The Girl on the Boat
Eustace had not had to retire to Windles to spend his life with a woman
whom from his earliest years he had always considered the Empress of
the Washouts, much might have been made of him. Both at school and at
Oxford, Eustace had been—if not a sport—at least a decidedly cheery old
bean. Sam remembered Eustace at school, breaking gas globes with a
slipper in a positively rollicking manner. He remembered him at Oxford
playing up to him manfully at the piano on the occasion when he had
done that imitation of Frank Tinney which had been such a hit at the
Trinity smoker. Yes, Eustace had had the makings of a pretty sound egg,
and it was too bad that he had allowed his mother to coop him up down
in the country, miles away from anywhere.
“Eustace is returning to England on Saturday,” said Mrs. Hignett. She
spoke a little wistfully. She had not been parted from her son since he
had come down from Oxford; and she would have liked to keep him with
her till the end of her lecturing tour. That, however, was out of the
question. It was imperative that, while she was away, he should be at
Windles. Nothing would have induced her to leave the place at the mercy
of servants who might trample over the flowerbeds, scratch the polished
floors, and forget to cover up the canary at night. “He sails on the
‘Atlantic.’”
“That’s splendid!” said Sam. “I’m sailing on the ‘Atlantic’ myself.
I’ll go down to the office and see if we can’t have a state-room
together. But where is he going to live when he gets to England?”
“Where is he going to live? Why, at Windles, of course. Where else?”
“But I thought you were letting Windles for the summer?”
Mrs. Hignett stared.
“Letting Windles!” She spoke as one might address a lunatic. “What put
that extraordinary idea into your head?”
“I thought father said something about your letting the place to some
American.”
“Nothing of the kind!”
It seemed to Sam that his aunt spoke somewhat vehemently, even
snappishly, in correcting what was a perfectly natural mistake. He
could not know that the subject of letting Windles for the summer was
one which had long since begun to infuriate Mrs. Hignett. People had
certainly asked her to let Windles. In fact, people had pestered her.
There was a rich, fat man, an American named Bennett, whom she had met
just before sailing at her brother’s house in London. Invited down to
Windles for the day, Mr. Bennett had fallen in love with the place, and
had begged her to name her own price. Not content with this, he had
pursued her with his pleadings by means of the wireless telegraph while
she was on the ocean, and had not given up the struggle even when she
reached New York. She had not been in America two days when there had
arrived a Mr. Mortimer, bosom friend of Mr. Bennett, carrying on the
matter where the other had left off. For a whole week Mr. Mortimer had
tried to induce her to reconsider her decision, and had only stopped
because he had had to leave for England himself, to join his friend.
And even then the thing had gone on. Indeed, this very morning, among
the letters on Mrs. Hignett’s table, the buff envelope of a cable from
Mr. Bennett had peeped out, nearly spoiling her breakfast. No wonder,
then, that Sam’s allusion to the affair had caused the authoress of
“The Spreading Light” momentarily to lose her customary calm.
“Nothing will induce me ever to let Windles,” she said with finality,
and rose significantly. Sam, perceiving that the audience was at an
end—and glad of it—also got up.
“Well, I think I’ll be going down and seeing about that state-room,” he
said.
“Certainly. I am a little busy just now, preparing notes for my next
lecture.”
“Of course, yes. Mustn’t interrupt you. I suppose you’re having a great
time, gassing away—I mean—well, good-bye!”
“Good-bye!”
Mrs. Hignett, frowning, for the interview had ruffled her and disturbed
that equable frame of mind which is so vital to the preparation of
lectures on Theosophy, sat down at the writing-table and began to go
through the notes which she had made overnight. She had hardly
succeeded in concentrating herself when the door opened to admit the
daughter of Erin once more.
“Ma’am, there was a gentleman.”
“This is intolerable!” cried Mrs. Hignett. “Did you tell him that I was
busy?”
“I did not. I loosed him into the dining-room.”
“Is he a reporter from one of the newspapers?”
“He is not. He has spats and a tall-shaped hat. His name is Bream
Mortimer.”
“Bream Mortimer!”
“Yes, ma’am. He handed me a bit of a kyard, but I dropped it, being
slippy from the dishes.”
Mrs. Hignett strode to the door with a forbidding expression. This, as
she had justly remarked, was intolerable. She remembered Bream
Mortimer. He was the son of the Mr. Mortimer who wanted Windles. This
visit could only have to do with the subject of Windles, and she went
into the dining-room in a state of cold fury, determined to squash the
Mortimer family, in the person of their New York representative, once
and for all.
“Good morning, Mr. Mortimer.”
Bream Mortimer was tall and thin. He had small bright eyes and a
sharply curving nose. He looked much more like a parrot than most
parrots do. It gave strangers a momentary shock of surprise when they
saw Bream Mortimer in restaurants, eating roast beef. They had the
feeling that he would have preferred sunflower seeds.
“Morning, Mrs. Hignett.”
“Please sit down.”
Bream Mortimer looked as though he would rather have hopped on to a
perch, but he sat down. He glanced about the room with gleaming,
excited eyes.
“Mrs. Hignett, I must have a word with you alone!”
“You _are_ having a word with me alone.”
“I hardly know how to begin.”
“Then let me help you. It is quite impossible. I will never consent.”
Bream Mortimer started.
“Then you have heard about it?”
“I have heard about nothing else since I met Mr. Bennett in London. Mr.
Bennett talked about nothing else. Your father talked about nothing
else. And now,” cried Mrs. Hignett, fiercely, “you come and try to
re-open the subject. Once and for all, nothing will alter my decision.
No money will induce me to let my house.”
“But I didn’t come about that!”
“You did not come about Windles?”
“Good Lord, no!”
“Then will you kindly tell me why you have come?”
Bream Mortimer seemed embarrassed. He wriggled a little, and moved his
arms as if he were trying to flap them.
“You know,” he said, “I’m not a man who butts into other people’s
affairs....” He stopped.
“No?” said Mrs. Hignett.
Bream began again.
“I’m not a man who gossips with valets....”
“No?”
“I’m not a man who....”
Mrs. Hignett was never a very patient woman.
“Let us take all your negative qualities for granted,” she said curtly.
“I have no doubt that there are many things which you do not do. Let us
confine ourselves to issues of definite importance. What is it, if you
have no objection to concentrating your attention on that for a moment,
that you wish to see me about?”
“This marriage.”
“What marriage?”
“Your son’s marriage.”
“My son is not married.”
“No, but he’s going to be. At eleven o’clock this morning at the Little
Church Round the Corner!”
Mrs. Hignett stared.
“Are you mad?”
“Well, I’m not any too well pleased, I’m bound to say,” admitted Mr.
Mortimer. “You see, darn it all, I’m in love with the girl myself!”
“Who is this girl?”
“Have been for years. I’m one of those silent, patient fellows who hang
around and look a lot but never tell their love....”
“Who is this girl who has entrapped my son?”
“I’ve always been one of those men who....”
“Mr. Mortimer! With your permission we will take your positive
qualities, also, for granted. In fact, we will not discuss you at all.
You come to me with this absurd story....”
“Not absurd. Honest fact. I had it from my valet who had it from her
maid.”
“Will you please tell me who is the girl my misguided son wishes to
marry?”
“I don’t know that I’d call him misguided,” said Mr. Mortimer, as one
desiring to be fair. “I think he’s a right smart picker! She’s such a
corking girl, you know. We were children together, and I’ve loved her
for years. Ten years at least. But you know how it is—somehow one never
seems to get in line for a proposal. I thought I saw an opening in the
summer of nineteen-twelve, but it blew over. I’m not one of these
smooth, dashing chaps, you see, with a great line of talk. I’m not....”
“If you will kindly,” said Mrs. Hignett impatiently, “postpone this
essay in psycho-analysis to some future occasion, I shall be greatly
obliged. I am waiting to hear the name of the girl my son wishes to
marry.”
“Haven’t I told you?” said Mr. Mortimer, surprised. “That’s odd. I
haven’t. It’s funny how one doesn’t do the things one thinks one does.
I’m the sort of man....”
“What is her name?”
“... the sort of man who....”
“What is her name?”
“Bennett.”
“Bennett? Wilhelmina Bennett? The daughter of Mr. Rufus Bennett? The
red-haired girl I met at lunch one day at your father’s house?”
“That’s it. You’re a great guesser. I think you ought to stop the
thing.”
“I intend to.”
“Fine!”
“The marriage would be unsuitable in every way. Miss Bennett and my son
do not vibrate on the same plane.”
“That’s right. I’ve noticed it myself.”
“Their auras are not the same colour.”
“If I’ve thought that once,” said Bream Mortimer, “I’ve thought it a
hundred times. I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve thought it.
Not the same colour. That’s the whole thing in a nutshell.”
“I am much obliged to you for coming and telling me of this. I shall
take immediate steps.”
“That’s good. But what’s the procedure? It’s getting late. She’ll be
waiting at the church at eleven.”
“Eustace will not be there.”
“You think you can fix it?”
“Eustace will not be there,” repeated Mrs. Hignett.
Bream Mortimer hopped down from his chair.
“Well, you’ve taken a weight off my mind.”
“A mind, I should imagine, scarcely constructed to bear great weights.”
“I’ll be going. Haven’t had breakfast yet. Too worried to eat
breakfast. Relieved now. This is where three eggs and a rasher of ham
get cut off in their prime. I feel I can rely on you.”
“You can!”
“Then I’ll say good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
“I mean really good-bye. I’m sailing for England on Saturday on the
‘Atlantic.’”
“Indeed? My son will be your fellow-traveller.”
Bream Mortimer looked somewhat apprehensive.
“You won’t tell him that I was the one who spilled the beans?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You won’t wise him up that I threw a spanner into the machinery?”
“I do not understand you.”
“You won’t tell him that I crabbed his act ... gave the thing away ...
gummed the game?”
“I shall not mention your chivalrous intervention.”
“Chivalrous?” said Bream Mortimer a little doubtfully. “I don’t know
that I’d call it absolutely chivalrous. Of course, all’s fair in love
and war. Well, I’m glad you’re going to keep my share in the business
under your hat. It might have been awkward meeting him on board.”
“You are not likely to meet Eustace on board. He is a very indifferent
sailor and spends most of his time in his cabin.”
“That’s good! Saves a lot of awkwardness. Well, good-bye.”
“Good-bye. When you reach England, remember me to your father.”
“He won’t have forgotten you,” said Bream Mortimer, confidently. He did
not see how it was humanly possible for anyone to forget this woman.
She was like a celebrated chewing-gum. The taste lingered.
Mrs. Hignett was a woman of instant and decisive action. Even while her
late visitor was speaking, schemes had begun to form in her mind like
bubbles rising to the surface of a rushing river. By the time the door