this rate, he perceived, he would be able ere long to free himself. It
only needed a little imagination. After a brief interval to rest his
aching jaws, he put himself deliberately into that state of relaxation
which is recommended by the apostles of Suggestion.
'I am entering the dining-room of my club,' murmured Clarence. 'I
am sitting down. The waiter is handing me the bill of fare. I have
selected roast duck with green peas and new potatoes, lamb cutlets with
brussels sprouts, fricassee of chicken, porterhouse steak, boiled beef
and carrots, leg of mutton, haunch of mutton, mutton chops, curried
mutton, veal, kidneys sauté, spaghetti Caruso, and eggs and bacon,
fried on both sides. The waiter is now bringing my order. I have taken
up my knife and fork. I am beginning to eat.'
And, murmuring a brief grace, Clarence flung himself on the rope and
set to.
Twenty minutes later he was hobbling about the room, restoring the
circulation to his cramped limbs.
Just as he had succeeded in getting himself nicely limbered up, he
heard the key turning in the door.
Clarence crouched for the spring. The room was quite dark now, and he
was glad of it, for darkness well fitted the work which lay before
him. His plans, conceived on the spur of the moment, were necessarily
sketchy, but they included jumping on the Mayor's shoulders and pulling
his head off. After that, no doubt, other modes of self-expression
would suggest themselves.
The door opened. Clarence made his leap. And he was just about to start
on the programme as arranged, when he discovered with a shock of horror
that this was no O.B.E. that he was being rough with, but a woman. And
no photographer worthy of the name will ever lay a hand upon a woman,
save to raise her chin and tilt it a little more to the left.
'I beg your pardon!' he cried.
'Don't mention it,' said his visitor, in a low voice. 'I hope I didn't
disturb you.'
'Not at all,' said Clarence.
There was a pause.
'Rotten weather,' said Clarence, feeling that it was for him, as the
male member of the sketch, to keep the conversation going.
'Yes, isn't it?'
'A lot of rain we've had this summer.'
'Yes. It seems to get worse every year.'
'Doesn't it?'
'So bad for tennis.'
'And cricket.'
'And polo.'
'And garden parties.'
'I hate rain.'
'So do I.'
'Of course, we may have a fine August.'
'Yes, there's always that.'
The ice was broken, and the girl seemed to become more at her ease.
'I came to let you out,' she said. 'I must apologize for my father. He
loves me foolishly and has no scruples where my happiness is concerned.
He has always yearned to have me photographed by you, but I cannot
consent to allow a photographer to be coerced into abandoning his
principles. If you will follow me, I will let you out by the front
door.'
'It's awfully good of you,' said Clarence, awkwardly. As any man of
nice sentiment would have been, he was embarrassed. He wished that he
could have obliged this kind-hearted girl by taking her picture, but
a natural delicacy restrained him from touching on this subject. They
went down the stairs in silence.
On the first landing a hand was placed on his in the darkness and the
girl's voice whispered in his ear.
'We are just outside father's study,' he heard her say. 'We must be as
quiet as mice.'
'As what?' said Clarence.
'Mice.'
'Oh, rather,' said Clarence, and immediately bumped into what appeared
to be a pedestal of some sort.
These pedestals usually have vases on top of them, and it was revealed
to Clarence a moment later that this one was no exception. There was a
noise like ten simultaneous dinner-services coming apart in the hands
of ten simultaneous parlour-maids; and then the door was flung open,
the landing became flooded with light, and the Mayor of Tooting East
stood before them. He was carrying a revolver and his face was dark
with menace.
'Ha!' said the Mayor.
But Clarence was paying no attention to him. He was staring
open-mouthed at the girl. She had shrunk back against the wall, and the
light fell full upon her.
'You!' cried Clarence.
'This--' began the Mayor.
'You! At last!'
'This is a pretty--'
'Am I dreaming?'
'This is a pretty state of af--'
'Ever since that day I saw you in the cab I have been scouring London
for you. To think that I have found you at last!'
'This is a pretty state of affairs,' said the Mayor, breathing on the
barrel of his revolver and polishing it on the sleeve of his coat. 'My
daughter helping the foe of her family to fly--'
'Flee, father,' corrected the girl, faintly.
'Flea or fly--this is no time for arguing about insects. Let me tell
you--'
Clarence interrupted him indignantly.
'What do you mean,' he cried, 'by saying that she took after you?'
'She does.'
'She does not. She is the loveliest girl in the world, while you look
like Lon Chaney made up for something. See for yourself.' Clarence led
them to the large mirror at the head of the stairs. 'Your face--if
you can call it that--is one of those beastly blobby squashy sort of
faces--'
'Here!' said the Mayor.
'--whereas hers is simply divine. Your eyes are bulbous and goofy--'
'Hey!' said the Mayor.
'--while hers are sweet and soft and intelligent. Your ears--'
'Yes, yes,' said the Mayor, petulantly. 'Some other time, some other
time. Then am I to take it, Mr Mulliner--'
'Call me Clarence.'
'I refuse to call you Clarence.'
'You will have to very shortly, when I am your son-in-law.'
The girl uttered a cry. The Mayor uttered a louder cry.
'My son-in-law!'
'That,' said Clarence, firmly, 'is what I intend to be--and speedily.'
He turned to the girl. 'I am a man of volcanic passions, and now that
love has come to me there is no power in heaven or earth that can keep
me from the object of my love. It will be my never-ceasing task--er--'
'Gladys,' prompted the girl.
'Thank you. It will be my never-ceasing task, Gladys, to strive daily
to make you return that love--'
'You need not strive, Clarence,' she whispered, softly. 'It is already
returned.'
Clarence reeled.
'Already?' he gasped.
'I have loved you since I saw you in that cab. When we were torn
asunder, I felt quite faint.'
'So did I. I was in a daze. I tipped my cabman at Waterloo three
half-crowns. I was aflame with love.'
'I can hardly believe it.'
'Nor could I, when I found out. I thought it was threepence. And ever
since that day--'
The Mayor coughed.
'Then am I to take it--er--Clarence,' he said, 'that your objections to
photographing my daughter are removed?'
Clarence laughed happily.
'Listen,' he said, 'and I'll show you the sort of son-in-law I am. Ruin
my professional reputation though it may, I will take a photograph of
you too!'
'Me!'
'Absolutely. Standing beside her with the tips of your fingers on her
shoulder. And what's more, you can wear your cocked hat.'
Tears had begun to trickle down the Mayor's cheeks.
'My boy!' he sobbed, brokenly. 'My boy!'
* * * * *
And so happiness came to Clarence Mulliner at last. He never became
President of the Bulb-Squeezers, for he retired from business the
next day, declaring that the hand that had snapped the shutter when
taking the photograph of his dear wife should never snap it again for
sordid profit. The wedding, which took place some six weeks later, was
attended by almost everybody of any note in Society or on the Stage;
and was the first occasion on which a bride and bridegroom had ever
walked out of church beneath an arch of crossed tripods.
9
HONEYSUCKLE COTTAGE
'Do you believe in ghosts?' asked Mr Mulliner abruptly.
I weighed the question thoughtfully. I was a little surprised, for
nothing in our previous conversation had suggested the topic.
'Well,' I replied, 'I don't like them, if that's what you mean. I was
once butted by one as a child.'
'Ghosts. Not goats.'
'Oh, ghosts? Do I believe in ghosts?'
'Exactly.'
'Well, yes--and no.'
'Let me put it another way,' said Mr Mulliner, patiently. 'Do you
believe in haunted houses? Do you believe that it is possible for a
malign influence to envelop a place and work a spell on all who come
within its radius?'
I hesitated.
'Well, no--and yes.'
Mr Mulliner sighed a little. He seemed to be wondering if I was always
as bright as this.
'Of course,' I went on, 'one has read stories. Henry James's _Turn of
The Screw_....'
'I am not talking about fiction.'
'Well, in real life--Well, look here, I once, as a matter of fact, did
meet a man who knew a fellow....'
'My distant cousin James Rodman spent some weeks in a haunted house,'
said Mr Mulliner, who, if he has a fault, is not a very good listener.
'It cost him five thousand pounds. That is to say, he sacrificed five
thousand pounds by not remaining there. Did you ever,' he asked,
wandering, it seemed to me, from the subject, 'hear of Leila J.
Pinckney?'
Naturally I had heard of Leila J. Pinckney. Her death some years ago
has diminished her vogue, but at one time it was impossible to pass
a bookshop or a railway bookstall without seeing a long row of her
novels. I have never myself actually read any of them, but I knew that
in her particular line of literature, the Squashily Sentimental, she
had always been regarded by those entitled to judge as pre-eminent. The
critics usually headed their reviews of her stories with the words:
ANOTHER PINCKNEY
or sometimes, more offensively:
ANOTHER PINCKNEY!!!
And once, dealing with, I think, _The Love Which Prevails_, the
literary expert of the _Scrutinizer_ had compressed his entire
critique into the single phrase 'Oh, God!'
'Of course,' I said. 'But what about her?'
'She was James Rodman's aunt.'
'Yes?'
'And when she died James found that she had left him five thousand
pounds and the house in the country where she had lived for the last
twenty years of her life.'
'A very nice little legacy.'
'Twenty years,' repeated Mr Mulliner. 'Grasp that, for it has a vital
bearing on what follows. Twenty years, mind you, and Miss Pinckney
turned out two novels and twelve short stories regularly every
year besides a monthly page of Advice to Young Girls in one of the
magazines. That is to say, forty of her novels and no fewer than two
hundred and forty of her short stories were written under the roof of
Honeysuckle Cottage.'
'A pretty name.'
'A nasty, sloppy name,' said Mr Mulliner severely, 'which should have
warned my distant cousin James from the start. Have you a pencil and
a piece of paper?' He scribbled for a while, poring frowningly over
columns of figures. 'Yes,' he said, looking up, 'if my calculations
are correct, Leila J. Pinckney wrote in all a matter of nine million
one hundred and forty thousand words of glutinous sentimentality at
Honeysuckle Cottage, and it was a condition of her will that James
should reside there for six months in every year. Failing to do this,
he was to forfeit the five thousand pounds.'
'It must be great fun making a freak will,' I mused. 'I often wish I
was rich enough to do it.'
'This was not a freak will. The conditions are perfectly
understandable. James Rodman was a writer of sensational mystery
stories, and his aunt Leila had always disapproved of his work. She
was a great believer in the influence of environment, and the reason
why she inserted that clause in her will was that she wished to compel
James to move from London to the country. She considered that living
in London hardened him and made his outlook on life sordid. She often
asked him if he thought it quite nice to harp so much on sudden death
and blackmailers with squints. Surely, she said, there were enough
squinting blackmailers in the world without writing about them.
'The fact that Literature meant such different things to these two
had, I believe, caused something of a coolness between them, and James
had never dreamed that he would be remembered in his aunt's will. For
he had never concealed his opinion that Leila J. Pinckney's style of
writing revolted him, however dear it might be to her enormous public.
He held rigid views on the art of the novel, and always maintained that
an artist with a true reverence for his craft should not descend to
goo-ey love stories, but should stick austerely to revolvers, cries in
the night, missing papers, mysterious Chinamen, and dead bodies--with
or without gash in throat. And not even the thought that his aunt
had dandled him on her knee as a baby could induce him to stifle his
literary conscience to the extent of pretending to enjoy her work.
First, last, and all the time, James Rodman had held the opinion--and
voiced it fearlessly--that Leila J. Pinckney wrote bilge.
'It was a surprise to him, therefore, to find that he had been left
this legacy. A pleasant surprise, of course. James was making quite a
decent income out of the three novels and eighteen short stories which
he produced annually, but an author can always find a use for five
thousand pounds. And, as for the cottage, he had actually been looking
about for a little place in the country at the very moment when he
received the lawyer's letter. In less than a week he was installed at
his new residence.'
* * * * *
James's first impressions of Honeysuckle Cottage were, he tells me,
wholly favourable. He was delighted with the place. It was a low,
rambling, picturesque old house with funny little chimneys and a red
roof, placed in the middle of the most charming country. With its oak
beams, its trim garden, its trilling birds and its rose-hung porch,
it was the ideal spot for a writer. It was just the sort of place, he
reflected whimsically, which his aunt had loved to write about in her
books. Even the apple-cheeked old housekeeper who attended to his needs
might have stepped straight out of one of them.
It seemed to James that his lot had been cast in pleasant places. He
had brought down his books, his pipes, and his golf-clubs, and was
hard at work finishing the best thing he had ever done. _The Secret
Nine_ was the title of it; and on the beautiful summer afternoon
on which this story opens he was in the study, hammering away at his
typewriter, at peace with the world. The machine was running sweetly,
the new tobacco he had bought the day before was proving admirable, and
he was moving on all six cylinders to the end of a chapter.
He shoved in a fresh sheet of paper, chewed his pipe thoughtfully for a
moment, then wrote rapidly:
For an instant Lester Gage thought that he must have been mistaken.
Then the noise came again, faint but unmistakable--a soft
scratching on the outer panel.
His mouth set in a grim line. Silently, like a panther, he made one
quick step to the desk, noiselessly opened a drawer, drew out his
automatic. After that affair of the poisoned needle, he was taking
no chances. Still in dead silence, he tiptoed to the door; then,
flinging it suddenly open, he stood there, his weapon poised.
On the mat stood the most beautiful girl he had ever beheld. A
veritable child of Faërie. She eyed him for a moment with a saucy
smile; then with a pretty, roguish look of reproof shook a dainty
forefinger at him.
'I believe you've forgotten me, Mr Gage!' she fluted with a mock
severity which her eyes belied.
James stared at the paper dumbly. He was utterly perplexed. He had not
had the slightest intention of writing anything like this. To begin
with, it was a rule with him, and one which he never broke, to allow no
girls to appear in his stories. Sinister landladies, yes, and naturally
any amount of adventuresses with foreign accents, but never under any
pretext what may be broadly described as girls. A detective story, he
maintained, should have no heroine. Heroines only held up the action
and tried to flirt with the hero when he should have been busy looking
for clues, and then went and let the villain kidnap them by some
childishly simple trick. In his writing, James was positively monastic.
And yet here was this creature with her saucy smile and her dainty
forefinger horning in at the most important point in the story. It was
uncanny.
He looked once more at his scenario. No, the scenario was all right.
In perfectly plain words it stated that what happened when the
door opened was that a dying man fell in and after gasping, 'The
beetle! Tell Scotland Yard that the blue beetle is--' expired on the
hearth-rug, leaving Lester Gage not unnaturally somewhat mystified.
Nothing whatever about any beautiful girls.
In a curious mood of irritation, James scratched out the offending
passage, wrote in the necessary corrections and put the cover on the
machine. It was at this point that he heard William whining.
The only blot on this paradise which James had so far been able
to discover was the infernal dog, William. Belonging nominally to
the gardener, on the very first morning he had adopted James by
acclamation, and he maddened and infuriated James. He had a habit
of coming and whining under the window when James was at work. The
latter would ignore this as long as he could; then, when the thing
became insupportable, would bound out of his chair, to see the animal
standing on the gravel, gazing expectantly up at him with a stone in
his mouth. William had a weak-minded passion for chasing stones; and
on the first day James, in a rash spirit of camaraderie, had flung one
for him. Since then James had thrown no more stones; but he had thrown
any number of other solids, and the garden was littered with objects
ranging from match boxes to a plaster statuette of the young Joseph
prophesying before Pharaoh. And still William came and whined, an
optimist to the last.
The whining, coming now at a moment when he felt irritable and
unsettled, acted on James much as the scratching on the door had acted
on Lester Gage. Silently, like a panther, he made one quick step to the
mantelpiece, removed from it a china mug bearing the legend A Present
From Clacton-on-Sea, and crept to the window.
And as he did so a voice outside said, 'Go away, sir, go away!' and
there followed a short, high-pitched bark which was certainly not
William's. William was a mixture of airedale, setter, bull terrier,
and mastiff; and when in vocal mood, favoured the mastiff side of his
family.
James peered out. There on the porch stood a girl in blue. She held in
her arms a small fluffy white dog, and she was endeavouring to foil
the upward movement toward this of the blackguard William. William's
mentality had been arrested some years before at the point where he
imagined that everything in the world had been created for him to eat.
A bone, a boot, a steak, the back wheel of a bicycle--it was all one to
William. If it was there he tried to eat it. He had even made a plucky
attempt to devour the remains of the young Joseph prophesying before
Pharaoh. And it was perfectly plain now that he regarded the curious
wriggling object in the girl's arms purely in the light of a snack to
keep body and soul together till dinner-time.
'William!' bellowed James.
William looked courteously over his shoulder with eyes that beamed with
the pure light of a life's devotion, wagged the whiplike tail which he
had inherited from his bull-terrier ancestor, and resumed his intent
scrutiny of the fluffy dog.
'Oh, please!' cried the girl. 'This great rough dog is frightening poor
Toto.'
The man of letters and the man of action do not always go hand in
hand, but practice had made James perfect in handling with a swift
efficiency any situation that involved William. A moment later that
canine moron, having received the present from Clacton in the short
ribs, was scuttling round the corner of the house, and James had jumped
through the window and was facing the girl.
She was an extraordinarily pretty girl. Very sweet and fragile she
looked as she stood there under the honeysuckle with the breeze
ruffling a tendril of golden hair that strayed from beneath her
coquettish little hat. Her eyes were very big and very blue, her
rose-tinted face becomingly flushed. All wasted on James, though. He
disliked all girls, and particularly the sweet, droopy type.
'Did you want to see somebody?' he asked stiffly.
'Just the house,' said the girl, 'if it wouldn't be giving any trouble.
I do so want to see the room where Miss Pinckney wrote her books. This
is where Leila J. Pinckney used to live, isn't it?'
'Yes; I am her nephew. My name is James Rodman.'
'Mine is Rose Maynard.'
James led the way into the house, and she stopped with a cry of delight
on the threshold of the morning-room.
'Oh, how too perfect!' she cried. 'So this was her study?'
'Yes.'
'What a wonderful place it would be for you to think in if you were a
writer too.'
James held no high opinion of women's literary taste, but nevertheless
he was conscious of an unpleasant shock.
'I am a writer,' he said coldly. 'I write detective stories.'
'I--I'm afraid,'--she blushed--'I'm afraid I don't often read detective
stories.'
'You no doubt prefer,' said James, still more coldly, 'the sort of
thing my aunt used to write.'
'Oh, I love her stories!' cried the girl, clasping her hands
ecstatically. 'Don't you?'
'I cannot say that I do.'
'What?'
'They are pure apple sauce,' said James sternly; 'just nasty blobs of
sentimentality, thoroughly untrue to life.'
The girl stared.
'Why, that's just what's so wonderful about them, their trueness to
life! You feel they might all have happened. I don't understand what
you mean.'
They were walking down the garden now. James held the gate open for her
and she passed through into the road.
'Well, for one thing,' he said, 'I decline to believe that a marriage
between two young people is invariably preceded by some violent and
sensational experience in which they both share.'
'Are you thinking of _Scent o' the Blossom_, where Edgar saves
Maud from drowning?'
'I am thinking of every single one of my aunt's books.' He looked at
her curiously. He had just got the solution of a mystery which had been
puzzling him for some time. Almost from the moment he had set eyes on
her she had seemed somehow strangely familiar. It now suddenly came to
him why it was that he disliked her so much. 'Do you know,' he said,
'you might be one of my aunt's heroines yourself? You're just the sort
of girl she used to love to write about.'
Her face lit up.
'Oh, do you really think so?' She hesitated. 'Do you know what I have
been feeling ever since I came here? I've been feeling that you are
exactly like one of Miss Pinckney's heroes.'
'No, I say, really!' said James, revolted.
'Oh, but you are! When you jumped through that window it gave me quite
a start. You were so exactly like Claude Masterton in _Heather o' the
Hills_.'
'I have not read _Heather o' the Hills_,' said James, with a
shudder.
'He was very strong and quiet, with deep, dark, sad eyes.'
James did not explain that his eyes were sad because her society gave
him a pain in the neck. He merely laughed scornfully.
'So now, I suppose,' he said, 'a car will come and knock you down and I
shall carry you gently into the house and lay you--Look out!' he cried.
It was too late. She was lying in a little huddled heap at his feet.
Round the corner a large automobile had come bowling, keeping with
an almost affected precision to the wrong side of the road. It was
now receding into the distance, the occupant of the tonneau, a stout
red-faced gentleman in a fur coat, leaning out over the back. He had
bared his head--not, one fears, as a pretty gesture of respect and
regret, but because he was using his hat to hide the number plate.
The dog Toto was unfortunately uninjured.
James carried the girl gently into the house and laid her on the sofa
in the morning-room. He rang the bell and the apple-cheeked housekeeper
appeared.
'Send for the doctor,' said James. 'There has been an accident.'
The housekeeper bent over the girl.
'Eh, dearie, dearie!' she said. 'Bless her sweet pretty face!'
The gardener, he who technically owned William, was routed out from
among the young lettuces and told to fetch Dr Brady. He separated his
bicycle from William, who was making a light meal off the left pedal,
and departed on his mission. Dr Brady arrived and in due course he made
his report.
'No bones broken, but a number of nasty bruises. And, of course, the
shock. She will have to stay here for some time, Rodman. Can't be
moved.'
'Stay here! But she can't! It isn't proper.'
'Your housekeeper will act as a chaperon.'
The doctor sighed. He was a stolid-looking man of middle age with side
whiskers.
'A beautiful girl, that, Rodman,' he said.
'I suppose so,' said James.
'A sweet, beautiful girl. An elfin child.'
'A what?' cried James, starting.