The Girl on the Boat Read online

  CHAPTER I

  A DISTURBING MORNING

  Through the curtained windows of the furnished flat which Mrs. HoraceHignett had rented for her stay in New York, rays of golden sunlightpeeped in like the foremost spies of some advancing army. It was a finesummer morning. The hands of the Dutch clock in the hall pointed tothirteen minutes past nine; those of the ormolu clock in thesitting-room to eleven minutes past ten; those of the carriage clock onthe bookshelf to fourteen minutes to six. In other words, it was exactlyeight; and Mrs. Hignett acknowledged the fact by moving her head on thepillow, opening her eyes, and sitting up in bed. She always woke ateight precisely.

  Was this Mrs. Hignett _the_ Mrs. Hignett, the world-famous writer onTheosophy, the author of "The Spreading Light," "What of the Morrow,"and all the rest of that well-known series? I'm glad you asked me. Yes,she was. She had come over to America on a lecturing tour.

  About this time there was a good deal of suffering in the United States,for nearly every boat that arrived from England was bringing a freshswarm of British lecturers to the country. Novelists, poets, scientists,philosophers, and plain, ordinary bores; some herd instinct seemed toaffect them all simultaneously. It was like one of those great racemovements of the Middle Ages. Men and women of widely differing views onreligion, art, politics, and almost every other subject; on this onepoint the intellectuals of Great Britain were single-minded, that therewas easy money to be picked up on the lecture-platforms of America, andthat they might just as well grab it as the next person.

  Mrs. Hignett had come over with the first batch of immigrants; for,spiritual as her writings were, there was a solid streak of businesssense in this woman, and she meant to get hers while the getting wasgood. She was half way across the Atlantic with a complete itinerarybooked, before ninety per cent. of the poets and philosophers hadfinished sorting out their clean collars and getting their photographstaken for the passport.

  She had not left England without a pang, for departure had involvedsacrifices. More than anything else in the world she loved her charminghome, Windles, in the county of Hampshire, for so many years the seat ofthe Hignett family. Windles was as the breath of life to her. Its shadywalks, its silver lake, its noble elms, the old grey stone of itswalls--these were bound up with her very being. She felt that shebelonged to Windles, and Windles to her. Unfortunately, as a matter ofcold, legal accuracy, it did not. She did but hold it in trust for herson, Eustace, until such time as he should marry and take possession ofit himself. There were times when the thought of Eustace marrying andbringing a strange woman to Windles chilled Mrs. Hignett to her verymarrow. Happily, her firm policy of keeping her son permanently underher eye at home and never permitting him to have speech with a femalebelow the age of fifty, had averted the peril up till now.

  Eustace had accompanied his mother to America. It was his faint snoreswhich she could hear in the adjoining room as, having bathed anddressed, she went down the hall to where breakfast awaited her. Shesmiled tolerantly. She had never desired to convert her son to her ownearly-rising habits, for, apart from not allowing him to call his soulhis own, she was an indulgent mother. Eustace would get up at half-pastnine, long after she had finished breakfast, read her correspondence,and started her duties for the day.

  Breakfast was on the table in the sitting-room, a modest meal of rolls,porridge, and imitation coffee. Beside the pot containing thishell-brew, was a little pile of letters. Mrs. Hignett opened them as sheate. The majority were from disciples and dealt with matters of purelytheosophical interest. There was an invitation from the Butterfly Club,asking her to be the guest of honour at their weekly dinner. There was aletter from her brother Mallaby--Sir Mallaby Marlowe, the eminent Londonlawyer--saying that his son Sam, of whom she had never approved, wouldbe in New York shortly, passing through on his way back to England, andhoping that she would see something of him. Altogether a dull mail. Mrs.Hignett skimmed through it without interest, setting aside one or two ofthe letters for Eustace, who acted as her unpaid secretary, to answerlater in the day.

  She had just risen from the table, when there was a sound of voices inthe hall, and presently the domestic staff, a gaunt Irish lady ofadvanced years, entered the room.

  "Ma'am, there was a gentleman."

  Mrs. Hignett was annoyed. Her mornings were sacred.

  "Didn't you tell him I was not to be disturbed?"

  "I did not. I loosed him into the parlour." The staff remained for amoment in melancholy silence, then resumed. "He says he's your nephew.His name's Marlowe."

  Mrs. Hignett experienced no diminution of her annoyance. She had notseen her nephew Sam for ten years, and would have been willing to extendthe period. She remembered him as an untidy small boy who once or twice,during his school holidays, had disturbed the cloistral peace of Windleswith his beastly presence. However, blood being thicker than water, andall that sort of thing, she supposed she would have to give him fiveminutes. She went into the sitting-room, and found there a young man wholooked more or less like all other young men, though perhaps ratherfitter than most. He had grown a good deal since she had last met him,as men so often do between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five, and wasnow about six feet in height, about forty inches round the chest, and inweight about thirteen stone. He had a brown and amiable face, marred atthe moment by an expression of discomfort somewhat akin to that of a catin a strange alley.

  "Hullo, Aunt Adeline!" he said awkwardly.

  "Well, Samuel!" said Mrs. Hignett.

  There was a pause. Mrs. Hignett, who was not fond of young men anddisliked having her mornings broken into, was thinking that he had notimproved in the slightest degree since their last meeting; and Sam, whoimagined that he had long since grown to man's estate and put offchildish things, was embarrassed to discover that his aunt stillaffected him as of old. That is to say, she made him feel as if he hadomitted to shave and, in addition to that, had swallowed some drug whichhad caused him to swell unpleasantly, particularly about the hands andfeet.

  "Jolly morning," said Sam, perseveringly.

  "So I imagine. I have not yet been out."

  "Thought I'd look in and see how you were."

  "That was very kind of you. The morning is my busy time, but ... yes,that was very kind of you!"

  There was another pause.

  "How do you like America?" said Sam.

  "I dislike it exceedingly."

  "Yes? Well, of course, some people do. Prohibition and all that.Personally, it doesn't affect me. I can take it or leave it alone. Ilike America myself," said Sam. "I've had a wonderful time. Everybody'streated me like a rich uncle. I've been in Detroit, you know, and theypractically gave me the city and asked me if I'd like another to takehome in my pocket. Never saw anything like it. I might have been themissing heir! I think America's the greatest invention on record."

  "And what brought you to America?" said Mrs. Hignett, unmoved by thisrhapsody.

  "Oh, I came over to play golf. In a tournament, you know."

  "Surely at your age," said Mrs. Hignett, disapprovingly, "you could bebetter occupied. Do you spend your whole time playing golf?"

  "Oh, no! I play cricket a bit and shoot a bit and I swim a good lot andI still play football occasionally."

  "I wonder your father does not insist on your doing some useful work."

  "He is beginning to harp on the subject rather. I suppose I shall take astab at it sooner or later. Father says I ought to get married, too."

  "He is perfectly right."

  "I suppose old Eustace will be getting hitched up one of these days?"said Sam.

  Mrs. Hignett started violently.

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Eh?"

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Oh, well, he's a romantic sort of fellow. Writes poetry, and all that."

  "There is no likelihood at all of Eustace marrying. He is of a shy andretiring temperament, and sees few women. He is almost a recluse."

  Sam was aware of this, a
nd had frequently regretted it. He had alwaysbeen fond of his cousin in that half-amused and rather patronising wayin which men of thews and sinews are fond of the weaker brethren who runmore to pallor and intellect; and he had always felt that if Eustace hadnot had to retire to Windles to spend his life with a woman whom fromhis earliest years he had always considered the Empress of the Washouts,much might have been made of him. Both at school and at Oxford, Eustacehad been--if not a sport--at least a decidedly cheery old bean. Samremembered Eustace at school, breaking gas globes with a slipper in apositively rollicking manner. He remembered him at Oxford playing up tohim manfully at the piano on the occasion when he had done thatimitation of Frank Tinney which had been such a hit at the Trinitysmoker. Yes, Eustace had had the makings of a pretty sound egg, and itwas too bad that he had allowed his mother to coop him up down in thecountry, miles away from anywhere.

  "Eustace is returning to England on Saturday," said Mrs. Hignett. Shespoke a little wistfully. She had not been parted from her son since hehad come down from Oxford; and she would have liked to keep him with hertill the end of her lecturing tour. That, however, was out of thequestion. It was imperative that, while she was away, he should be atWindles. Nothing would have induced her to leave the place at the mercyof servants who might trample over the flowerbeds, scratch the polishedfloors, 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'llgo 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 putthat extraordinary idea into your head?"

  "I thought father said something about your letting the place to someAmerican."

  "Nothing of the kind!"

  It seemed to Sam that his aunt spoke somewhat vehemently, evensnappishly, in correcting what was a perfectly natural mistake. He couldnot know that the subject of letting Windles for the summer was onewhich had long since begun to infuriate Mrs. Hignett. People hadcertainly asked her to let Windles. In fact, people had pestered her.There was a rich, fat man, an American named Bennett, whom she had metjust before sailing at her brother's house in London. Invited down toWindles for the day, Mr. Bennett had fallen in love with the place, andhad begged her to name her own price. Not content with this, he hadpursued her with his pleadings by means of the wireless telegraph whileshe was on the ocean, and had not given up the struggle even when shereached New York. She had not been in America two days when there hadarrived a Mr. Mortimer, bosom friend of Mr. Bennett, carrying on thematter where the other had left off. For a whole week Mr. Mortimer hadtried to induce her to reconsider her decision, and had only stoppedbecause he had had to leave for England himself, to join his friend. Andeven then the thing had gone on. Indeed, this very morning, among theletters 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 "TheSpreading 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 anend--and glad of it--also got up.

  "Well, I think I'll be going down and seeing about that state-room" hesaid.

  "Certainly. I am a little busy just now, preparing notes for my nextlecture."

  "Of course, yes. Mustn't interrupt you. I suppose you're having a greattime, gassing away--I mean--well, good-bye!"

  "Good-bye!"

  Mrs. Hignett, frowning, for the interview had ruffled her and disturbedthat equable frame of mind which is so vital to the preparation oflectures on Theosophy, sat down at the writing-table and began to gothrough the notes which she had made overnight. She had hardly succeededin concentrating herself when the door opened to admit the daughter ofErin once more.

  "Ma'am, there was a gentleman."

  "This is intolerable!" cried Mrs. Hignett. "Did you tell him that I wasbusy?"

  "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 BreamMortimer."

  "Bream Mortimer!"

  "Yes, ma'am. He handed me a bit of a kyard, but I dropped it, beingslippy from the dishes."

  Mrs. Hignett strode to the door with a forbidding expression. This, asshe had justly remarked, was intolerable. She remembered Bream Mortimer.He was the son of the Mr. Mortimer who wanted Windles. This visit couldonly have to do with the subject of Windles, and she went into thedining-room in a state of cold fury, determined to squash the Mortimerfamily, in the person of their New York representative, once and forall.

  "Good morning, Mr. Mortimer."

  Bream Mortimer was tall and thin. He had small bright eyes and a sharplycurving nose. He looked much more like a parrot than most parrots do. Itgave strangers a momentary shock of surprise when they saw BreamMortimer in restaurants, eating roast beef. They had the feeling that hewould have preferred sunflower seeds.

  "Morning, Mrs. Hignett."

  "Please sit down."

  Bream Mortimer looked as though he would rather have hopped on to aperch, but he sat down. He glanced about the room with gleaming, excitedeyes.

  "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 nothingelse. And now," cried Mrs. Hignett, fiercely, "you come and try tore-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 hisarms as if he were trying to flap them.

  "You know," he said, "I'm not a man who butts into other people'saffairs...." 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 usconfine ourselves to issues of definite importance. What is it, if youhave 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 LittleChurch 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 hangaround 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 positivequalities, 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 hermaid."

  "Will you please tell me who is the girl my misguided son wishes tomarry?"

  "I don't know that I'd call him misguided," said Mr. Mortimer, as onedesiring to be fair. "I think he's a right smart picker! She's such acorking girl, you know. We were children together, and I've loved herfor years. Ten years at least. But you know how it is--somehow one neverseems to get in line for a proposal. I thought I saw an opening in thesummer of nineteen-twelve, but it blew over. I'm not one of thesesmooth, dashing chaps, you see, with a great line of talk. I'm not...."

  "If you will kindly," said Mrs. Hignett impatiently, "postpone thisessay in psycho-analysis to some future occasion, I shall be greatlyobliged. I am waiting to hear the name of the girl my son wishes tomarry."

  "Haven't I told you?" said Mr. Mortimer, surprised. "That's odd. Ihaven'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? Thered-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 thething."

  "I intend to."

  "Fine!"

  "The marriage would be unsuitable in every way. Miss Bennett and my sondo 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 ahundred times. I wish I had a dollar for every time I've thought it. Notthe same colour. That's the whole thing in a nutshell."

  "I am much obliged to you for coming and telling me of this. I shalltake immediate steps."

  "That's good. But what's the procedure? It's getting late. She'll bewaiting 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 offin 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 knowthat I'd call it absolutely chivalrous. Of course, all's fair in loveand war. Well, I'm glad you're going to keep my share in the businessunder your hat. It might have been awkward meeting him on board."

  "You are not likely to meet Eustace on board. He is a very indifferentsailor 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 didnot see how it was humanly possible for anyone to forget this woman. Shewas like a celebrated chewing-gum. The taste lingered.

  Mrs. Hignett was a woman of instant and decisive action. Even while herlate visitor was speaking, schemes had begun to form in her mind likebubbles rising to the surface of a rushing river. By the time the doorhad closed behind Bream Mortimer she had at her disposal no fewer thanseven, all good. It took her but a moment to select the best andsimplest. She tiptoed softly to her son's room. Rhythmic snores greetedher listening ears. She opened the door and went noiselessly in.