Remarkable as the apparition of Mr. Bennett appeared to his daughter, the
explanation of his presence at that moment in the office of Marlowe,
Thorpe, Prescott, Winslow, and Appleby was simple. He had woken early that
morning, and, glancing at his watch on the dressing-table, he had suddenly
become aware of something bright and yellow beside it, and had paused,
transfixed, like Robinson Crusoe staring at the footprint in the sand.
If he had not been in England, he would have said it was a patch of
sunshine. Hardly daring to hope, he pulled up the shades and looked out
on the garden.
It was a superb morning. It was as if some giant had uncorked a great
bottle full of the distilled scent of grass, trees, flowers, and hay.
Mr. Bennett sniffed luxuriantly. Gone was the gloom of the past days,
swept away in a great exhilaration.
Breakfast had deepened his content. Henry Mortimer, softened by the
same balmy influence, had been perfectly charming. All their little
differences had melted away in the genial warmth. And then suddenly
Mr. Bennett remembered that he had sent Billie up to London to enlist
the aid of the Law against his old friend, and remorse gripped him. Half
an hour later he was in the train, on his way to London to intercept her
and cancel her mission. He had arrived, breathless at Sir Mallaby's
office, and the first thing he had seen was his daughter in the arms of
a young man who was a total stranger to him. The shock took away his
breath again just as it was coming back. He advanced shakily into the
room, and supported himself with one hand on the desk, while with the
other he plied the handkerchief on his super-heated face.
Billie was the first to speak.
"Why, father," she said, "I didn't expect you!"
As an explanation of her behaviour this might, no doubt, have been
considered sufficient, but as an excuse for it Mr. Bennett thought it
inadequate. He tried to convey a fatherly reproof by puffing like a
seal after a long dive in search of fish.
"This is Sam," proceeded Billie. "Sam Marlowe."
Mr. Bennett became aware that the young man was moving towards him with
outstretched hand. It took a lot to disconcert Sam, and he was the
calmest person present. He gave evidence of this in a neat speech. He
did not in so many words congratulate Mr. Bennett on the piece of luck
which had befallen him, but he tried to make him understand by his
manner that he was distinctly to be envied as the prospective
father-in-law of such a one as himself.
Mr. Bennett stared in a frozen sort of way at the hand. He had placed
Sam by now. He knew that Sir Mallaby had a son. This, presumably, was
he. But the discovery did not diminish his indignation.
"I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Bennett," said Sam. "You could not
have come at a more fortunate moment. You see for yourself how things
are. There is no need for a long explanation. You came to find a
daughter, Mr. Bennett, and you have found a son!"
And he would like to see the man, thought Sam, who could have put it
more cleverly and pleasantly and tactfully than that.
"What are you talking about?" said Mr. Bennett, recovering breath. "I
haven't got a son."
"I will be a son to you! I will be the prop of your declining
years...."
"What the devil do you mean, my declining years?" demanded Mr. Bennett
with asperity.
"He means when they do decline, father dear," said Billie.
"Of course, of course," said Sam. "When they do decline. Not till then,
of course! I wouldn't dream of it. But, once they do decline, count on
me! And I should like to say for my part," he went on handsomely, "what
an honour I think it, to become the son-in-law of a man like Mr.
Bennett. Bennett of New York!" he added spaciously, not so much because
he knew what he meant, for he would have been the first to admit that
he did not, but because it sounded well.
"Oh!" said Mr. Bennett "You do, do you?"
Mr. Bennett sat down. He put away his handkerchief, which had certainly
earned a rest. Then he fastened a baleful stare upon his newly-discovered
son. It was not the sort of look a proud and happy father-in-law-to-be
ought to have directed at a prospective relative. It was not, as a matter
of fact, the sort of look which anyone ought to have directed at anybody
except possibly an exceptionally prudish judge at a criminal in the dock,
convicted of a more than usually atrocious murder. Billie, not being in
the actual line of fire, only caught the tail end of it, but it was
enough to create a misgiving.
"Oh, father! You aren't angry."
"Angry!"
"You _can't_ be angry!"
"Why can't I be angry!" demanded Mr. Bennett, with that sense of injury
which comes to self-willed men when their whims are thwarted. "Why the
devil shouldn't I be angry? I _am_ angry! I come here and find you
like--like this, and you seem to expect me to throw my hat in the air
and give three rousing cheers! Of course I'm angry! You are engaged to
be married to an excellent young man of the highest character, one of
the finest young men I have ever met...."
"Oh, well!" said Sam, straightening his tie modestly. "Of course, if
you say so ... It's awfully good of you...."
"But, father," cried Billie, "I never really loved Bream. I like him
very much, but I could never love him. I only got engaged to him
because you were so anxious for it, and because ... because I had
quarrelled with the man I really loved ... I don't want to marry Bream."
"Naturally!" said Sam. "Naturally! Quite out of the question. In a few
days we'll all be roaring with laughter at the very idea."
Mr. Bennett scorched him with a look compared with which his earlier
effort had been a loving glance.
"Wilhelmina," he said, "go into the outer office."
"But, father, you don't understand. You don't realise that Sam has just
saved my life."
"Saved your life? What do you mean?"
"There was a lunatic in here with a pistol, and Sam saved me."
"It was nothing," said Sam modestly. "Nothing."
"Go into the outer office!" thundered Mr. Bennett, quite unmoved by
this story.
"Very well," said Billie. "I shall always love you, Sam," she said,
pausing mutinously at the door.
"I shall always love _you_," said Sam.
"Nobody can keep us apart."
"They're wasting their time, trying," said Sam.
"You're the most wonderful man in the world."
"There never was a girl like you!"
"Get _out_!" bellowed Mr. Bennett, on whose equanimity this
love-scene, which I think beautiful, was jarring profoundly.
"Now, sir!" he said to Sam, as the door closed.
"Yes, let's talk it over calmly," said Sam.
"I will not talk it over calmly!"
"Oh, come! You can do it if you try."
"Bream Mortimer is the son of Henry Mortimer."
"I know," said Sam. "And, while it is no doubt unfair to hold that
against him, it's a point you can't afford to ignore. Henry Mortimer!
You and I have Henry Mortimer's number. We know what Henry Mortimer is
like! A man who spends his time thinking up ways of annoying you. You
can't seriously want to have the Mortimer family linked to you by
marriage."
"Henry Mortimer is my oldest friend."
"That makes it all the worse. Fancy a man who calls himself your friend
treating you like that!"
"The misunderstanding to which you allude has been completely smoothed
over. My relations with Mr. Mortimer are thoroughly cordial."
"Well, have it your own way. Personally, I wouldn't trust a man like
that. And, as for letting my daughter marry his son...!"
"I have decided once and for all...."
"If you'll take my advice, you will break the thing off."
"I will not take your advice."
"I wouldn't expect to charge you for it," explained Sam, reassuringly.
"I give it you as a friend, not as a lawyer. Six-and-eightpence to
others, free to you."
"Will you understand that my daughter is going to marry Bream Mortimer?
What are you giggling about?"
"It sounds so silly. The idea of anyone marrying Bream Mortimer, I
mean."
"Let me tell you he is a thoroughly estimable young man."
"And there you put the whole thing in a nutshell. Your daughter is a
girl of spirit. She would hate to be tied for life to an estimable
young man."
"She will do as I tell her."
Sam regarded him sternly.
"Have you no regard for her happiness?"
"I am the best judge of what is best for her."
"If you ask me," said Sam candidly, "I think you're a rotten judge."
"I did not come here to be insulted!"
"I like that! You have been insulting me ever since you arrived. What
right have you to say that I'm not fit to marry your daughter?"
"I did not say that."
"You've implied it. And you've been looking at me as if I were a leper
or something the Pure Food Committee has condemned. Why? That's what I
ask you," said Sam, warming up. This, he fancied, was the way Widgery
would have tackled a troublesome client. "Why? Answer me that!"
"I...."
Sam rapped sharply on the desk.
"Be careful, sir. Be very careful!" He knew that this was what lawyers
always said. Of course, there is a difference in position between a
miscreant whom you suspect of an attempt at perjury and the father of
the girl you love, whose consent to the match you wish to obtain, but
Sam was in no mood for these nice distinctions. He only knew that
lawyers told people to be very careful, so he told Mr. Bennett to be
very careful.
"What do you mean, be very careful?" said Mr. Bennett.
"I'm dashed if I know," said Sam frankly. The question struck him as a
mean attack. He wondered how Widgery would have met it. Probably by
smiling quietly and polishing his spectacles. Sam had no spectacles. He
endeavoured, however, to smile quietly.
"Don't laugh at me!" roared Mr. Bennett.
"I'm not laughing at you."
"You are!"
"I'm not!"
"Well, don't then!" said Mr. Bennett. He glowered at his young
companion. "I don't know why I'm wasting my time, talking to you. The
position is clear to the meanest intelligence. You cannot have any
difficulty in understanding it. I have no objection to you
personally...."
"Come, this is better!" said Sam.
"I don't know you well enough to have any objection to you or any
opinion of you at all. This is the first time I have ever met you in my
life."
"Mark you," said Sam. "I think I am one of those fellows who grow on
people...."
"As far as I am concerned, you simply do not exist. You may be the
noblest character in London or you may be wanted by the police. I don't
know. And I don't care. It doesn't matter to me. You mean nothing in my
life. I don't know you."
"You must persevere," said Sam. "You must buckle to and get to know me.
Don't give the thing up in this half-hearted way. Everything has to
have a beginning. Stick to it, and in a week or two you will find
yourself knowing me quite well."
"I don't want to know you!"
"You say that now, but wait!"
"And thank goodness I have not got to!" exploded Mr. Bennett, ceasing
to be calm and reasonable with a suddenness which affected Sam much as
though half a pound of gunpowder had been touched off under his chair.
"For the little I have seen of you has been quite enough! Kindly
understand that my daughter is engaged to be married to another man, and
that I do not wish to see or hear anything of you again! I shall try to
forget your very existence, and I shall see to it that Wilhelmina does
the same! You're an impudent scoundrel, sir! An impudent scoundrel! I
don't like you! I don't wish to see you again! If you were the last man
in the world I wouldn't allow my daughter to marry you! If that is
quite clear, I will wish you good morning!"
Mr. Bennett thundered out of the room, and Sam, temporarily stunned by
the outburst, remained where he was, gaping. A few minutes
later life began to return to his palsied limbs. It occurred to him
that Mr. Bennett had forgotten to kiss him good-bye, and he went into
the outer office to tell him so. But the outer office was empty. Sam
stood for a moment in thought, then he returned to the inner office,
and, picking up a time-table, began to look out trains to the village
of Windlehurst in Hampshire, the nearest station to his aunt Adeline's
charming old-world house, Windles.