CHAPTER I.

A DISTURBING MORNING

Through the curtained windows of the furnished flat which Mrs. Horace

Hignett had rented for her stay in New York, rays of golden sunlight

peeped in like the foremost spies of some advancing army. It was a fine

summer morning. The hands of the Dutch clock in the hall pointed to

thirteen minutes past nine; those of the ormolu clock in the

sitting-room to eleven minutes past ten; those of the carriage clock on

the bookshelf to fourteen minutes to six. In other words, it was

exactly eight; and Mrs. Hignett acknowledged the fact by moving her

head on the pillow, opening her eyes, and sitting up in bed. She always

woke at eight precisely.

Was this Mrs. Hignett _the_ Mrs. Hignett, the world-famous writer on

Theosophy, 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

fresh swarm of British lecturers to the country. Novelists, poets,

scientists, philosophers, and plain, ordinary bores; some herd instinct

seemed to affect them all simultaneously. It was like one of those

great race movements of the Middle Ages. Men and women of widely

differing views on religion, art, politics, and almost every other

subject; on this one point the intellectuals of Great Britain were

single-minded, that there was easy money to be picked up on the

lecture-platforms of America, and that 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 business

sense in this woman, and she meant to get hers while the getting was

good. She was half way across the Atlantic with a complete itinerary

booked, before ninety per cent. of the poets and philosophers had

finished sorting out their clean collars and getting their photographs

taken for the passport.

She had not left England without a pang, for departure had involved

sacrifices. More than anything else in the world she loved her charming

home, Windles, in the county of Hampshire, for so many years the seat

of the Hignett family. Windles was as the breath of life to her. Its

shady walks, its silver lake, its noble elms, the old grey stone of its

walls—these were bound up with her very being. She felt that she

belonged to Windles, and Windles to her. Unfortunately, as a matter of

cold, legal accuracy, it did not. She did but hold it in trust for her

son, Eustace, until such time as he should marry and take possession of

it himself. There were times when the thought of Eustace marrying and

bringing a strange woman to Windles chilled Mrs. Hignett to her very

marrow. Happily, her firm policy of keeping her son permanently under

her eye at home and never permitting him to have speech with a female

below the age of fifty, had averted the peril up till now.

Eustace had accompanied his mother to America. It was his faint snores

which she could hear in the adjoining room as, having bathed and

dressed, she went down the hall to where breakfast awaited her. She

smiled tolerantly. She had never desired to convert her son to her own

early-rising habits, for, apart from not allowing him to call his soul

his own, she was an indulgent mother. Eustace would get up at half-past

nine, 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 this

hell-brew, was a little pile of letters. Mrs. Hignett opened them as

she ate. The majority were from disciples and dealt with matters of

purely theosophical interest. There was an invitation from the

Butterfly Club, asking her to be the guest of honour at their weekly

dinner. There was a letter from her brother Mallaby—Sir Mallaby

Marlowe, the eminent London lawyer—saying that his son Sam, of whom she

had never approved, would be in New York shortly, passing through on

his way back to England, and hoping that she would see something of

him. Altogether a dull mail. Mrs. Hignett skimmed through it without

interest, setting aside one or two of the letters for Eustace, who

acted as her unpaid secretary, to answer later in the day.

She had just risen from the table, when there was a sound of voices in

the hall, and presently the domestic staff, a gaunt Irish lady of

advanced 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 a

moment 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 not

seen her nephew Sam for ten years, and would have been willing to

extend the period. She remembered him as an untidy small boy who once

or twice, during his school holidays, had disturbed the cloistral peace

of Windles with his beastly presence. However, blood being thicker than

water, and all that sort of thing, she supposed she would have to give

him five minutes. She went into the sitting-room, and found there a

young man who looked more or less like all other young men, though

perhaps rather fitter 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 was now about six feet in height, about forty inches

round the chest, and in weight about thirteen stone. He had a brown and

amiable face, marred at the moment by an expression of discomfort

somewhat akin to that of a cat in 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 and

disliked having her mornings broken into, was thinking that he had not

improved in the slightest degree since their last meeting; and Sam, who

imagined that he had long since grown to man’s estate and put off

childish things, was embarrassed to discover that his aunt still

affected him as of old. That is to say, she made him feel as if he had

omitted to shave and, in addition to that, had swallowed some drug

which had caused him to swell unpleasantly, particularly about the

hands and feet.

“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. I

like America myself,” said Sam. “I’ve had a wonderful time. Everybody’s

treated me like a rich uncle. I’ve been in Detroit, you know, and they

practically gave me the city and asked me if I’d like another to take

home in my pocket. Never saw anything like it. I might have been the

missing heir! I think America’s the greatest invention on record.”

“And what brought you to America?” said Mrs. Hignett, unmoved by this

rhapsody.

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

“Surely at your age,” said Mrs. Hignett, disapprovingly, “you could be

better 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 and

I 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

a stab 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 and

retiring temperament, and sees few women. He is almost a recluse.”

Sam was aware of this, and had frequently regretted it. He had always

been fond of his cousin in that half-amused and rather patronising way

in which men of thews and sinews are fond of the weaker brethren who

run more to pallor and intellect; and he had always felt that if

Eustace had not had to retire to Windles to spend his life with a woman

whom from his earliest years he had always considered the Empress of

the Washouts, much might have been made of him. Both at school and at

Oxford, Eustace had been—if not a sport—at least a decidedly cheery old

bean. Sam remembered Eustace at school, breaking gas globes with a

slipper in a positively rollicking manner. He remembered him at Oxford

playing up to him manfully at the piano on the occasion when he had

done that imitation of Frank Tinney which had been such a hit at the

Trinity smoker. Yes, Eustace had had the makings of a pretty sound egg,

and it was too bad that he had allowed his mother to coop him up down

in the country, miles away from anywhere.

“Eustace is returning to England on Saturday,” said Mrs. Hignett. She

spoke a little wistfully. She had not been parted from her son since he

had come down from Oxford; and she would have liked to keep him with

her till the end of her lecturing tour. That, however, was out of the

question. It was imperative that, while she was away, he should be at

Windles. Nothing would have induced her to leave the place at the mercy

of servants who might trample over the flowerbeds, scratch the polished

floors, 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’ll go 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 put

that extraordinary idea into your head?”

“I thought father said something about your letting the place to some

American.”

“Nothing of the kind!”

It seemed to Sam that his aunt spoke somewhat vehemently, even

snappishly, in correcting what was a perfectly natural mistake. He

could not know that the subject of letting Windles for the summer was

one which had long since begun to infuriate Mrs. Hignett. People had

certainly asked her to let Windles. In fact, people had pestered her.

There was a rich, fat man, an American named Bennett, whom she had met

just before sailing at her brother’s house in London. Invited down to

Windles for the day, Mr. Bennett had fallen in love with the place, and

had begged her to name her own price. Not content with this, he had

pursued her with his pleadings by means of the wireless telegraph while

she was on the ocean, and had not given up the struggle even when she

reached New York. She had not been in America two days when there had

arrived a Mr. Mortimer, bosom friend of Mr. Bennett, carrying on the

matter where the other had left off. For a whole week Mr. Mortimer had

tried to induce her to reconsider her decision, and had only stopped

because he had had to leave for England himself, to join his friend.

And even then the thing had gone on. Indeed, this very morning, among

the letters 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

“The Spreading 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 an

end—and glad of it—also got up.

“Well, I think I’ll be going down and seeing about that state-room,” he

said.

“Certainly. I am a little busy just now, preparing notes for my next

lecture.”

“Of course, yes. Mustn’t interrupt you. I suppose you’re having a great

time, gassing away—I mean—well, good-bye!”

“Good-bye!”

Mrs. Hignett, frowning, for the interview had ruffled her and disturbed

that equable frame of mind which is so vital to the preparation of

lectures on Theosophy, sat down at the writing-table and began to go

through the notes which she had made overnight. She had hardly

succeeded in concentrating herself when the door opened to admit the

daughter of Erin once more.

“Ma’am, there was a gentleman.”

“This is intolerable!” cried Mrs. Hignett. “Did you tell him that I was

busy?”

“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 Bream

Mortimer.”

“Bream Mortimer!”

“Yes, ma’am. He handed me a bit of a kyard, but I dropped it, being

slippy from the dishes.”

Mrs. Hignett strode to the door with a forbidding expression. This, as

she had justly remarked, was intolerable. She remembered Bream

Mortimer. He was the son of the Mr. Mortimer who wanted Windles. This

visit could only have to do with the subject of Windles, and she went

into the dining-room in a state of cold fury, determined to squash the

Mortimer family, in the person of their New York representative, once

and for all.

“Good morning, Mr. Mortimer.”

Bream Mortimer was tall and thin. He had small bright eyes and a

sharply curving nose. He looked much more like a parrot than most

parrots do. It gave strangers a momentary shock of surprise when they

saw Bream Mortimer in restaurants, eating roast beef. They had the

feeling that he would have preferred sunflower seeds.

“Morning, Mrs. Hignett.”

“Please sit down.”

Bream Mortimer looked as though he would rather have hopped on to a

perch, but he sat down. He glanced about the room with gleaming,

excited eyes.

“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 nothing

else. And now,” cried Mrs. Hignett, fiercely, “you come and try to

re-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 his

arms as if he were trying to flap them.

“You know,” he said, “I’m not a man who butts into other people’s

affairs....” 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 us

confine ourselves to issues of definite importance. What is it, if you

have 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 Little

Church 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 hang

around 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 positive

qualities, 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 her

maid.”

“Will you please tell me who is the girl my misguided son wishes to

marry?”

“I don’t know that I’d call him misguided,” said Mr. Mortimer, as one

desiring to be fair. “I think he’s a right smart picker! She’s such a

corking girl, you know. We were children together, and I’ve loved her

for years. Ten years at least. But you know how it is—somehow one never

seems to get in line for a proposal. I thought I saw an opening in the

summer of nineteen-twelve, but it blew over. I’m not one of these

smooth, dashing chaps, you see, with a great line of talk. I’m not....”

“If you will kindly,” said Mrs. Hignett impatiently, “postpone this

essay in psycho-analysis to some future occasion, I shall be greatly

obliged. I am waiting to hear the name of the girl my son wishes to

marry.”

“Haven’t I told you?” said Mr. Mortimer, surprised. “That’s odd. I

haven’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? The

red-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 the

thing.”

“I intend to.”

“Fine!”

“The marriage would be unsuitable in every way. Miss Bennett and my son

do 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 a

hundred times. I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve thought it.

Not the same colour. That’s the whole thing in a nutshell.”

“I am much obliged to you for coming and telling me of this. I shall

take immediate steps.”

“That’s good. But what’s the procedure? It’s getting late. She’ll be

waiting 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 off in 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 know

that I’d call it absolutely chivalrous. Of course, all’s fair in love

and war. Well, I’m glad you’re going to keep my share in the business

under your hat. It might have been awkward meeting him on board.”

“You are not likely to meet Eustace on board. He is a very indifferent

sailor 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 did

not see how it was humanly possible for anyone to forget this woman.

She was like a celebrated chewing-gum. The taste lingered.

Mrs. Hignett was a woman of instant and decisive action. Even while her

late visitor was speaking, schemes had begun to form in her mind like

bubbles rising to the surface of a rushing river. By the time the door

had closed behind Bream Mortimer she had at her disposal no fewer than

seven, all good. It took her but a moment to select the best and

simplest. She tiptoed softly to her son’s room. Rhythmic snores greeted

her listening ears. She opened the door and went noiselessly in.