“Because there’s something jolly well up! Our Miss B. is sending me with notes for him to the bottom of lanes.”
“And her engaged to young Mr. Mortimer!” said the scullery-maid shocked. “The way they go on! Chronic!” said the scullery-maid.
“Don’t you go getting alarmed. And don’t you,” added Webster, “go shoving your ear in when your social superiors are talking. I’ve had to speak to you about that before. My remarks were addressed to Mrs. Withers here.”
He indicated the cook with a respectful gesture.
“Yes, here’s the note, Mrs. Withers. Of course, if you had a steamy kettle handy, in about half a moment we could … but no, perhaps, it’s wiser not to risk it. And, come to that, I don’t need to unstick the envelope to know what’s inside here. It’s the raspberry, ma’am, or I’ve lost all my power to read the human female countenance. Very cold and proud-looking she was! I don’t know who this S. Marlowe is, but I do know one thing; in this hand I hold the instrument that’s going to give it him in the neck, proper! Right in the neck, or my name isn’t Montagu Webster!”
“Well!” said Mrs. Withers comfortably, pausing for a moment from her labours. “Think of that!”
“The way I look at it,” said Webster, “is that there’s been some sort of understanding between our Miss B. and this S. Marlowe, and she’s thought better of it and decided to stick to the man of her parent’s choice. She’s chosen wealth and made up her mind to hand the humble suitor the mitten. There was a rather similar situation in ‘Cupid or Mammon,’ that Nosegay Novelette I was reading in the train coming down here, only that ended different. For my part I’d be better pleased if our Miss B. would let the cash go, and obey the dictates of her own heart; but these modern girls are all alike. All out for the stuff, they are! Oh, well, it’s none of my affair,” said Webster, stifling a not unmanly sigh. For beneath that immaculate shirt-front there beat a warm heart. Montagu Webster was a sentimentalist.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A half-past two that afternoon, full of optimism and cold beef, gaily unconscious that Webster, with measured strides was approaching ever nearer with the note that was to give it him in the neck, proper, Samuel Marlowe dangled his feet from the top bar of the gate at the end of the lane and smoked contentedly as he waited for Billie to make her appearance. He had had an excellent lunch; his pipe was drawing well, and all Nature smiled. The breeze from the sea across the meadows, tickled pleasantly the back of his head, and sang a soothing song in the long grass and ragged-robins at his feet. He was looking forward with a roseate glow of anticipation to the moment when the white flutter of Billie’s dress would break the green of the foreground. How eagerly he would jump from the gate! How lovingly he would….
The elegant figure of Webster interrupted his reverie. Sam had never seen Webster before, and it was with no pleasure that he saw him now. He had come to regard this lane as his own property, and he resented trespassers. He tucked his legs under him, and scowled at Webster under the brim of his hat.
The valet advanced towards him with the air of an affable executioner stepping daintily to the block.
“Mr. Marlowe, sir?” he enquired politely.
Sam was startled. He could make nothing of this.
“Eh? What?”
“Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. S, Marlowe?”
“Yes, that’s my name.”
“Mine is Webster, sir, I am Mr. Bennett’s personal gentleman’s gentleman. Miss Bennett entrusted me with this note to deliver to you, sir.”
Sam began to grasp the situation. For some reason or other, the dear girl had been prevented from coming this afternoon, and she had written to explain and to relieve his anxiety. It was like her. It was just the sweet, thoughtful thing he would have expected her to do. His contentment with the existing scheme of things returned. The sun shone out again, and he found himself amiably disposed towards the messenger.