STRONG REMARKS BY A FATHER
Mr. Bennett advanced shakily into the room, and supported himself with
one hand on the desk, while with the other he still plied the
handkerchief on his over-heated face. Much had occurred to disturb him
this morning. On top of a broken night he had had an affecting
reconciliation scene with Mr. Mortimer, at the conclusion of which he
had decided to take the first train to London in the hope of
intercepting Billie before she reached Sir Mallaby’s office on her
mission of war. The local train-service kept such indecently early
hours that he had been compelled to bolt his breakfast, and, in the
absence of Billie, the only member of the household who knew how to
drive the car, to walk to the station, a distance of nearly two miles,
the last hundred yards of which he had covered at a rapid gallop, under
the erroneous impression that an express whose smoke he had seen in the
distance was the train he had come to catch. Arrived on the platform,
he had had a trying wait, followed by a slow journey to Waterloo. The
cab which he had taken at Waterloo had kept him in a lively state of
apprehension all the way to the Savoy, owing to an apparent desire to
climb over motor-omnibuses when it could not get round them. At the
Savoy he found that Billie had already left, which had involved another
voyage through the London traffic under the auspices of a driver who
appeared to be either blind or desirous of committing suicide. He had
three flights of stairs to negotiate. And, finally, arriving at the
office, he had found his daughter in the circumstances already
described.
“Why, father!” said Billie. “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 and would have said so, had he had enough breath. This
physical limitation caused him to remain speechless and to do the best
he could in the way of stern fatherly reproof by puffing like a seal
after a long dive in search of fish.
Having done this, he became aware that Sam Marlowe 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.
“I am delighted to see 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?” declared 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 known....”
“Oh, well!” said Sam, straightening his tie modestly. “It’s awfully
good of you....”
“But that’s all over, father.”
“What’s all over?”
“You told me yourself that you had broken off my engagement to Bream.”
“Well—er—yes, I did,” said Mr. Bennett, a little taken aback. “That
is—to a certain extent—so. But,” he added, with restored firmness,
“it’s on again!”
“But 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.”
“It doesn’t matter what you want! A girl who gets engaged to a dozen
men in three weeks....”
“It wasn’t a dozen!”
“Well, four—five—six—you can’t expect me not to lose count.... I say a
girl who does that does not know what she wants, and older and more
prudent heads must decide for her. You are going to marry Bream
Mortimer!”
“All wrong! All wrong!” said Sam, with a reproving shake of the head.
“All wrong! She’s going to marry me.”
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, Sam saved my life!”
“Go into the outer office and wait for me there.”
“There was a lunatic in here....”
“There will be another if you don’t go.”
“He had a pistol.”
“Go into the outer office!”
“I shall always love you, Sam!” said Billie, pausing mutinously at the
door.
“I shall always love _you!_” said Sam cordially.
“Nobody can keep us apart!”
“They’re wasting their time, trying.”
“You’re the most wonderful man in the world!”
“There never was another 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. In the first place, whatever put
this silly idea into your head about that sweet girl marrying Bream
Mortimer?”
“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 had 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! I’m smiling quietly.”
“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. 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 only the second 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.