“I can quite see that it would,” agreed Mrs. Hignett. “One’s first step across the threshold of a new mind, one’s first glimpse….”
“Yes, it makes you feel….”
“Like some watcher of the skies,” said Mrs. Hignett, “when a new planet swims into his ken, or like….”
“Yes, doesn’t it!” said Jane.
Eustace, who had been listening to the conversation with every muscle tense, in much the same mental attitude as that of a peaceful citizen in a Wild West saloon who holds himself in readiness to dive under a table directly the shooting begins, began to relax. What he had shrinkingly anticipated would be the biggest thing since the Dempsey-Carpentier fight seemed to be turning into a pleasant social and literary evening not unlike what he imagined a meeting of old Vassar alumni must be. For the first time since his mother had come into the room he indulged in the luxury of a deep breath.
“But what are you doing here?” asked Mrs. Hignett, returning almost reluctantly to the main issue.
Eustace perceived that he had breathed too soon. In an unobtrusive way he subsided into the bed and softly pulled the sheets over his head, following the excellent tactics of the great Duke of Wellington in his Peninsular campaign. “When in doubt,” the Duke used to say, “retire and dig yourself in.”
“I’m nursing dear Eustace,” said Jane.
Mrs. Hignett quivered, and cast an eye on the hump in the bedclothes which represented dear Eustace. A cold fear had come upon her.
“‘Dear Eustace’!” she repeated mechanically.
“We’re engaged,” said Jane. “We got engaged this morning. That’s how he sprained his ankle. When I accepted him, he tried to jump a holly-bush.”
“Engaged! Eustace, is this true?”
“Yes,” said a muffled voice from the interior of the bed.
“And poor Eustace is so worried,” continued Jane, “about the house.” She went on quickly. “He doesn’t want to deprive you of it, because he knows what it means to you. So he is hoping—we are both hoping—that you will accept it as a present when we are married. We really shan’t want it, you know. We are going to live in London. So you will take it, won’t you—to please us?”
We all of us, even the greatest of us, have our moments of weakness. Let us then not express any surprise at the sudden collapse of one of the world’s greatest female thinkers. As the meaning of this speech smote on Mrs. Horace Hignett’s understanding, she sank weeping into a chair. The ever-present fear that had haunted her had been exorcised. Windles was hers in perpetuity. The relief was too great. She sat in her chair and gulped: and Eustace, greatly encouraged, emerged slowly from the bedclothes like a worm after a thunderstorm.
How long this poignant scene would have lasted, one cannot say. It is a pity that it was cut short, for I should have liked to dwell upon it. But at this moment, from the regions downstairs, there suddenly burst upon the silent night such a whirlwind of sound as effectually dissipated the tense emotion in the room. Somebody had touched off the orchestrion in the drawing-room, and that willing instrument had begun again in the middle of a bar at the point where it had been switched off. Its wailing lament for the passing of Summer filled the whole house.
“That’s too bad!” said Jane, a little annoyed. “At this time of night!”
“It’s the burglars!” quavered Mrs. Hignett. In the stress of recent events she had completely forgotten the existence of those enemies of society. “They were dancing in the hall when I arrived, and now they’re playing the orchestrion!”
“Light-hearted chaps!” said Eustace, admiring the sang-froid of the criminal world. “Full of spirits!”
“This won’t do,” said Jane Hubbard, shaking her head. “We can’t have this sort of thing. I’ll go and fetch my gun.”
“They’ll murder you, dear!” panted Mrs. Hignett, clinging to her arm.
Jane Hubbard laughed.
“Murder me!” she said, amusedly. “I’d like to catch them at it!”
Mrs. Hignett stood staring at the door as Jane closed it safely behind her.
“Eustace,” she said, solemnly, “that is a wonderful girl!”