CHAPTER VIII
SIR MALLABY OFFERS A SUGGESTION
Sec. 1
A week after the liner "Atlantic" had docked at Southampton Sam Marlowemight have been observed--and was observed by various of theresidents--sitting on a bench on the esplanade of that risingwatering-place, Bingley-on-the-Sea, in Sussex. All watering-places onthe south coast of England are blots on the landscape, but though I amaware that by saying it I shall offend the civic pride of some of theothers--none are so peculiarly foul as Bingley-on-the-Sea. The asphalteon the Bingley esplanade is several degrees more depressing than theasphalte on other esplanades. The Swiss waiters at the HotelMagnificent, where Sam was stopping, are in a class of bunglingincompetence by themselves, the envy and despair of all the other Swisswaiters at all the other Hotels Magnificent along the coast. Fordreariness of aspect Bingley-on-the-Sea stands alone. The very wavesthat break on its shingle seem to creep up the beach reluctantly, as ifit revolted them to have to come to such a place.
Why, then, was Sam Marlowe visiting this ozone-swept Gehenna? Why, withall the rest of England at his disposal, had he chosen to spend a weekat breezy, blighted Bingley?
Simply because he had been disappointed in love.
Nothing is more curious than the myriad ways in which reaction from anunfortunate love-affair manifests itself in various men. No two malesbehave in the same way under the spur of female fickleness._Archilochum_, for instance, according to the Roman writer, _propriorabies armavit iambo_. It is no good pretending out of politeness thatyou know what that means, so I will translate. _Rabies_--hisgrouch--_armavit_--armed--_Archilochum_--Archilochus--_iambo_--with theiambic--_proprio_--his own invention. In other words, when the poetArchilochus was handed his hat by the lady of his affections, heconsoled himself by going off and writing satirical verse about her in anew metre which he had thought up immediately after leaving the house.That was the way the thing affected him.
On the other hand, we read in a recent issue of a London daily paperthat John Simmons (31), a meat-salesman, was accused of assaulting anofficer while in the discharge of his duty, at the same time usingprofane language whereby the officer went in fear of his life. ConstableRiggs deposed that on the evening of the eleventh instant while he wason his beat, prisoner accosted him and, after offering to fight him forfourpence, drew off his right boot and threw it at his head. Accused,questioned by the magistrate, admitted the charge and expressed regret,pleading that he had had words with his young woman, and it had upsethim.
Neither of these courses appealed to Samuel Marlowe. He had soughtrelief by slinking off alone to the Hotel Magnificent atBingley-on-the-Sea. It was the same spirit which has often moved othermen in similar circumstances to go off to the Rockies to shootgrizzlies.
To a certain extent the Hotel Magnificent had dulled the pain. At anyrate, the service and cooking there had done much to take his mind offit. His heart still ached, but he felt equal to going to London andseeing his father, which of course he ought to have done seven daysbefore.
He rose from his bench--he had sat down on it directly afterbreakfast--and went back to the hotel to inquire about trains. An hourlater he had begun his journey and two hours after that he was at thedoor of his father's office.
The offices of the old-established firm of Marlowe, Thorpe, Prescott,Winslow and Appleby are in Ridgeway's Inn, not far from Fleet Street.The brass plate, let into the woodwork of the door, is misleading.Reading it, you get the impression that on the other side quite a coveyof lawyers await your arrival. The name of the firm leads you to supposethat there will be barely standing-room in the office. You pictureThorpe jostling you aside as he makes for Prescott to discuss with himthe latest case of demurrer, and Winslow and Appleby treading on yourtoes, deep in conversation on replevin. But these legal firms dwindle.The years go by and take their toll, snatching away here a Prescott,there an Appleby, till, before you know where you are, you are down toyour last lawyer. The only surviving member of the firm of Marlowe,Thorpe--what I said before--was, at the time with which this storydeals, Sir Mallaby Marlowe, son of the original founder of the firm andfather of the celebrated black-face comedian, Samuel of that ilk; andthe outer office, where callers were received and parked till SirMallaby could find time for them, was occupied by a single clerk.
When Sam opened the door this clerk, John Peters by name, was seated ona high stool, holding in one hand a half-eaten sausage, in the other anextraordinarily large and powerful-looking revolver. At the sight of Samhe laid down both engines of destruction and beamed. He was not aparticularly successful beamer, being hampered by a cast in one eyewhich gave him a truculent and sinister look; but those who knew himknew that he had a heart of gold and were not intimidated by hisrepellent face. Between Sam and himself there had always existed termsof great cordiality, starting from the time when the former was a smallboy and it had been John Peters' mission to take him now to the Zoo, nowto the train back to school.
"Why, Mr. Samuel!"
"Hullo, Peters!"
"We were expecting you back a week ago."
"Oh, I had something to see to before I came to town," said Samcarelessly.
"So you got back safe!" said John Peters.
"Safe! Why, of course."
Peters shook his head.
"I confess that, when there was this delay in your coming here, Isometimes feared something might have happened to you. I recallmentioning it to the young lady who recently did me the honour topromise to become my wife."
"Ocean liners aren't often wrecked nowadays."
"I was thinking more of the brawls on shore. America's a dangerouscountry. But perhaps you were not in touch with the underworld?"
"I don't think I was."
"Ah!" said John Peters significantly.
He took up the revolver, gave it a fond and almost paternal look, andreplaced it on the desk.
"What on earth are you doing with that thing?" asked Sam.
Mr. Peters lowered his voice.
"I'm going to America myself in a few days' time, Mr. Samuel. It's myannual holiday, and the guv'nor's sending me over with papers inconnection with The People _v._ Schultz and Bowen. It's a big case overthere. A client of ours is mixed up in it, an American gentleman. I amto take these important papers to his legal representative in New York.So I thought it best to be prepared."
The first smile that he had permitted himself for nearly two weeksflitted across Sam's face.
"What on earth sort of place do you think New York is?" he asked. "It'ssafer than London."
"Ah, but what about the Underworld? I've seen these American films thatthey send over here, Mr. Samuel. Did you ever see 'Wolves of theBowery?' There was a man in that in just my position, carrying importantpapers, and what they didn't try to do to him! No, I'm taking nochances, Mr. Samuel!"
"I should have said you were, lugging that thing about with you."
Mr. Peters seemed wounded.
"Oh, I understand the mechanism perfectly, and I am becoming a very fairshot. I take my little bite of food in here early and go and practise atthe Rupert Street Rifle Range during my lunch hour. You'd be surprisedhow quickly one picks it up. When I get home of a night I try howquickly I can draw. You have to draw like a flash of lightning, Mr.Samuel. If you'd ever seen a film called 'Two-Gun-Thomas,' you'd realisethat. You haven't time to wait loitering about."
Mr. Peters picked up a speaking-tube and blew down it.
"Mr. Samuel to see you, Sir Mallaby. Yes, sir, very good. Will you goright in, Mr. Samuel?"
Sam proceeded to the inner office, and found his father dictating intothe attentive ear of Miss Milliken, his elderly and respectablestenographer, replies to his morning mail.
Sir Mallaby Marlowe was a dapper little man, with a round, cheerful faceand a bright eye. His morning coat had been cut by London's best tailor,and his trousers perfectly creased by a sedulous valet. A pink carnationin his buttonhole matched his healthy complexion. His golf handicap wastwelve. His sister,
Mrs. Horace Hignett, considered him worldly.
"DEAR SIRS,--We are in receipt of your favour and in reply beg to statethat nothing will induce us ... will induce us ... where did I put thatletter? Ah!... nothing will induce us ... oh, tell 'em to go to blazes,Miss Milliken."
"Very well, Sir Mallaby."
"That's that. Ready? Messrs. Brigney, Goole and Butterworth. Whatinfernal names these people have. SIRS,--On behalf of our client ... oh,hullo, Sam!"
"Good morning, father."
"Take a seat. I'm busy, but I'll be finished in a moment. Where was I,Miss Milliken?"
"'On behalf of our client....'"
"Oh, yes. On behalf of our client Mr. Wibblesley Eggshaw.... Wherethese people get their names I'm hanged if I know. Your poor motherwanted to call you Hyacinth, Sam. You may not know it, but in the'nineties when you were born, children were frequently christenedHyacinth. Well, I saved you from that."
His attention now diverted to his son, Sir Mallaby seemed to rememberthat the latter had just returned from a long journey and that he hadnot seen him for many weeks. He inspected him with interest.
"Very glad you're back, Sam. So you didn't win?"
"No, I got beaten in the semi-finals."
"American amateurs are a very hot lot, the best ones. I suppose you wereweak on the greens. I warned you about that. You'll have to rub up yourputting before next year."
At the idea that any such mundane pursuit as practising putting couldappeal to his broken spirit now, Sam uttered a bitter laugh. It was asif Dante had recommended some lost soul in the Inferno to occupy hismind by knitting jumpers.
"Well, you seem to be in great spirits," said Sir Mallaby approvingly."It's pleasant to hear your merry laugh again. Isn't it, Miss Milliken?"
"Extremely exhilarating," agreed the stenographer, adjusting herspectacles and smiling at Sam, for whom there was a soft spot in herheart.
A sense of the futility of life oppressed Sam. As he gazed in the glassthat morning, he had thought, not without a certain gloomy satisfaction,how remarkably pale and drawn his face looked. And these people seemedto imagine that he was in the highest spirits. His laughter, which hadsounded to him like the wailing of a demon, struck Miss Milliken asexhilarating.
"On behalf of our client, Mr. Wibblesley Eggshaw," said Sir Mallaby,swooping back to duty once more, "we beg to state that we are preparedto accept service ... what time did you dock this morning?"
"I landed nearly a week ago."
"A week ago! Then what the deuce have you been doing with yourself? Whyhaven't I seen you?"
"I've been down at Bingley-on-the-Sea."
"Bingley! What on earth were you doing at that God-forsaken place?"
"Wrestling with myself," said Sam with simple dignity.
Sir Mallaby's agile mind had leaped back to the letter which he wasanswering.
"We should be glad to meet you.... Wrestling, eh? Well, I like a boy tobe fond of manly sports. Still, life isn't all athletics. Don't forgetthat. Life is real! Life is ... how does it go, Miss Milliken?"
Miss Milliken folded her hands and shut her eyes, her invariable habitwhen called upon to recite.
"Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; dustthou art to dust returnest, was not spoken of the soul. Art is long andtime is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still likemuffled drums are beating, Funeral marches to the grave. Lives of greatmen all remind us we can make our lives sublime, and, departing, leavebehind us footsteps on the sands of Time. Let us then ..." said MissMilliken respectfully, ... "be up and doing...."
"All right, all right, all right!" said Sir Mallaby. "I don't want itall. Life is real! Life is earnest, Sam. I want to speak to you aboutthat when I've finished answering these letters. Where was I? 'We shouldbe glad to meet you at any time, if you will make an appointment....'Bingley-on-the-Sea! Good heavens! Why Bingley-on-the-Sea? Why notMargate while you were about it?"
"Margate is too bracing. I did not wish to be braced. Bingley suited mymood. It was grey and dark and it rained all the time, and the sea slunkabout in the distance like some baffled beast...."
He stopped, becoming aware that his father was not listening. SirMallaby's attention had returned to the letter.
"Oh, what's the good of answering the dashed thing at all?" said SirMallaby. "Brigney, Goole and Butterworth know perfectly well thatthey've got us in a cleft stick. Butterworth knows it better than Goole,and Brigney knows it better than Butterworth. This young fool, Eggshaw,Sam, admits that he wrote the girl twenty-three letters, twelve of themin verse, and twenty-one specifically asking her to marry him, and hecomes to me and expects me to get him out of it. The girl is suing himfor ten thousand."
"How like a woman!"
Miss Milliken bridled reproachfully at this slur on her sex. Sir Mallabytook no notice of it whatever.
"... if you will make an appointment, when we can discuss the matterwithout prejudice. Get those typed, Miss Milliken. Have a cigar, Sam.Miss Milliken, tell Peters as you go out that I am occupied with aconference and can see nobody for half an hour."
When Miss Milliken had withdrawn Sir Mallaby occupied ten seconds of theperiod which he had set aside for communion with his son in staringsilently at him.
"I'm glad you're back, Sam," he said at length. "I want to have a talkwith you. You know, it's time you were settling down. I've been thinkingabout you while you were in America and I've come to the conclusion thatI've been letting you drift along. Very bad for a young man. You'regetting on. I don't say you're senile, but you're not twenty-one anylonger, and at your age I was working like a beaver. You've got toremember that life is--dash it! I've forgotten it again." He broke offand puffed vigorously into the speaking tube. "Miss Milliken, kindlyrepeat what you were saying just now about life.... Yes, yes, that'senough!" He put down the instrument. "Yes, life is real, life isearnest," he said, gazing at Sam seriously, "and the grave is not ourgoal. Lives of great men all remind us we can make our lives sublime. Infact, it's time you took your coat off and started work."
"I am quite ready, father."
"You didn't hear what I said," exclaimed Sir Mallaby, with a look ofsurprise. "I said it was time you began work."
"And I said I was quite ready."
"Bless my soul! You've changed your views a trifle since I saw youlast."
"I have changed them altogether."
Long hours of brooding among the red plush settees in the lounge of theHotel Magnificent at Bingley-on-the-Sea had brought about this strange,even morbid, attitude of mind in Samuel Marlowe. Work, he had decided,was the only medicine for his sick soul. Here, he felt, in this quietoffice, far from the tumult and noise of the world, in a haven of tortsand misdemeanours and Vic. I. cap. 3's, and all the rest of it, he mightfind peace. At any rate, it was worth taking a stab at it.
"Your trip has done you good," said Sir Mallaby approvingly. "The seaair has given you some sense. I'm glad of it. It makes it easier for meto say something else that I've had on my mind for a good while. Sam,it's time you got married."
Sam barked bitterly. His father looked at him with concern.
"Swallow some smoke the wrong way?"
"I was laughing," explained Sam with dignity.
Sir Mallaby shook his head.
"I don't want to discourage your high spirits, but I must ask you toapproach this matter seriously. Marriage would do you a world of good,Sam. It would brace you up. You really ought to consider the idea. I wastwo years younger than you are when I married your poor mother, and itwas the making of me. A wife might make something of you."
"Impossible!"
"I don't see why she shouldn't. There's lots of good in you, my boy,though you may not think so."
"When I said it was impossible," said Sam coldly, "I was referring tothe impossibility of the possibility.... I mean, that it was impossiblethat I could possibly ... in other words, father, I can never marry. Myheart is dead."
"Your what?"
"My
heart."
"Don't be a fool. There's nothing wrong with your heart. All our familyhave had hearts like steam-engines. Probably you have been feeling asort of burning. Knock off cigars and that will soon stop."
"You don't understand me. I mean that a woman has treated me in a waythat has finished her whole sex as far as I am concerned. For me, womendo not exist."
"You didn't tell me about this," said Sir Mallaby, interested. "Whendid this happen? Did she jilt you?"
"Yes."
"In America, was it?"
"On the boat."
Sir Mallaby chuckled heartily.
"My dear boy, you don't mean to tell me that you're taking a shipboardflirtation seriously? Why, you're expected to fall in love with adifferent girl every time you go on a voyage. You'll get over this in aweek. You'd have got over it by now if you hadn't gone and buriedyourself in a depressing place like Bingley-on-the-Sea."
The whistle of the speaking-tube blew. Sir Mallaby put the instrument tohis ear.
"All right," he turned to Sam. "I shall have to send you away now, Sam.Man waiting to see me. Good-bye. By the way, are you doing anythingto-night?"
"No."
"Not got a wrestling match on with yourself, or anything like that?Well, come to dinner at the house. Seven-thirty. Don't be late."
Sam went out. As he passed through the outer office, Miss Millikenintercepted him.
"Oh, Mr. Sam!"
"Yes?"
"Excuse me, but will you be seeing Sir Mallaby again to-day?"
"I'm dining with him to-night."
"Then would you--I don't like to disturb him now, when he isbusy--would you mind telling him that I inadvertently omitted a stanza?It runs," said Miss Milliken, closing her eyes, "'Trust no future,howe'er pleasant! Let the dead past bury its dead! Act, act, in theliving present, Heart within and God o'erhead!' Thank you so much. Goodafternoon."
Sec. 2
Sam, reaching Bruton Street at a quarter past seven, was informed by thebutler who admitted him that his father was dressing and would be downin a few minutes. The butler, an old retainer of the Marlowe family,who, if he had not actually dandled Sam on his knees when an infant, hadknown him as a small boy, was delighted to see him again.
"Missed you very much, Mr. Samuel, we all have," he said affectionately,as he preceded him to the drawing-room.
"Yes?" said Sam absently.
"Very much indeed, sir. I happened to remark only the other day that theplace didn't seem the same without your happy laugh. It's good to seeyou back once more, looking so well and merry."
Sam stalked into the drawing-room with the feeling that comes to all ofus from time to time, that it is hopeless to struggle. The whole damnedcircle of his acquaintance seemed to have made up their minds that hehad not a care in the world, so what was the use? He lowered himselfinto a deep arm-chair and lit a cigarette.
Presently the butler reappeared with a cocktail on a tray. Sam drainedit, and scarcely had the door closed behind the old retainer when anabrupt change came over the whole outlook. It was as if he had been apianola and somebody had inserted a new record. Looking well and happy!He blew a smoke ring. Well, if it came to that, why not? Why shouldn'the look well and happy? What had he got to worry about? He was a youngman, fit and strong, in the springtide of life, just about to plungeinto an absorbing business. Why should he brood over a sentimentalepisode which had ended a little unfortunately? He would never see thegirl again. If anything in this world was certain, that was. She wouldgo her way, and he his. Samuel Marlowe rose from his chair a new man, togreet his father, who came in at that moment fingering a snowy whitetie.
Sam started at his parent's splendour in some consternation.
"Great Scot, father! Are you expecting a lot of people? I thought wewere dining alone."
"That's all right, my boy. A dinner-jacket is perfectly in order. Weshall be quite a small party. Six in all. You and I, a friend of mineand his daughter, a friend of my friend's friend and my friend'sfriend's son."
"Surely that's more than six!"
"No."
"It sounded more."
"Six," said Sir Mallaby firmly. He raised a shapely hand with thefingers outspread. "Count 'em for yourself." He twiddled his thumb."Number one--Bennett."
"Who?" cried Sam.
"Bennett. Rufus Bennett. He's an American over here for the summer.Haven't I ever mentioned his name to you? He's a great fellow. Alwaysthinking he's at death's door, but keeps up a fine appetite. I've beenhis legal representative in London for years. Then--" Sir Mallabytwiddled his first finger--"there's his daughter Wilhelmina, who hasjust arrived in England." A look of enthusiasm came into Sir Mallaby'sface. "Sam, my boy, I don't intend to say a word about Miss WilhelminaBennett, because I think there's nothing more prejudicial than singing aperson's praises in advance. I merely remark that I fancy you willappreciate her! I've only met her once, and then only for a few minutes,but what I say is, if there's a girl living who's likely to make youforget whatever fool of a woman you may be fancying yourself in lovewith at the moment, that girl is Wilhelmina Bennett! The others areBennett's friend, Henry Mortimer, also an American--a big lawyer, Ibelieve, on the other side--and his son Bream. I haven't met either ofthem. They ought to be here any moment now." He looked at his watch."Ah! I think that was the front door. Yes, I can hear them on thestairs."
The Girl on the Boat Page 9