The Girl on the Boat

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Mr. Bennett uttered a loud cry.

"Sweet spirits of nitre! What!"

"Those were her exact words."

"Five!" ejaculated Mr. Bennett, in a strangled voice. "By the great horn
spoon, number five!"

Mr. Peters could make nothing of this exclamation, and he was deterred
from seeking light by the sudden action of his host, who, bounding from
his seat with a vivacity of which one would not have believed him
capable, charged to the French window and emitted a bellow.

"Wilhelmina!"

Billie looked up from her sketching-block with a start. It seemed to her
that there was a note of anguish, of panic, in that voice. What her
father could have found in the drawing-room to be frightened at, she did
not know; but she dropped her block and hurried to his assistance.

"What is it, father?"

Mr. Bennett had retired within the room when she arrived; and, going in
after him, she perceived at once what had caused his alarm. There before
her, looking more sinister than ever, stood the lunatic Peters; and
there was an ominous bulge in his right coat-pocket which to her excited
senses betrayed the presence of the revolver. What Jno. Peters was, as a
matter of fact, carrying in his right coat-pocket was a bag of mixed
chocolates which he had purchased in Windlehurst. But Billie's eyes,
though bright, had no X-ray quality. Her simple creed was that, if Jno.
Peters bulged at any point, that bulge must be caused by a pistol. She
screamed, and backed against the wall. Her whole acquaintance with Jno
Peters had been one constant backing against walls.

"Don't shoot!" she cried, as Mr. Peters absent-mindedly dipped his hand
into the pocket of his coat. "Oh, please don't shoot!"

"What the deuce do you mean?" said Mr. Bennett irritably. "Wilhelmina,
this man says that you told him you loved him."

"Yes, I did, and I do. Really, really, Mr. Peters, I do!"

"Suffering cats!"

Mr. Bennett clutched at the back of his chair.

"But you've only met him once," he added almost pleadingly.

"You don't understand, father dear," said Billie desperately. "I'll
explain the whole thing later, when...."

"Father!" ejaculated Jno. Peters feebly. "Did you say 'father?'"

"Of course I said 'father!'"

"This is my daughter, Mr. Peters."

"My daughter! I mean, your daughter! Are--are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Do you think I don't know my own daughter?"

"But she called me Mr. Peters!"

"Well, it's your name, isn't it?"

"But, if she--if this young lady is your daughter, how did she know my
name?"

The point seemed to strike Mr. Bennett. He turned to Billie.

"That's true. Tell me, Wilhelmina, when did you and Mr. Peters meet?"

"Why, in--in Sir Mallaby Marlowe's office, the morning you came there
and found me when I was talking to Sam."

Mr. Peters uttered a subdued gargling sound. He was finding this scene
oppressive to a not very robust intellect.

"He--Mr. Samuel--told me your name was Miss Milliken," he said dully.

Billie stared at him.

"Mr. Marlowe told you my name was Miss Milliken!" she repeated.

"He told me that you were the sister of the Miss Milliken who acts as
stenographer for the guv'--for Sir Mallaby, and sent me in to show you
my revolver, because he said you were interested and wanted to see it."

Billie uttered an exclamation. So did Mr. Bennett, who hated mysteries.

"What revolver? Which revolver? What's all this about a revolver? Have
you a revolver?"

"Why, yes, Mr. Bennett. It is packed now in my trunk, but usually I
carry it about with me everywhere in order to take a little practice at
the Rupert Street range. I bought it when Sir Mallaby told me he was
sending me to America, because I thought I ought to be prepared--because
of the Underworld, you know."

A cold gleam had come into Billie's eyes. Her face was pale and hard. If
Sam Marlowe--at that moment carolling blithely in his bedroom at the
Blue Boar in Windlehurst, washing his hands preparatory to descending to
the coffee-room for a bit of cold lunch--could have seen her, the song
would have frozen on his lips. Which, one might mention, as showing that
there is always a bright side, would have been much appreciated by the
travelling gentleman in the adjoining room, who had had a wild night
with some other travelling gentlemen, and was then nursing a rather
severe headache, separated from Sam's penetrating baritone only by the
thickness of a wooden wall.

Billie knew all. And, terrible though the fact is as an indictment of
the male sex, when a woman knows all, there is invariably trouble ahead
for some man. There was trouble ahead for Samuel Marlowe. Billie, now in
possession of the facts, had examined them and come to the conclusion
that Sam had played a practical joke on her, and she was a girl who
strongly disapproved of practical humour at her expense.

"That morning I met you at Sir Mallaby's office, Mr. Peters," she said
in a frosty voice, "Mr. Marlowe had just finished telling me a long and
convincing story to the effect that you were madly in love with a Miss
Milliken, who had jilted you, and that this had driven you off your
head, and that you spent your time going about with a pistol, trying to
shoot every red-haired woman you saw, because you thought they were Miss
Milliken. Naturally, when you came in and called me Miss Milliken, and
brandished a revolver, I was very frightened. I thought it would be
useless to tell you that I wasn't Miss Milliken, so I tried to persuade
you that I was and hadn't jilted you after all."

"Good gracious!" said Mr. Peters, vastly relieved; and yet--for always
there is bitter mixed with the sweet--a shade disappointed.
"Then--er--you don't love me after all?"

"No!" said Billie. "I am engaged to Bream Mortimer, and I love him and
nobody else in the world!"

The last portion of her observation was intended for the consumption of
Mr. Bennett, rather than that of Mr. Peters, and he consumed it
joyfully. He folded Billie in his ample embrace.

"I always thought you had a grain of sense hidden away somewhere," he
said, paying her a striking tribute. "I hope now that we've heard the
last of all this foolishness about that young hound Marlowe."

"You certainly have! I don't want ever to see him again! I hate him!"

"You couldn't do better, my dear," said Mr. Bennett, approvingly. "And
now run away. Mr. Peters and I have some business to discuss."

A quarter of an hour later, Webster, the valet, sunning himself in the
stable-yard, was aware of the daughter of his employer approaching him.

"Webster," said Billie. She was still pale. Her face was still hard, and
her eyes still gleamed coldly.

"Miss?" said Webster politely, throwing away the cigarette with which he
had been refreshing himself.

"Will you do something for me?"

"I should be more than delighted, miss."

Billie whisked into view an envelope which had been concealed in the
recesses of her dress.

"Do you know the country about here well, Webster?"

"Within a certain radius, not unintimately, miss. I have been for
several enjoyable rambles since the fine weather set in."

"Do you know the place where there is a road leading to Havant, and
another to Cosham? It's about a mile down...."

"I know the spot well, miss."

"Well, straight in front of you when you get to the sign-post there is a
little lane...."

"I know it, miss," said Webster, with a faint smile. Twice had he
escorted Miss Trimblett, Billie's maid, thither. "A delightfully
romantic spot. What with the overhanging trees, the wealth of
blackberry bushes, the varied wild-flowers...."

"Yes, never mind about the wild-flowers now. I want you after lunch, to
take this note to a gentleman you will find sitting on the gate at the
bottom of the lane...."

"Sitting on the gate, miss. Yes, miss."

"Or leaning against it. You can't mistake him. He is rather tall and ...
oh, well, there isn't likely to be anybody else there, so you can't make
a mistake. Give him this, will you?"

"Certainly, miss. Er--any message?"

"Any what?"

"Any verbal message, miss?"

"No, certainly not! You won't forget, will you, Webster?"

"On no account whatever, miss. Shall I wait for an answer?"

"There won't be any answer," said Billie, setting her teeth for an
instant. "Oh, Webster!"

"Miss?"

"I can rely on you to say nothing to anybody?"

"Most undoubtedly, miss. Most undoubtedly."

"Does anybody know anything about a feller named S. Marlowe?" inquired
Webster, entering the kitchen. "Don't all speak at once! S. Marlowe.
Ever heard of him?"

He paused for a reply, but nobody had any information to impart.

"Because there's something jolly well up! Our Miss B. is sending me with
notes for him to the bottom of lanes."

"And her engaged to young Mr. Mortimer!" said the scullery-maid,
shocked. "The way they go on. Chronic!" said the scullery-maid.

"Don't you go getting alarmed! And don't you," added Webster, "go
shoving your oar in when your social superiors are talking! I've had to
speak to you about that before. My remarks were addressed to Mrs.
Withers here."

He indicated the cook with a respectful gesture.

"Yes, here's the note, Mrs. Withers. Of course, if you had a steamy
kettle handy, in about half a moment we could ... but no, perhaps it's
wiser not to risk it. And, come to that, I don't need to unstick the
envelope to know what's inside here. It's the raspberry, ma'am, or I've
lost all my power to read the human female countenance. Very cold and
proud-looking she was! I don't know who this S. Marlowe is, but I do
know one thing; in this hand I hold the instrument that's going to give
it him in the neck, proper! Right in the neck, or my name isn't Montagu
Webster!"

"Well!" said Mrs. Withers, comfortably, pausing for a moment from her
labours. "Think of that!"

"The way I look at it," said Webster, "is that there's been some sort of
understanding between our Miss B. and this S. Marlowe, and she's thought
better of it and decided to stick to the man of her parent's choice.
She's chosen wealth and made up her mind to hand the humble suitor the
mitten. There was a rather similar situation in 'Cupid or Mammon,' that
Nosegay Novelette I was reading in the train coming down here, only that
ended different. For my part I'd be better pleased if our Miss B. would
let the cash go, and obey the dictates of her own heart; but these
modern girls are all alike! All out for the stuff, they are! Oh, well,
it's none of my affair," said Webster, stifling a not unmanly sigh. For
beneath that immaculate shirt-front there beat a warm heart. Montagu
Webster was a sentimentalist.

CHAPTER XVI

WEBSTER, FRIEND IN NEED

At half-past two that afternoon, full of optimism and cold beef, gaily
unconscious that Webster with measured strides was approaching ever
nearer with the note that was to give it him in the neck, proper, Samuel
Marlowe dangled his feet from the top bar of the gate at the end of the
lane, and smoked contentedly as he waited for Billie to make her
appearance. He had had an excellent lunch; his pipe was drawing well,
and all Nature smiled. The breeze from the sea across the meadows
tickled pleasantly the back of his head, and sang a soothing song in the
long grass and ragged-robins at his feet. He was looking forward with a
roseate glow of anticipation to the moment when the white flutter of
Billie's dress would break the green of the foreground. How eagerly he
would jump from the gate! How lovingly he would....

The elegant figure of Webster interrupted his reverie. Sam had never
seen Webster before, and it was with no pleasure that he saw him now. He
had come to regard this lane as his own private property, and he
resented trespassers. He tucked his legs under him, and scowled at
Webster under the brim of his hat.

The valet advanced towards him with the air of an affable executioner
stepping daintily to the block.

"Mr. Marlowe, sir?" he inquired politely.

Sam was startled. He could making nothing of this.

"Eh? What?"

"Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. S. Marlowe?"

"Yes, that's my name."

"Mine is Webster, sir. I am Mr. Bennett's personal gentleman's
gentleman. Miss Bennett entrusted me with this note to deliver to you,
sir."

Sam began to grasp the position. For some reason or other, the dear girl
had been prevented from coming this afternoon, and she had written to
explain and relieve his anxiety. It was like her. It was just the sweet,
thoughtful thing he would have expected her to do. His contentment with
the existing scheme of things returned. The sun shone out again, and he
found himself amiably disposed towards the messenger.

"Fine day," he said, as he took the note.

"Extremely, sir," said Webster, outwardly unemotional, inwardly full of
a grave pity.

It was plain to him that there had been no previous little rift to
prepare the young man for the cervical operation which awaited him, and
he edged a little nearer, in order to be handy to catch Sam if the shock
knocked him off the gate.

As it happened, it did not. Having read the opening words of the note,
Sam rocked violently; but his feet were twined about the lower bars and
this saved him from overbalancing. Webster stepped back, relieved.

The note fluttered to the ground. Webster, picking it up and handing it
back, was enabled to get a glimpse of the first two sentences. They
confirmed his suspicions. The note was hot stuff. Assuming that it
continued as it began, it was about the warmest thing of its kind that
pen had ever written. Webster had received one or two heated epistles
from the sex in his time--your man of gallantry can hardly hope to
escape these unpleasantnesses--but none had got off the mark quite so
swiftly, and with quite so much frigid violence as this.

"Thanks," said Sam mechanically.

"Not at all, sir. You are very welcome."

Sam resumed his reading. A cold perspiration broke out on his forehead.
His toes curled, and something seemed to be crawling down the small of
his back. His heart had moved from its proper place and was now beating
in his throat. He swallowed once or twice to remove the obstruction, but
without success. A kind of pall had descended on the landscape, blotting
out the sun.

Of all the rotten sensations in this world, the worst is the realisation
that a thousand-to-one chance has come off, and caused our wrong-doing
to be detected. There had seemed no possibility of that little ruse of
his being discovered, and yet here was Billie in full possession of the
facts. It almost made the thing worse that she did not say how she had
come into possession of them. This gave Sam that feeling of self-pity,
that sense of having been ill-used by Fate, which makes the bringing
home of crime so particularly poignant.

"Fine day!" he muttered. He had a sort of subconscious feeling that it
was imperative to keep engaging Webster in light conversation.

"Yes, sir. Weather still keeps up," agreed the valet suavely.

Sam frowned over the note. He felt injured. Sending a fellow notes
didn't give him a chance. If she had come in person and denounced him it
would not have been an agreeable experience, but at least it would have
been possible then to have pleaded and cajoled and--and all that sort of
thing. But what could he do now? It seemed to him that his only possible
course was to write a note in reply, begging her to see him. He explored
his pockets and found a pencil and a scrap of paper. For some moments he
scribbled desperately. Then he folded the note.

"Will you take this to Miss Bennett?" he said, holding it out.

Webster took the missive, because he wanted to read it later at his
leisure; but he shook his head.

"Useless, I fear, sir," he said gravely.

"What do you mean?"

"I am afraid it would effect little or nothing, sir, sending our Miss B.
notes. She is not in the proper frame of mind to appreciate them. I saw
her face when she handed me the letter you have just read, and I assure
you, sir, she is not in a malleable mood."

"You seem to know a lot about it!"

"I have studied the sex, sir," said Webster modestly.

"I mean, about my business, confound it! You seem to know all about it!"

"Why, yes, sir, I think I may say that I have grasped the position of
affairs. And, if you will permit me to say so, sir, you have my
respectful sympathy."

Dignity is a sensitive plant which nourishes only under the fairest
conditions. Sam's had perished in the bleak east wind of Billie's note.
In other circumstances he might have resented this intrusion of a
stranger into his most intimate concerns. His only emotion now, was one
of dull but distinct gratitude. The four winds of Heaven blew chilly
upon his raw and unprotected soul, and he wanted to wrap it up in a
mantle of sympathy, careless of the source from which he borrowed that
mantle. If Webster felt disposed, as he seemed to indicate, to comfort
him, let the thing go on. At that moment Sam would have accepted
condolences from a coal-heaver.

"I was reading a story--one of the Nosegay Novelettes; I do not know if
you are familiar with the series, sir?--in which much the same
situation occurred. It was entitled 'Cupid or Mammon.' The heroine, Lady
Blanche Trefusis, forced by her parents to wed a wealthy suitor,
despatches a note to her humble lover, informing him it cannot be. I
believe it often happens like that, sir."

"You're all wrong," said Sam. "It's not that at all."

"Indeed, sir? I supposed it was."

"Nothing like it! I--I----."

Sam's dignity, on its death-bed, made a last effort to assert itself.

"I don't know what it's got to do with you!"

"Precisely, sir!" said Webster, with dignity. "Just as you say! Good
afternoon, sir!"

He swayed gracefully, conveying a suggestion of departure without moving
his feet. The action was enough for Sam. Dignity gave an expiring
gurgle, and passed away, regretted by all.

"Don't go!" he cried.

The idea of being left alone in this infernal lane, without human
support, overpowered him. Moreover, Webster had personality. He exuded
it. Already Sam had begun to cling to him in spirit, and rely on his
support.

"Don't go!"

"Certainly not, if you do not wish it, sir."

Webster coughed gently, to show his appreciation of the delicate nature
of the conversation. He was consumed with curiosity, and his threatened
departure had been but a pretence. A team of horses could not have moved
Webster at that moment.

"Might I ask, then, what...?"

"There's been a misunderstanding," said Sam. "At least, there was, but
now there isn't, if you see what I mean."

"I fear I have not quite grasped your meaning, sir."

"Well, I--I--played a sort of--you might almost call it a sort of trick
on Miss Bennett. With the best motives, of course!"

"Of course, sir!"

"And she's found out! I don't know how she's found out, but she has! So
there you are!"

"Of what nature would the trick be, sir? A species of ruse, sir,--some
kind of innocent deception?"

"Well, it was like this."

It was a complicated story to tell, and Sam, a prey to conflicting
emotions, told it badly; but such was the almost superhuman intelligence
of Webster, that he succeeded in grasping the salient points. Indeed, he
said that it reminded him of something of much the same kind in the
Nosegay Novelette, "All for Her," where the hero, anxious to win the
esteem of the lady of his heart, had bribed a tramp to simulate an
attack upon her in a lonely road.

"The principle's the same," said Webster.

"Well, what did he do when she found out?"

"She did not find out, sir. All ended happily, and never had the
wedding-bells in the old village church rung out a blither peal than
they did at the subsequent union."

Sam was thoughtful.

"Bribed a tramp to attack her, did he?"

"Yes, sir. She had never thought much of him till that moment, sir. Very
cold and haughty she had been, his social status being considerably
inferior to her own. But, when she cried for help, and he dashed out
from behind a hedge, well, it made all the difference."

"I wonder where I could get a good tramp," said Sam, meditatively.

Webster shook his head.

"I really would hardly recommend such a procedure, sir."

"No, it would be difficult to make a tramp understand what you wanted."

Sam brightened.

"I've got it! _You_ pretend to attack her, and I'll...."

"I couldn't, sir! I couldn't, really! I should jeopardise my situation."

"Oh, come. Be a man!"

"No, sir, I fear not. There's a difference between handing in your
resignation--I was compelled to do that only recently, owing to a few
words I had with the guv'nor, though subsequently prevailed upon to
withdraw it--I say there's a difference between handing in your
resignation and being given the sack, and that's what would
happen--without a character, what's more, and lucky if it didn't mean a
prison cell! No, sir, I could not contemplate such a thing."

"Then I don't see that there's anything to be done," said Sam,
morosely.

"Oh, I shouldn't say that, sir," said Webster encouragingly. "It's
simply a matter of finding the way. The problem confronting us--you, I
should say...."

"Us," said Sam. "Most decidedly us."

"Thank you very much, sir. I would not have presumed, but if you say
so.... The problem confronting us, as I envisage it, resolves itself
into this. You have offended our Miss B. and she has expressed a
disinclination ever to see you again. How, then, is it possible, in
spite of her attitude, to recapture her esteem?"

"Exactly," said Sam.

"There are several methods which occur to one...."

"They don't occur to _me_!"

"Well, for example, you might rescue her from a burning building, as in
'True As Steel'...."

"Set fire to the house, eh?" said Sam reflectively. "Yes, there might be
something in that."

"I would hardly advise such a thing," said Webster, a little
hastily--flattered at the readiness with which his disciple was taking
his advice, yet acutely alive to the fact that he slept at the top of
the house himself. "A little drastic, if I may say so. It might be
better to save her from drowning, as in 'The Earl's Secret.'"

"Ah, but where could she drown?"

"Well, there is a lake in the grounds...."

"Excellent!" said Sam. "Terrific! I knew I could rely on you. Say no
more! The whole thing's settled. You take her out rowing on the lake,
and upset the boat. I plunge in.... I suppose you can swim?"

"No, sir."

"Oh? Well, never mind. You'll manage somehow, I expect. Cling to the
upturned boat or something, I shouldn't wonder. There's always a way.
Yes, that's the plan. When is the earliest you could arrange this?"

"I fear such a course must be considered out of the question, sir. It
really wouldn't do."

"I can't see a flaw in it."

"Well, in the first place, it would certainly jeopardise my
situation...."

"Oh, hang your situation! You talk as if you were Prime Minister or
something. You can easily get another situation. A valuable man like
you," said Sam ingratiatingly.

"No, sir," said Webster firmly. "From boyhood up I've always had a
regular horror of the water. I can't so much as go paddling without an
uneasy feeling."

The image of Webster paddling was arresting enough to occupy Sam's
thoughts for a moment. It was an inspiring picture, and for an instant
uplifted his spirits. Then they fell again.

"Well, I don't see what there _is_ to be done," he said, gloomily. "It's
no good my making suggestions, if you have some frivolous objection to
all of them."

"My idea," said Webster, "would be something which did not involve my
own personal and active co-operation, sir. If it is all the same to
you, I should prefer to limit my assistance to advice and sympathy. I am
anxious to help, but I am a man of regular habits, which I do not wish
to disturb. Did you ever read 'Footpaths of Fate,' in the Nosegay
series, sir? I've only just remembered it, and it contains the most
helpful suggestion of the lot. There had been a misunderstanding between
the heroine and the hero--their names have slipped my mind, though I
fancy his was Cyril--and she had told him to hop it...."

"To what?"

"To leave her for ever, sir. And what do you think he did?"

"How the deuce do I know?"

"He kidnapped her little brother, sir, to whom she was devoted, kept him
hidden for a bit, and then returned him, and in her gratitude all was
forgotten and forgiven, and never...."

"I know. Never had the bells of the old village church...."

"Rung out a blither peal. Exactly, sir. Well, there, if you will allow
me to say so, you are, sir! You need seek no further for a plan of
action."

"Miss Bennett hasn't got a little brother."

"No, sir. But she has a dog, and is greatly attached to it."

Sam stared. From the expression on his face it was evident that Webster
imagined himself to have made a suggestion of exceptional intelligence.
It struck Sam as the silliest he had ever heard.

"You mean I ought to steal her dog?"

"Precisely, sir."

"But, good heavens! Have you seen that dog?"

"The one to which I allude is a small brown animal with a fluffy tail."

"Yes, and a bark like a steam-siren, and, in addition to that, about
eighty-five teeth, all sharper than razors. I couldn't get within ten
feet of that dog without its lifting the roof off, and, if I did, it
would chew me into small pieces."

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