Enter Fairy Godmother
1
Dinner that night had been a melancholy business for the sisters.
During the day the anodyne of action had brought them at times almost
to cheerfulness; but from the moment when they had left the chambers
of the great Marshall’s junior, their spirits had begun steadily to
evaporate.
Of the two, perhaps Lucia suffered the most. She was older. She had
not the ingenuousness which enabled Dora to take at their face value
the reassurance of barristers and the like. And she suffered, though
she would barely admit it to herself, from a complication of
anxieties.
As the evening grew old so she grew angry and more angry—and always
with Lucia Lemesurier. She felt something of contempt for herself.
Surely a woman of thirty—Heavens, what age!—should have more feeling,
more decency, when her little sister was in trouble so grave, than to
offer only half her mind for the duty of consolation? Surely it was
hardly—hardly seemly for this middle-aged woman to be—well, worrying,
at such a time as this, over a petty quarrel with a man she barely
knew? Yet, yet—well, he might have answered that note if he couldn’t
come.
Lucia took herself in hand. This must stop! She looked across the
pretty room to where Dora lay coiled upon a sofa, a book held before
her face.
Lucia conceived suspicions of that book. She investigated, to find
them well-founded. The book was upside down; the face behind it was
disfigured by tear-laden, swollen eyes.
Contrite, Lucia attempted consolation, and was in a measure
successful. For an hour—perhaps two—Dora lay with her head on her
sister’s breast.
“Feeling better, dear?” Lucia said at last.
Dora nodded. “I do. Really I do. Sorry ’m such a little idiot. Only
it’s—it’s—I can’t help thinking, wondering—oh, what’s the good?
Everything’s going to be all right. It’s got to be! It _must_ be!”
“Of course it will.” Lucia stroked the red-gold hair.
Dora sat upright, hands pressed to flushed cheeks.
“Don’t know why I’m behaving in such a _damn’_ silly way!” she burst
out. “You ought to shake me, darling, instead of being so sweet. Look
at Archie. He’s wonderful! And he’d hate it if he knew I was
slobbering here like a nasty schoolgirl. He says it’ll be all right!
And so does Colonel Gethryn.”
Lucia drew away; then silently reviled herself. Why, why in Heaven’s
name, should mention of this man affect her?
But Dora went on. Dora was no fool, and Dora was interested. A good
thing for Dora; for a moment it lifted from her that black pall of
brooding fear.
“Weren’t you surprised, Loo, when Archie told us this morning about
Mr. Gethryn really being Colonel Gethryn? And all those wonderful
things he did in the war with the Secret What-d’you-call-it?”
“No,” said Lucia absently. Then hurried mendaciously to correct
herself. “Yes, I mean. I was surprised. Very much!” She felt a hot
flush mount to her cheeks. This did not lesson her annoyance with
Lucia Lemesurier.
Came a silence, broken at last by the younger sister.
“I,” she said, with a gallant attempt at frivolity, “am going to
repair to my chamber, there to remove traces of these ignoble tears.”
And she hurried from the room.
Lucia stared a moment at the closed door; then sank back into the
softness of the couch. Her thoughts cannot be described with any
clarity. They were, as may be imagined, again a jumble. One moment she
would smile at some secret thought; another would find her tense,
pale, vivid imagination of horrors to come to her sister and her
sister’s lover possessing her.
Would everything, as she had so confidently said, be “all right”?
Would miracles indeed be worked by this—by Colonel Gethryn? How absurd
the “Colonel” sounded! Colonels, surely, were purple, fat, and
white-moustached, not tall, lean, “hawky” persons with disturbing
green eyes.
She was startled from her reverie. Had she heard anything? Yes, there
it was again—a tapping on the window. The thunder had stopped now, and
the sound came sharply through the soft hissing of the rain.
There is always something sinister in a knocking upon a window. With a
jump one exchanges the dull safety of ordinary life for the
uncomfortable excitement of the sensational novel. Lucia, her nerves
wrecked by the emotions of the past week and further jarred by the
noise of the storm, sprang to her feet and stood straining her eyes,
wide, startled and black as velvet shadows, towards the French
windows.
The tapping came again, insistent. She took hold of her courage,
crossed the room, and flung them open.
Anthony stepped across the sill. He was, as he had left Mr. Lucas ten
minutes before, without hat or mackintosh. He seemed, as indeed he
was, serenely unconscious of his appearance. But the pallor of
fatigue, the blazing eyes, the labouring breath, the hatless head
shining with wet, the half-sodden clothes, all had their effect upon
Lucia. It had been for her an evening of horror. Now, surely, here was
news of worse.
Her eyes questioned him. Her heart hammered at her breast. Speech she
found impossible.
Anthony bowed. “Enter Fairy Godmother,” he said. “Preserve absolute
calm. The large Mr. Deacon is a free man. Repentant policemen are busy
scouring his ’scutcheon. I think it not unlikely that he will be here
within an hour or so.”
Lucia was left without breath. “Oh—why—what——” she gasped.
He smiled at her. “Please preserve absolute calm. My nerves aren’t
what they were. What do we do next? Tell little sister, I imagine.”
“You—I—I——” she stammered, and rushed from the room.
Anthony, having first covered the seat with a convenient newspaper,
sank into a chair.
He communed with himself. “Lord, I’m wet! How is it that I can be
melodramatic as well? I must curb this passion for effect. Still, it
kept her off any expressions of gratitude and the like. Good God!
Gratitude! It’s not that I want. And what do I want? All. Yes, all!
But I must go softly. One must wait.” He shook himself. “And anyhow,
you blasted idiot, what chance _can_ you have?” He grew depressed.
The door burst open. There was a flurry of skirts. Dora, transfigured,
rushed at him as he rose, words pouring from her. Anthony was dazed.
He waved hands to stem the flood. Arms were thrown about his neck.
Warm lips were pressed to his cheek. Another flurry—and she was gone.
Anthony looked after. “If you were your sister, my dear,” said he to
himself, “escape would’ve been more difficult.”
The door opened again. This time it is Lucia, composed now and more
mistress of herself than for days past. With relief, her sense of
humour had returned in full strength; there is nothing more steadying
than one’s sense of humour.
Anthony was still on his feet. She looked first at him and then at the
damp pages of the _Telegraph_ covering the chair. She began to laugh.
He was well content; the most seductive, the most pleasant sound
within his experience.
He stood smiling at her. The laughter grew. Then, with an effort, she
controlled it.
“I’m sorry. Only I couldn’t help it. Really I couldn’t!” Her tone was
contrite.
“And why should you?” Anthony asked. “But I hope you appreciate my
tender care of your cushions.”
She seated herself, waving him back to his chair. “Oh, I do! I think
it was wonderful of you to—to think about my furniture at a time like
this. But then you’re by way of being rather a wonderful person,
aren’t you?”
“You deceive yourself if you mean that,” said Anthony. “A matter of
common sense plus imagination; that’s all. The mixture’s rare, I
admit, but there’s no food for wonder in it.” He hardly heard his own
words. He found clear thought an effort. He wanted only to be left in
peace to look at her and look and look again. He found himself glad,
somehow, that to-night she was not in an evening gown. The simplicity
of her clothes, perfect though they were, seemed to make her,
paradoxically, less remote.
She smiled at him. “Now, please, you must tell me all about
everything.”
Anthony groaned.
“Pleeease.”
“Must I?” He raised feeble hands.
“Of course, you silly person, I don’t really mean ‘everything.’ How
could I when you’re so tired, so awfully tired! But you come here all
strange and mysterious and dramatic and simply tell us that Archie’s
all right. How _can_ one help being curious? Why is he all right? Have
you only persuaded them that he didn’t do it? Or have you shown them
the person that really did?”
“The second,” Anthony said, covertly feasting his eyes.
“Who? Who?” She had risen in her excitement.
Anthony looked up at her, and looking, forgot the question.
She stamped her foot. “Oh, you irritating man!” she cried, and shook
him by the shoulder. “Tell me at once!”
“It was—Digby-Coates,” said Anthony slowly, fearing the news might
affect her deeply.
She took that in silence. Whether astonishment or other emotions had
affected her he could not at the moment discern. Her next words told
him.
“I suppose”—her tone was thoughtful—“that I ought to be surprised. And
horrified. But somehow I’m not. I don’t mean, you know, that I ever
suspected him or anything like that. But I’m just not awfully
surprised, that’s all.”
It dawned upon Anthony that if he were not to seem a boor he must make
an effort at intelligence. He strove to quiet the exuberant agility
his heart had exhibited since her hand had touched his shoulder.
He did his best. “You didn’t like him, I gather,” he said.
She shook her head. “No. Not that I really disliked him. I just wasn’t
quite comfortable whenever he was with me. You know. I always had to
be nice, of course. Before my husband died they were always together.
You see, they had the same tastes. They were about the same age, too.”
She relapsed into silence.
“So they were much of an age, were they?” Anthony said to himself.
“Now, that’s illuminating. Coates is over fifty.” He was about to
speak aloud, but was forestalled.
“What on earth must you think of me?” Lucia cried. “Here are you,
that’ve done all these miracles for us, all tired and wet, and I’m
sitting here as if this was afternoon tea at the Vicar’s.” She ran to
the bell. “First, you must have a drink. Whisky? That’s the second
time I’ve forgotten my hospitality when you’ve been here.”
Anthony got his drink. When he had finished the second,
“You,” she said, “must go back to your inn. And you’ll have to walk,
poor thing. My little car’s been out of action for a fortnight and
I’ve sent away the one we hired for to-day. But the walk may do you
good. You’ll get warm.”
Anthony set down his tumbler. “Exit Fairy Godmother.”
The great eyes burned him with their reproach.
“That’s not fair,” she said, and Anthony could have kicked himself.
“You know it isn’t! What I want to do is to offer you a bed here.
Well, there’s a bed, but nothing else. No razor. No pyjamas even.
You’d be uncomfortable. And you’ve simply _got_ to take care of
yourself to-night!”
Anthony rose. “Forgive me. It seems my fate always to be rude to you.
And you’re quite right.” He moved towards the door.
She followed him. With his fingers on the handle, he paused. “Damn
it!” he thought. “She’s hard enough to resist when one’s in full
command of oneself. But now! Oh, Jupiter, aid me!”
He prepared to make his adieux. She touched him on the arm.
“One more question before you go.” She smiled at him, and Anthony
caught his breath. “Was I—am I—oh! I mean, is my evidence part of your
case? You know, about my being outside the window that night—what I
saw——”
“Two of my main objects,” Anthony said, “have been to get Deacon off
and to keep you and your brother out. I think I’ve done both. I
thought at one time that I couldn’t round off the business without
dragging you in. But the gods were good and dropped into my hands a
little man who knew as much and a deal more than you. I exulted. I
still exult. Like Stalky, I gloat!” He thumped his chest with an air.
“I know everything; but I shan’t tell. I know so much that I could
tell you almost to a minute what time it was when you looked through
the window of Hoode’s study—and that’s more than you know yourself.
But I won’t tell. Your secret, lady, is safe with me!”
She laughed; but there was something more than laughter in the sound.
“I think,” she said slowly, “that you are a very perfect—Fairy
Godmother! And now you must go, or you’ll have pneumonia. And if you
did you might never hear those thanks I’m going to give you”—she
smiled, and he saw with wonder that the dark eyes were glistening with
tears—“_after_ I’ve apologised for behaving as I did the other night.”
She paused; then burst out: “And, please, will you shake hands?”
Anthony looked at the white fingers held out towards him. The last
shreds of self-control went flying.
“No, by God, I won’t!” he shouted.
Lucia, amazed, was caught in long arms. Kisses were rained upon her
mouth, her eyes, her hair, her throat. She strove with hands against
his chest.
The great eyes blazed dark fire into his above them. “Let go! Let go,
I say! _Will_ you let me go!” The words came between her teeth.
Some measure of sanity returned to him. His arms dropped to his sides.
Lucia, released, fell back against the wall. There she remained, hands
behind her and pressed her to the panelling. Her eyes (“God! what
eyes!” thought poor Anthony) never left his face.
He said very heavily: “I suppose—I suppose I’ve been presumptuous. Oh!
I’ll grant you it was unpardonable. But, Lord, there’s reason enough
for my madness. I know I’m ridiculous. I feel, believe me, sufficient
dislike of myself. But I make this excuse for the inexcusable.” He
paused and moistened his lips. They were parched, dry.
The woman stayed half-leaning, half-crouching, against the wall. Still
those eyes were fixed upon his.
Anthony went on: “I offer this excuse, I say. It is that I love you.
Oh, I know I’m laughable! You can tell me I’ve only known you for—what
is it?—three days. You can tell me that I have only been in your
company for a few—a very few—hours of those days. You can tell me all
this and more. You can tell me that I know nothing of you nor you of
me. And to it all I answer: Days? Time? Hours? Friendship? What have
all these to do with me? I love you.”
The diffidence born of contrition for his treatment of her was fading
fast. He came a step nearer.
“D’you hear what I say? I love you. I love you. I love you! From the
first moment I saw you—in this room here—when I had come to make you
tell me what you knew, from that moment, in that moment, I loved you.”
He straightened himself and flung out both hands in a gesture almost
Latin. “And, by God, can I be blamed? Can I be blamed for what I did
just now, I say? For a hundred hours that were a hundred years I have
been obsessed by you. Your hair—that black net of beautiful magic;
your eyes—those great dark windows of your heart—they have been with
me all those hundred hours that were a life-time. I have drowned my
soul in those eyes of yours, Madonna Lucia. I have——”
“Oh, stop, stop! What are you saying? This is all madness! Madness!”
She was erect now, hands pressed to flaming cheeks.
But he would not stop. “Oh, I haven’t finished!” He laughed—a wild
sound. “Not yet. You say this is madness. What is it that has made me
mad? It is you, you, you! You—your face, your body, all the
unbelievable wonder of you! You say that I am mad. I say that I am
sane. What could be saner than a man who tells you, as I have told
you, that he loves you? For how could any man help loving you?
Madness, the real madness, would have lain in not telling you.” He
came close and caught her hands and carried them to his lips. Fingers,
palms, wrists, he covered them with kisses.
He straightened himself and released her. “And that,” he said wearily,
“is that. I’m afraid I’ve grown dramatic. Forgive me.”
She did not speak. Anthony looked down; he could not trust himself to
meet those eyes.
“And so now,” he said, “I’ll go.” He turned to the door.
There came a voice from behind him.
“But—but”—it stammered deliciously —“but please, I don’t _want_ you to
go. Please will you come back.”
2
“On Saturday,” said Anthony in his lady’s ear—one chair held them
both—“on Saturday we leave this England. Before I’m wanted at this
unpleasant trial a fortnight or three weeks will elapse, if I know
anything of English justice. In that time, lady, we will paint a
girdle of colour about the earth—or some of it at least.” His clasp
tightened about her shoulders. “Shall we? Shall we? I want to take you
away, right away! I want to show you places you’ve never seen before
though you may have been in them many times. Where shall it be? Paris?
Brittany? Sicily? Madrid? Any’ll be a better heaven than is really
possible.”
To their ears came the hum of a car. As they listened, it grew louder;
and yet louder. The car swept up the drive; halted. Down the stairs
and past the door of the drawing-room came flying feet—Dora’s.
“Archie. It’s Archie!” Lucia struggled to free herself.
Anthony held her closer. “Never mind Archibald, Answer me, woman! Do
we leave England on Saturday?”
They heard the heavy front-door flung open; then a cry of delight;
then silence.
“Let me down! Oh, do let me down!” Lucia begged. “Tony, pleeease!
They’ll be in here in a minute.”
He released her, only to snatch her to him again when both were on
their feet.
He held her close. “You’ve got to answer, you know. Do we leave
England——”
“Oh, yes. All right, all right! but haven’t you forgotten something?”
He felt laughter shake her body.
“Forgotten something?” he said. “No, don’t think so.”
She drew his face down to hers. “Don’t we get married at all?” she
whispered.
“Hell!” said Anthony. “I’d forgotten that. Damn it! That means we
can’t go until Monday.”
They heard footsteps outside. Lucia wriggled free, her face flaming.
The door burst open. “Here we are!” said Deacon, enormous in the
doorway. “The return of Crippen. Most affectin’!” He advanced into the
room. “First: Gethryn, thank you.” He stretched out a big hand and
crushed Anthony’s.
Dora, entering in a rush, fell upon her sister. “Loo! Loo!” she cried,
“we’re going to be married! Soon!”
Lucia clutched at her and began to laugh. “Why, darling,” she said, “I
believe I am too.”
3
In town, Spencer Hastings and his betrothed were discussing details.
“Of course,” said Hastings, “A. R. Gethryn for best man?”
Margaret patted his cheek. “It wouldn’t surprise me, little man,” she
said, “if we found he wasn’t eligible.”
The End
Transcriber’s Notes
This transcription follows the text of the edition published by The
Dial Press in 1925/1926. However, the following alterations have been
made to correct what are believed to be unambiguous errors in the
text:
* “houeshold” has been changed to “household” (Chapter III).
* “nineeteen” has been changed to “nineteen” (Chapter V).
* “Hasting’s” has been changed to “Hastings’s” (Chapter VIII).
* “typwritten” has been changed to “typewritten” (Chapter XVII).
* “errudite” has been changed to “erudite” (Chapter XVII).
* “sayiyng” has been changed to “saying” (Chapter XVII).
Finally, two occurrences of unpaired quote marks have been restored.