
treasure-hunt. “The sum is sixteen pounds eleven shillings and
threepence, sir.”
“Keep it!”
“Thank you very much, sir. Would there be anything further, sir?”
“Why, no,” said Mr. Bennett, feeling dissatisfied nevertheless. There
had been a lack of the deepest kind of emotion in the interview, and
his yearning soul resented it. “Why, no.”
“Good-night, sir.”
“Stop a moment. Which is Mr. Mortimer’s room?”
“Mr. Mortimer, senior, sir? It is at the further end of this passage,
on the left facing the main staircase. Good-night, sir. I am extremely
obliged. I will bring you your shaving-water when you ring.”
Mr. Bennett, left alone, mused for awhile, then, rising from his bed,
put on his dressing-gown, took his candle, and went down the passage.
In a less softened mood, the first thing Mr. Bennett would have done on
crossing the threshold of the door facing the staircase would have been
to notice resentfully that Mr. Mortimer, with his usual astuteness, had
collared the best bedroom in the house. The soft carpet gave out no
sound as Mr. Bennett approached the wide and luxurious bed. The light
of the candle fell on the back of a semi-bald head. Mr. Mortimer was
sleeping with his face buried in the pillow. It cannot have been good
for him, but that was what he was doing. From the portion of the pillow
in which his face was buried strange gurgles proceeded, like the
distant rumble of an approaching train on the Underground.
“Mortimer,” said Mr. Bennett.
The train stopped at a station to pick up passengers, and rumbled on
again.
“Henry!” said Mr. Bennett, and nudged his sleeping friend in the small
of the back.
“Leave it on the mat,” mumbled Mr. Mortimer, stirring slightly and
uncovering one corner of his mouth.
Mr. Bennett began to forget his remorse in a sense of injury. He felt
like a man with a good story to tell who can get nobody to listen to
him. He nudged the other again, more vehemently this time. Mr. Mortimer
made a noise like a gramophone when the needle slips, moved restlessly
for a moment, then sat up, staring at the candle.
“Rabbits! Rabbits! Rabbits!” said Mr. Mortimer, and sank back again. He
had begun to rumble before he touched the pillow.
“What do you mean, rabbits?” said Mr. Bennett sharply.
The not unreasonable query fell on deaf ears. Mr. Mortimer was already
entering a tunnel.
“Much too pink!” he murmured as the pillow engulfed him.
What steps Mr. Bennett would have taken at this juncture, one cannot
say. Probably he would have given the thing up in despair and retired,
for it is weary work forgiving a sleeping man. But, as he bent above
his slumbering friend, a drop of warm grease detached itself from the
candle and fell into Mr. Mortimer’s exposed ear. The sleeper wakened.
“What? What? What?” he exclaimed, bounding up. “Who’s that?”
“It’s me—Rufus,” said Mr. Bennett. “Henry, I’m dying!”
“Drying?”
“Dying!”
Mr. Mortimer yawned cavernously. The mists of sleep were engulfing him
again.
“Eight rabbits sitting on the lawn,” he muttered. “But too pink! Much
too pink!”
And, as if considering he had borne his full share in the conversation
and that no more could be expected of him, he snuggled down into the
pillow again.
Mr. Bennett’s sense of injury became more acute. For a moment he was
strongly tempted to try the restorative effects of candle-grease once
more, but, just as he was on the point of succumbing, a shooting pain,
as if somebody had run a red-hot needle into his tongue, reminded him
of his situation. A dying man cannot pass his last hours dropping
candle-grease into people’s ears. After all, it was perhaps a little
late, and there would be plenty of time to become reconciled to Mr.
Mortimer to-morrow. His task now was to seek out Bream and bring him
the glad news of his renewed engagement.
He closed the door quietly, and proceeded upstairs. Bream’s bedroom, he
knew, was the one just off the next landing. He turned the handle
quietly, and went in. Having done this, he coughed.
“Drop that pistol!” said the voice of Jane Hubbard immediately, with
quiet severity. “I’ve got you covered!”
Mr. Bennett had no pistol, but he dropped the candle. It would have
been a nice point to say whether he was more perturbed by the discovery
that he had got into the wrong room, and that room a lady’s, or by the
fact that the lady whose wrong room it was had pointed what appeared to
be a small cannon at him over the foot of the bed. It was not, as a
matter of fact, a cannon but the elephant gun, which Miss Hubbard
carried with her everywhere—a girl’s best friend.
“My dear young lady!” he gasped.
On the five occasions during recent years on which men had entered her