CHAPTER XI
MR. BENNETT HAS A BAD NIGHT
The fragment of a lobster-shell which had entered Mr. Bennett's tongueat twenty minutes to two in the afternoon was still in occupation athalf-past eleven that night, when that persecuted gentleman blew out hiscandle and endeavoured to compose himself for a night's slumber. Itsunconscious host had not yet been made aware of its presence. He had avague feeling that the tip of his tongue felt a little sore, but hismind was too engrossed with the task of keeping a look-out for thepreliminary symptoms of mumps to have leisure to bestow much attentionon this phenomenon. The discomfort it caused was not sufficient to keephim awake, and presently he turned on his side and began to fill theroom with a rhythmical snoring.
How pleasant if one could leave him so--the good man taking his rest.Facts, however, are facts; and, having crept softly from Mr. Bennett'sside with the feeling that at last everything is all right with him, weare compelled to return three hours later to discover that everything isall wrong. It is so dark in the room that our eyes can at first discernnothing; then, as we grow accustomed to the blackness, we perceive himsitting bolt upright in bed, staring glassily before him, while with thefirst finger of his right hand he touches apprehensively the tip of hisprotruding tongue.
At this point Mr. Bennett lights his candle--one of the charms ofWindles was the old-world simplicity of its lighting system--and we areenabled to get a better view of him.
Mr. Bennett sat in the candlelight with his tongue out and the firstbeads of a chilly perspiration bedewing his forehead. It was impossiblefor a man of his complexion to turn pale, but he had turned as pale ashe could. Panic gripped him. A man whose favourite reading was medicalencyclopaedias, he needed no doctor to tell him that this was the end.Fate had dealt him a knockout blow; his number was up; and in a veryshort while now people would be speaking of him in the past tense andsaying what a pity it all was.
A man in Mr. Bennett's position experiences strange emotions, and manyof them. In fact, there are scores of writers, who, reckless of the costof white paper, would devote two chapters at this point to an analysisof the unfortunate man's reflections and be glad of the chance. It issufficient, however, merely to set on record that there was no stint.Whatever are the emotions of a man in such a position, Mr. Bennett hadthem. He had them all, one after another, some of them twice. He wentright through the list from soup to nuts, until finally he reachedremorse. And, having reached remorse, he allowed that to monopolise him.
In his early days, when he was building up his fortune, Mr. Bennett hadfrequently done things to his competitors in Wall Street which would nothave been tolerated in the purer atmosphere of a lumber-camp, and, if hewas going to be remorseful about anything, he might well have started bybeing remorseful about that. But it was on his most immediate past thathis wistful mind lingered. He had quarrelled with his lifelong friend,Henry Mortimer. He had broken off his daughter's engagement with adeserving young man. He had spoken harsh words to his faithful valet.The more Mr. Bennett examined his conduct, the deeper the iron enteredinto his soul.
Fortunately, none of his acts were irreparable. He could undo them. Hecould make amends. The small hours of the morning are not perhaps themost suitable time for making amends, but Mr. Bennett was too remorsefulto think of that. Do It Now had ever been his motto, so he started byringing the bell for Webster.
The same writers who would have screamed with joy at the chance ofdilating on Mr. Bennett's emotions would find a congenial task indescribing the valet's thought-processes when the bell roused him froma refreshing sleep at a few minutes after three a.m. However, by thetime he entered his employer's room he was his own calm self again.
"Good morning, sir," he remarked equably. "I fear that it will be thematter of a few minutes to prepare your shaving water. I was not aware,"said Webster in manly apology for having been found wanting, "that youintended rising so early."
"Webster," said Mr. Bennett, "I'm a dying man!"
"Indeed, sir?"
"A dying man!" repeated Mr. Bennett.
"Very good, sir. Which of your suits would you wish me to lay out?"
Mr. Bennett had the feeling that something was going wrong with thescene.
"Webster," he said, "this morning we had an unfortunatemisunderstanding. I'm sorry."
"Pray don't mention it, sir."
"I was to blame. Webster, you have been a faithful servant! You havestuck to me, Webster, through thick and thin!" said Mr. Bennett, who hadhalf persuaded himself by this time that the other had been in thefamily for years instead of having been engaged at a registry-office alittle less than a month ago. "Through thick and thin!" repeated Mr.Bennett.
"I have endeavoured to give satisfaction, sir."
"I want to reward you, Webster."
"Thank you very much, sir."
"Take my trousers!"
Webster raised a deprecating hand.
"No, no, sir, thanking you exceedingly, I couldn't really! You will needthem, sir, and I assure you I have an ample supply."
"Take my trousers," repeated Mr. Bennett, "and feel in the right-handpocket. There is some money there."
"I'm sure I'm very much obliged, sir," said Webster, beginning for thefirst time to feel that there was a bright side. He embarked upon thetreasure-hunt. "The sum is sixteen pounds eleven shillings andthreepence, sir."
"Keep it!"
"Thank you very much, sir. Would there be anything further, sir?"
"Why, no," said Mr. Bennett, feeling dissatisfied nevertheless. Therehad been a lack of the deepest kind of emotion in the interview, and hisyearning soul resented it. "Why, no."
"Good-night, sir."
"Stop a moment. Which is Mr. Mortimer's room?"
"Mr. Mortimer, senior, sir? It is at the further end of this passage, onthe left facing the main staircase. Good-night, sir. I am extremelyobliged. I will bring you your shaving-water when you ring."
Mr. Bennett, left alone, mused for awhile, then, rising from his bed,put on his dressing-gown, took his candle, and went down the passage.
In a less softened mood, the first thing Mr. Bennett would have done oncrossing the threshold of the door facing the staircase would have beento notice resentfully that Mr. Mortimer, with his usual astuteness, hadcollared the best bedroom in the house. The soft carpet gave out nosound as Mr. Bennett approached the wide and luxurious bed. The light ofthe candle fell on the back of a semi-bald head. Mr. Mortimer wassleeping with his face buried in the pillow. It cannot have been goodfor him, but that was what he was doing. From the portion of the pillowin which his face was buried strange gurgles proceeded, like the distantrumble of an approaching train on the Underground.
"Mortimer," said Mr. Bennett.
The train stopped at a station to pick up passengers, and rumbled onagain.
"Henry!" said Mr. Bennett, and nudged his sleeping friend in the smallof the back.
"Leave it on the mat," mumbled Mr. Mortimer, stirring slightly anduncovering one corner of his mouth.
Mr. Bennett began to forget his remorse in a sense of injury. He feltlike a man with a good story to tell who can get nobody to listen tohim. He nudged the other again, more vehemently this time. Mr. Mortimermade a noise like a gramophone when the needle slips, moved restlesslyfor a moment, then sat up, staring at the candle.
"Rabbits! Rabbits! Rabbits!" said Mr. Mortimer, and sank back again. Hehad begun to rumble before he touched the pillow.
"What do you mean, rabbits?" said Mr. Bennett sharply.
The not unreasonable query fell on deaf ears. Mr. Mortimer was alreadyentering a tunnel.
"Much too pink!" he murmured as the pillow engulfed him.
What steps Mr. Bennett would have taken at this juncture, one cannotsay. Probably he would have given the thing up in despair and retired,for it is weary work forgiving a sleeping man. But, as he bent above hisslumbering friend, a drop of warm grease detached itself from the candleand fell into Mr. Mortimer's exposed ear. The sleeper wakene
d.
"What? What? What?" he exclaimed, bounding up. "Who's that?"
"It's me--Rufus," said Mr. Bennett. "Henry, I'm dying!"
"Drying?"
"Dying!"
Mr. Mortimer yawned cavernously. The mists of sleep were engulfing himagain.
"Eight rabbits sitting on the lawn," he muttered. "But too pink! Muchtoo pink!"
And, as if considering he had borne his full share in the conversationand that no more could be expected of him, he snuggled down into thepillow again.
Mr. Bennett's sense of injury became more acute. For a moment he wasstrongly tempted to try the restorative effects of candle-grease oncemore, but, just as he was on the point of succumbing, a shooting pain,as if somebody had run a red-hot needle into his tongue, reminded himof his situation. A dying man cannot pass his last hours droppingcandle-grease into people's ears. After all, it was perhaps a littlelate, and there would be plenty of time to become reconciled to Mr.Mortimer to-morrow. His task now was to seek out Bream and bring him theglad news of his renewed engagement.
He closed the door quietly, and proceeded upstairs. Bream's bedroom, heknew, was the one just off the next landing. He turned the handlequietly, and went in. Having done this, he coughed.
"Drop that pistol!" said the voice of Jane Hubbard immediately, withquiet severity. "I've got you covered!"
Mr. Bennett had no pistol, but he dropped the candle. It would have beena nice point to say whether he was more perturbed by the discovery thathe had got into the wrong room, and that room a lady's, or by the factthat the lady whose wrong room it was had pointed what appeared to be asmall cannon at him over the foot of the bed. It was not, as a matter offact, a cannon but the elephant gun, which Miss Hubbard carried with hereverywhere--a girl's best friend.
"My dear young lady!" he gasped.
On the five occasions during recent years on which men had entered hertent with the object of murdering her, Jane Hubbard had shot withoutmaking inquiries. What strange feminine weakness it was that had causedher to utter a challenge on this occasion, she could not have said.Probably it was due to the enervating effects of civilisation. She wasglad now that she had done so, for, being awake and in full possessionof her faculties, she perceived that the intruder, whoever he was, hadno evil intentions.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"I don't know how to apologise!"
"That's all right! Let's have a light." A match flared in the darkness.Miss Hubbard lit her candle, and gazed at Mr. Bennett with quietcuriosity. "Walking in your sleep?" she inquired.
"No, no!"
"Not so loud! You'll wake Mr. Hignett. He's next door. That's why I tookthis room, in case he was restless in the night."
"I want to see Bream Mortimer," said Mr. Bennett.
"He's in my old room, two doors along the passage. What do you want tosee him about?"
"I wish to inform him that he may still consider himself engaged to mydaughter."
"Oh, well, I don't suppose he'll mind being woken up to hear that. Butwhat's the idea?"
"It's a long story."
"That's all right. Let's make a night of it."
"I am a dying man. I awoke an hour ago with a feeling of acute pain...."
Miss Hubbard listened to the story of his symptoms with interest butwithout excitement.
"What nonsense!" she said at the conclusion.
"I assure you...."
"I'd like to bet it's nothing serious at all."
"My dear young lady," said Mr. Bennett, piqued. "I have devoted aconsiderable part of my life to medical study...."
"I know. That's the trouble. People oughtn't to be allowed to readmedical books."
"Well, we need not discuss it," said Mr. Bennett stiffly. He resentedbeing dragged out of the valley of the shadow of death by the scruff ofhis neck like this. A dying man has his dignity to think of. "I willleave you now, and go and see young Mortimer." He clung to a hope thatBream Mortimer at least would receive him fittingly. "Good-night!"
"But wait a moment!"
Mr. Bennett left the room, unheeding. He was glad to go. Jane Hubbardirritated him.
His expectation of getting more satisfactory results from Bream wasfulfilled. It took some time to rouse that young man from a slumberalmost as deep as his father's; but, once roused, he showed a gratifyingappreciation of the gravity of affairs. Joy at one half of his visitor'snews competed with consternation and sympathy at the other half. Hethanked Mr. Bennett profusely, showed a fitting concern on learning ofhis terrible situation, and evinced a practical desire to help byoffering him a bottle of liniment which he had found useful forgnat-stings. Declining this, though not ungratefully, Mr. Bennettwithdrew and made his way down the passage again with somethingapproaching a glow in his heart. The glow lasted till he had almostreached the landing, when it was dissipated by a soft but compellingvoice from the doorway of Miss Hubbard's room.
"Come here!" said Miss Hubbard. She had put on a blue bath-robe, andlooked like a pugilist about to enter the ring.
"Well?" said Mr. Bennett coldly, coming nevertheless.
"I'm going to have a look at that tongue of yours," said Jane firmly."It's my opinion that you're making a lot of fuss over nothing."
Mr. Bennett drew himself up as haughtily as a fat man in a dressing-gowncan, but the effect was wasted on his companion, who had turned and goneinto her room.
"Come in here," she said.
Tougher men than Mr. Bennett had found it impossible to resist the noteof calm command in that voice, but for all that he reproached himselffor his weakness in obeying.
"Sit down!" said Jane Hubbard.
She indicated a low stool beside the dressing-table.
"Put your tongue out!" she said, as Mr. Bennett, still under her strangeinfluence, lowered himself on to the stool. "Further out! That's right.Keep it like that!"
"Ouch!" exclaimed Mr. Bennett, bounding up.
"Don't make such a noise! You'll wake Mr. Hignett. Sit down again!"
"I...."
"Sit down!"
Mr. Bennett sat down. Miss Hubbard extended once more the hand holdingthe needle which had caused his outcry. He winced away from itdesperately.
"Baby!" said Miss Hubbard reprovingly. "Why, I once sewed eighteenstitches in a native bearer's head, and he didn't make half the fussyou're making. Now, keep quite still."
Mr. Bennett did--for perhaps the space of two seconds. Then he leapedfrom his seat once more. It was a tribute to the forceful personality ofthe fair surgeon, if one were needed, that the squeal he uttered was asubdued one. He was just about to speak--he had framed the opening wordsof a strong protest--when suddenly he became aware of something in hismouth, something small and hard. He removed it and examined it as it layon his finger. It was a minute fragment of lobster-shell. And at thesame time he became conscious of a marked improvement in the state ofhis tongue. The swelling had gone.
"I told you so!" said Jane Hubbard placidly. "What is it?"
"It--it appears to be a piece of...."
"Lobster-shell. And we had lobster for lunch. Good-night."
Half-way down the stairs, it suddenly occurred to Mr. Bennett that hewanted to sing. He wanted to sing very loud, and for quite some time. Herestrained the impulse, and returned to bed. But relief such as his wastoo strong to keep bottled up. He wanted to tell someone all about it.He needed a confidant.
Webster, the valet, awakened once again by the ringing of his bell,sighed resignedly and made his way downstairs.
"Did you ring, sir?"
"Webster," cried Mr. Bennett, "it's all right! I'm not dying after all!I'm not dying after all, Webster!"
"Very good, sir," said Webster. "Will there be anything further?"
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