Two into One Will Go
The truth was that Mr. Priestley had suddenly given way to his
overwrought nerves. He had a perfectly sound reason for wanting to get
himself and his cuff-mate securely alone inside that bedroom, but when
he heard himself being called a cad, before he had even had time to
explain (if explanation were needed) that his intentions were strictly
honourable, the words had simply frozen on his lips. The mildest of
men will show signs of unrest on hearing the word “cad” directed at
themselves from the lips of a pretty girl, and Mr. Priestley, as he
had already proved to his own surprise, was apparently not the mildest
of men. His subsequent outburst, the cumulative result of desperate
anxiety manfully suppressed and blank horror, simply followed.
Before they had preceded the landlady into the charming pink-and-white
bedroom, on whose hearth a fire was already miraculously burning,
sanity had returned and he was mildly penitent for the freedom of his
speech. Not very penitent, however, for the sooner some one told this
obnoxious young woman a few home-truths, the better for the world in
general.
Affectionately hand-in-hand they stood, while the landlady rapidly
praised her room and apologised for it in the same breath, and, intent
on their respective thoughts, heard not a single word. Mr. Priestley
was now far too anxious regarding the outcome of the next few minutes
to feel more than a passing embarrassment concerning that outcome’s
setting; while as for Laura, that humorous young woman was still
wondering in a dazed sort of way exactly what unpleasant consequences
this ridiculous joke was going to bring upon her, and how on earth she
was going to avoid at any rate the worst of them.
It had struck her with some force that to tell the truth now, as a
last desperate resource, was simply to invite ridicule. The truth, in
fact, sounded thinner than the thinnest story she could possibly
invent—far less plausible than the one she had so proudly originated
in the tube train about twelve years ago. Mr. Priestley would only
take it as yet another of her endless subterfuges and hypocrisies, and
no doubt wax correspondingly drastic. It was a singularly chastened
young woman who clasped her companion’s hand with mechanical fingers
and turned a dull ear to the stream of the little landlady’s
volubility.
“I think you’ll find the bed comfortable, mum,” the little landlady
was now saying. “Not but what it mightn’t be newer than it is, but——”
“Thank you, I’m sure we shall find it comfortable,” put in Mr.
Priestley, whose one anxiety was to get the landlady out of the room
and the door locked behind her.
Laura started nervously. Had she been mistaken, or was there a ring of
grim triumph in Mr. Priestley’s voice? For about the first time in her
life Laura began to feel seriously frightened.
With growing alarm she found her right wrist twisted round to the
small of her back as Mr. Priestley put his arm about her waist and
drew her towards him. She flinched, but the pressure was inexorable.
Her knees feeling unpleasantly wobbly, she allowed herself to be
pressed affectionately to Mr. Priestley’s side. As a matter of strict
fact, all that Mr. Priestley wanted to do was to consolidate their
joint front in order to advance upon the landlady in phalanx-formation
and force her out of the room; but Laura did not know that. It was
occurring to Laura very vividly that _really_ one simply didn’t know
where one was with men; the Girls’ Friendly Societies must be right
after all; and she _had_ thought Mr. Priestley of all men could be
trusted.
By sheer weight of numbers Mr. Priestley succeeded in driving the
landlady to the door. The landlady did not wish to go at all. Beside
her natural desire to give her tongue a little trot after having had
nobody to exercise it for her since four o’clock that afternoon,
except Annie (who didn’t count one way or the other), she was much
enjoying the spectacle of this nice couple, so unaffectedly lover-like
even in her presence. Why, they never left go of one another for a
single instant! It was a sight for sore eyes, that it was.
Still, when two persons relentlessly advance upon a narrow doorway,
the third, and smallest, member of the trio must give way. “Well, if
you’ll put your things outside the door in a few minutes,” she
smilingly covered her retreat, “I’ll see they’re nice and dry for you
in the morning. And I’m sorry about you not having no luggage with
you, but I hope you’ll manage with what I’ve put out on the bed.
Good-night, then, mum; good-night, sir.”
“Good-night,” said Mr. Priestley, and feverishly shut the door on the
good woman. He did not scruple to turn the key in the lock.
With a sigh of relief he turned back into the room. A voluminous red
flannel night-gown, draped chastely over the end of the bed beside a
still more voluminous white flannel night-shirt, caught his eye for
the first time and he smiled absently. Somebody (he had not the
faintest idea who) must at some time have explained away their absence
of luggage, and this was the good woman’s reply. He smiled again.
Laura saw the smile and trembled. To her alarmed eye it was the smile
of gloating anticipation. Her already enfeebled knees sagged a little
further.
“And now,” said Mr. Priestley, “to business!” and he walked briskly
towards the bed. The way to the wash-stand, it may be remarked, took
him past the end of the bed.
It was the last straw. Unable to bear this final blow, Laura’s
long-suffering knees collapsed altogether. She tottered into a chair.
“Please!” said Laura faintly. “Don’t!”
“Why not?” asked the surprised Mr. Priestley, who only wanted to go to
the wash-stand.
“Because—because—well, surely you see.”
“Upon my soul, I don’t,” said Mr. Priestley, his eyes fixed longingly
on the wash-stand.
Laura coloured deeply. For a young woman who prided herself upon being
above all things modern she found herself horribly embarrassed.
“Well,” she said desperately, “it—it isn’t playing the game exactly,
is it?”
“Why ever not?” asked Mr. Priestley in astonishment.
There was an uneasy pause.
“You’re—you’re stronger than me, of course,” Laura pleaded in her most
heartrending tones. Laura had often employed these useful tones with
malicious intent; now she was using them in deadly earnest.
“You’re—you’re stronger than me, and you know I can’t very well cry
for help. You know I’m in your power, if you do use force, but——” Her
voice, trembling with real terror, died away. She moistened her dry
lips.
Mr. Priestley began to get annoyed. Here he was, anchored to a chair,
when he wanted to be at that wash-stand. What on earth had the
wretched girl got into her head now? It was the last hope. Did she
_want_ to go on wearing these damnable handcuffs?
“I shall certainly use force,” he said crossly, “if you persist in
being so unreasonable.”
“I’m not unreasonable!” Laura cried, her fear giving way to indignation
before this distorted view.
“Indeed you are,” said Mr. Priestley with legitimate irritation.
“Extremely unreasonable. What’s the point? Besides, to put the matter
on personal grounds, I’ve surely done enough for you to enable you to
do this little thing for me.”
“_Oh!_” Laura gasped. “_Little_ thing!”
“Besides,” said Mr. Priestley quite angrily, “it may not even be
successful.”
“I’ll see that it isn’t!” said Laura grimly, when she had recovered
her breath.
“But we must try it, at any rate. Now, please come along, and stop
being so absurd.” And grasping her wrist, Mr. Priestley pulled.
Her eyes sparkling stormily, Laura pulled back. Now that it had come
to the point, her fears seemed to have left her. She was just
furiously angry.
“I—I warn you,” she panted, “if you use force, you—you brute, I’ll
fight back. I’ll—I’ll——”
Mr. Priestley stopped pulling and looked at her with something like
despair. “But, good Heavens!” he exclaimed. “In the name of goodness,
_why_ don’t you want to?”
Laura also stopped pulling in sheer amazement. She could hardly
believe her ears. Could this absurd little man really be as incredibly
conceited as all that!
“You dare ask me that?” she demanded, her bosom heaving.
Mr. Priestley rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. He had heard a lot
about the unreasonableness of women, but he had never heard anything
that came within a mile of this. “Surely it’s an obvious question,” he
murmured resignedly.
“Well, then, I’ll answer it,” Laura snapped. “Because I hate the sight
of you! Now are you satisfied?”
It was Mr. Priestley’s turn to look incredulous. Besides being grossly
unfair, considering all that had happened that evening, the answer
appeared to be that of a complete imbecile. “That seems a very strange
reason for wanting to go on being handcuffed to me,” he articulated.
“Good Heavens, I don’t want to go on being handcuffed to you! There’s
nothing I want less in the world, you—you beast! I—_oh!_” And Laura,
the devilish-minded Laura, terror of her brother and all who knew her,
buried her face in the crook of her free arm and burst into real tears
of mortification and alarm.
Mr. Priestley stared at her aghast. So far as he could see, this
extraordinary young woman had suddenly gone off her head. After
threatening to fight him if he tried their last resource for getting
rid of the handcuffs, she was now apparently weeping at the idea of
not doing so. Women, in Mr. Priestley’s mind at that moment, was
represented by one large question-mark.
Then suddenly suspicion invaded him. She had pretended to weep once
before, and that time he had been taken in, with horrible
consequences. Was it not highly probable that she was doing exactly
the same thing again, relying on its previous success? What could
possibly be her objection to his proposal. Mr. Priestley was unable to
understand, but whatever it was it must be swept aside. He was going
to be trifled with no longer.
With sudden determination he gathered the drooping body up in his arms
and pursued his interrupted journey.
“Oh, no!” moaned a despairing voice from somewhere near his left
shoulder. For a young woman who had just expressed her determination
to fight to the death, Laura felt remarkably limp. But Laura was limp.
For some strange reason the stuffing had been knocked out of her just
as suddenly as it had arrived. She could not at that moment have stood
up to a blue-bottle; and Mr. Priestley was far more formidable than
any blue-bottle. Perhaps the strain of the evening had told on her
more than she had realised; she was still cold, she was still clammy,
her nerves were in shreds and her food had only given her indigestion.
She felt like one of her own wet stockings.
“_No!_” she moaned again, but without hope.
Mr. Priestley set his teeth. It was a heartrending cry and it did make
him feel a brute not to be able to heed it, but really——!
He carried her swiftly to the wash-stand, set her on her feet and,
keeping a wary grip on her wrist, reached for the soap.
“Now then!” he said triumphantly, dipping it in the warm water and
doing his best to produce a serviceable lather with one hand.
Laura opened her eyes and watched him dazedly. He seemed to be washing
one hand in the hot-water can. It was probably very devilish, but its
exact purpose escaped her for the moment. He began to soap her own
inert hand.
And then, in a series of blinding flashes, Laura’s mind was
illuminated.
Her first coherent thought was overwhelming relief. Her next an
equally overwhelming, but less reasonable, anger. She stamped her
foot. “Is this what you were meaning all the time?” she asked
wrathfully. From her tone one might have deduced that she was
suffering a fearful disappointment, yet this was not really the case.
“Of course,” said Mr. Priestley in surprise, lathering vigorously.
“Then why on earth didn’t you say so?”
“But I did! Half a dozen times.”
“You didn’t!”
“Didn’t I?” Mr. Priestley’s surprise was genuine enough, but he was
much more interested at the moment in his experiment with the soap.
“But surely I told you downstairs? What else do you imagine I wanted
this bedroom for?”
Laura brushed away the remnants of her tears with an indignant hand.
It is seldom given to mortal man, and still less to mortal woman, to
feel quite so incredibly foolish as Laura did at that moment. She did
not appear to appreciate the privilege conferred upon her.
“_I_ didn’t know what you wanted it for,” she said, with feeble
pettishness.
“But didn’t you understand what I was wanting you to come and do?”
asked Mr. Priestley, but a little absently, for he really was
extraordinarily interested in that soap. One might say that at that
moment Mr. Priestley’s heart was in his soap. “What did you think I
wanted, then?”
“Something else,” said Laura curtly, looking out of the window and
feeling that she would begin to scream very loudly if Mr. Priestley
asked her one single more awkward question on this topic.
Fortunately her powers of self-control were not to be put to such a
drastic test. “There!” said Mr. Priestley, with mingled satisfaction
and anxiety. “I don’t think I can get it any more soapy than that.
Now, I’m going to pull. I’m afraid it may hurt you.”
“Hurt away!” said Laura grimly. She felt as if it was quite time that
somebody hurt her—as indeed it was.
Mr. Priestley proceeded to gratify her wishes.
“Oh!” squeaked Laura, hastily changing her mind.
“Hold on!” exhorted Mr. Priestley through set teeth. “It’s nearly
off!” He resumed his efforts.
There were two more squeaks, and many others nobly repressed, and then
two sighs of triumph.
“Well played, by Jove!” said Mr. Priestley, with the wondering
admiration of every male for a female who can stand up to pain without
flinching.
“Thank God!” said Laura, tears of agony in her eyes. “And thank you,
Mr. Mullins, too,” she added. It has already been mentioned that Laura
was a just girl. So she was, quite often.
As if with a common understanding they dropped into chairs and
relaxed. The next moment, with a more uncommon understanding, they got
up simultaneously, drew their respective chairs as close as possible
to the fire and relaxed again.
“And now,” said Mr. Priestley, beaming at his companion with
benevolent triumph through his glasses, “now what are we going to do?”
It was not the least of Mr. Priestley’s achievements that evening that
through all its hectic developments he had managed to keep his glasses
intact upon the bridge of his nose, even when travelling at forty-five
miles an hour in the teeth of a miniature blizzard.
Laura looked at him with something that was not quite respect, and not
quite affection, but somehow, contained the ingredients of both. Now
that he had succeeded in freeing her of that odious handcuff, and been
displayed, incidentally, as the complete little gentleman he was,
Laura’s feelings towards him had undergone yet another revulsion. At
one bound Mr. Priestley had recovered his proper place m her
estimation. Handcuffs are an excellent substitute for a time machine.
Laura had only known Mr. Priestley, as time is ordinarily reckoned,
for a paltry half-dozen hours; she felt as if she had known him
intimately for as many years. And he really was rather a dear!
Undoubtedly, Laura now decided once more, it was a shame to be hoaxing
him in this way, when the poor man was taking it all so desperately in
earnest. For the hundredth time, but for different reasons on almost
each occasion, it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him the truth,
nearly the whole truth, and hardly anything but the truth. For the
hundredth time she refrained. The continuance of the beam through Mr.
Priestley’s glasses decided her this time. It was borne in upon Laura
that in a way Mr. Priestley really was enjoying himself, at any rate
he was living Life with a capital L; and she felt that, after the good
turn he had just done her, he did deserve something better at her
hands than such an anti-climax as the truth would be. Besides, Laura
reminded herself more sternly, it was probably all exceedingly good
for him.
“What shall we do?” she repeated meekly. “Well, that seems to be for
you to say, Mr. Mullins. I’m rather in your hands, aren’t I?” And she
edged uneasily away from some of her clamminess and suppressed a
shiver.
Mr. Priestley noticed both movements. “Very well,” he said promptly.
“I want to have a talk with you, of course, but it’s no good running
the risk of pneumonia. You must get out of those wet clothes of yours.
I’ll go down to the kitchen and do the same.”
Laura approved of this programme, and intimated as much with some
warmth. She had never felt much drawn towards red flannel before, but
just at that moment red flannel appeared the ideal material for the
manufacture of night-gowns. Nice, warm, dry, _beautiful_ red flannel!
What could a girl want more?
Besides, she was not sorry to put off her talk with Mr. Priestley till
the morning. It would give her time to collect her thoughts, and Laura
felt that her thoughts needed a good deal of collecting. It was nice
of Mr. Priestley to take it so naturally for granted that he should
spend the night in the kitchen. How she had misjudged that blameless
man!
“And I wonder if the landlady could run to a dressing-gown?” said the
blameless man, gazing thoughtfully at the now empty handcuff dangling
from his left wrist. It wore something of a wistful air. So did Mr.
Priestley.
“I’ll ask her,” Laura said, jumping to her feet. She went to the door
and made the noises of a person requiring the presence of her
landlady, while Mr. Priestley hastily tucked his handcuff up his
coat-sleeve.
The landlady was enchanted with the idea of producing dressing-gowns.
She produced two, one with pride and one with apologies. The first was
of blue flannel trimmed with white lace; the other was of fairly pink
flannel trimmed with fairly white lace. Her husband, it appeared,
dispensed with such formalities as dressing-gowns.
By common female consent the pink dressing-gown was allotted to Mr.
Priestley. He clutched it, and snatched up his night-shirt.
“I shall be back, my dear,” he said with dignity, “in about five
minutes.” He had not the faintest notion how long a girl takes to get
herself out of wet clothes and into a red flannel night-gown, but five
minutes seemed a liberal estimate.
“Lor’, sir,” remarked the landlady with frank astonishment, “you’re
not going somewhere else to change your clothes, surely? Not after
I’ve lighted this fire for you and all?”
“Five minutes!” squeaked Laura at the same time. “But—but you’re not
coming back _here_, are you?”
Mr. Priestley looked from one to the other uneasily. The landlady eyed
them both with undisguised surprise. Laura, realising that she had not
said quite the right thing so far as the landlady was concerned, began
to blush gently, swore silently at herself for doing so, and blushed
hotly. The landlady’s kindly eye grew less kindly; it clouded with
suspicion. The demeanour of either Laura or Mr. Priestley at that
moment would have roused suspicion in a blind woman; their very
silence was eloquent.
“I suppose,” said the landlady very slowly, “that you two _are_
married, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Really!” spluttered Mr. Priestley, trying hard to simulate anger.
“Really, this is preposterous. I won’t——”
“Seeing,” pursued the landlady in the same tones, her eyes now glued
to Laura’s left hand, “seeing, I mean, as the lady isn’t wearing no
ring nor _anything_!”
This was not true. The modern girl does not wear very much, but she
does wear something. Laura was wearing several things, each damper
than the others.
A hundred despairing schemes flitted through Mr. Priestley’s mind. Now
that the handcuffs were off, there was no need for them to pretend
they were married. Should he say they were brother and sister? But
then that would look suspicious, and real suspicion was the very last
thing they wanted to arouse. There would certainly be an account of
the crime in the next morning’s papers, and then if their behaviour
gave the landlady any inkling that——
Laura’s laugh interrupted his frenzied thoughts. “I see,” said Laura
quite naturally, “that we shall have to tell you the truth. No, we’re
not——”
What Laura was going to say was never revealed, for with a despairing
cry Mr. Priestley flung himself against this piece of suicidal
short-sightedness. “No!” said Mr. Priestley loudly. “No, we _weren’t_
married—at this time yesterday. Now we are. You’re right, my darling,”
he went on rapidly, with the resource of desperation, “we must tell
Mrs. Er-er-h’rrm the truth. We’ve eloped! We—er—we were married at a
registry office this afternoon, with—with a key, you know. Not even
time to buy the ring. Oh, quite on the spur of the moment, it all was.
Ha, Ha! Er—ha, ha!” He laughed without mirth, and waited breathlessly.
“Well, _there_ now!” exclaimed the landlady, her clouds completely
dispersed. “Well, isn’t that romantic? With a key, now! I’ve heard
tell of that before. Well, well! Eloped, did you say? Now, that is
nice. You know, I _thought_ there was something, I did. Fancy that! I
always was a one for romance, meself. Of course you go down to the
kitchen then, sir. You’ll find it nice and warm in there and when you
come up again in ten minutes I’ll have your lady all tucked up in bed
and dry and warm as toast for you.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Priestley wanly, taking some pains to avoid his
lady’s eye.
“The poor lamb!” continued the landlady fondly, eyeing that now fuming
young woman with delighted fondness. “Catching her death of cold, and
all on account of shyness, as you might say. I used to feel like that
once with my Will, I remember, but bless you, miss—or—mum, I _should_
say—you’ll soon grow out of that.”
“Indeed?” said the lamb coldly. It was a very cold lamb.
“I think I’ll be getting downstairs, d-dearest,” mumbled Mr.
Priestley, intercepting a most unlamblike glance. “Er—so long.”
“Wait a minute, sir,” put in the landlady. “I know the very thing—you
must have a glass of my elderberry wine first. I’ll get some this very
minute. That’ll stop you catching cold, both of you. Bless me, why
didn’t I think of that before? Never mind, I’ll have it up in a
minute.” She whisked out of the room and shut the door behind her.
The lamb turned irately upon its good shepherd. “Why on earth did you
butt in with that absurd story? I’d just thought of a splendid way of
breaking the news to her that we aren’t married.”
“Yes, and ruining everything!” retorted Mr. Priestley, stung to
annoyance once more. In brief, snappy sentences he showed this obtuse
young woman exactly why it was necessary for the landlady to continue
in her delusion.
His argument was unanswerable. Without giving her whole case away
Laura was unable to pursue that particular line. Woman-like, she
instantly directed her irritation into a fresh channel.
“Well, now you can hardly sleep in the kitchen,” she snapped. “Where
_do_ you imagine you’re going to sleep, I’d like to know?”
“Where I always did,” Mr. Priestley snapped back. “In here.”
Laura looked at him with wide eyes. “Don’t be absurd, please. That’s
out of the question.”
“Anything else is out of the question,” Mr. Priestley said angrily.
“It’s you who are being absurd. What you don’t seem to understand is
that this is a question of life or death.”
Once again Laura was up against a brick wall. “Well, anyhow, you’re
not going to sleep in here. Kindly get that out of your head once and
for all. As soon as you’ve gone I shall lock the door.”
“In that case,” said Mr. Priestley grimly, “I shall break it in.”
They looked at each other stormily.
Upon this Pleasing domestic scene the landlady returned.
The constraint in the atmosphere was obvious, but the landlady did not
mind that. Quite natural, most excitingly natural, in the
circumstances. She dispensed elderberry wine with a generous hand. The
occasion called for a generous hand, and the landlady did not fail to
respond. Her hand was more than generous; it was prodigal.
“My best respex,” said the landlady happily, raising her tumbler,
unlike the other tumblers only a quarter full.
“Uh-huh!” replied Mr. Priestley, with a brave attempt at a smile, and
raised his tumbler. Mr. Priestley, as we have already seen, had a
Palate. Elderberry-wine does not harmonise with a Palate. Life seemed
very bleak at that moment to Mr. Priestley.
He swallowed three large gulps like the gentleman he was, then set his
half-empty tumbler down. At precisely the same moment, with an
astringent face, Laura was setting her tumbler down. Instantly the
landlady pounced on them and re-filled them to the brim.
“That’ll put you as right as rain,” she announced.
Mr. Priestley looked at her with deepened gloom. “It was very nice,”
he lied manfully. “Very nice indeed. But I think I won’t have any
more, really.”
“And catch your deathacold, sir, instead?” retorted the landlady. “No,
you drink that up, and you won’t have to worry about colds.”
“I don’t think I will, really,” Mr. Priestley wriggled. “I’ll be
getting along now and——”
“If I were you, mum,” the landlady informed Laura, “I should _make_
him. Mark my words, you’ll have him on your hands with the influenza
if you don’t.”
“I think you’re quite right,” Laura agreed, a malicious twinkle in her
eye. “Drink it up at once, _darling_!”
Mr. Priestley gazed at her with mute appeal.
“If I were _you_, mum,” the landlady added, “I wouldn’t let him go
down to change ’is clothes till he had drunk it.”
“Darling,” said Laura, “you don’t go down to change your clothes till
you have drunk it.”
There was no real reason why Mr. Priestley should not have said
loudly: “Bosh!” and walked out of the room. But he didn’t. He drank up
his elderberry wine.
Then he walked sadly to the door. Once he had a Palate. . . .
“Half a minute, sir,” remarked the landlady. “Your good lady hasn’t
drunk up hers yet.”
Mr. Priestley stopped short in his tracks.
“If I were you, sir,” observed the landlady with much enjoyment, “I
should make her drink it. You’ll have her on your hands for a week
with the influenza if you don’t, you mark my words.”
“_Darling_,” said Mr. Priestley in italics, advancing towards his
adopted wife, “_drink up your wine!_”
“I don’t think I will, really,” Laura murmured, backing uneasily,
“I—I’ve had enough.”
“I’m not going out of this room till you do,” said Mr. Priestley with
triumph.
The battle of wills lasted only two minutes, but two minutes can seem
a very long time. At the end of it, with a slightly dazed look in her
eyes, Laura drank up her elderberry wine. Laura had not had very much
practice in doing what she was told, and it did not come easily to
her.
Then Mr. Priestley went downstairs.
The landlady watched him go, carrying as he did with him
three-quarters of a pint of her elderberry wine, with a triumphant
eye. She felt that she had done her duty, and not only as an
anti-influenza specialist; she felt that this couple would be grateful
to her the next morning, and not only because their noses would not be
streaming. The landlady had brought seven children into the world in
her time, and she was an expert in many things beside influenza.
In the traditional way she proceeded to put the bride to bed.
Going downstairs with that uneasy young woman’s wet clothes, she found
the groom hovering nervously. With words of homely encouragement she
sent him flying upstairs with cheeks as red as his lady’s night-gown.
Mr. Priestley was proving himself to be a man of singular resolution.
There were few things in this world that he wanted to do less than
turn the key on the inside of that bedroom door; yet he knew the key
must be turned. He turned it.
From the centre of the pillow in the large bed a small face, framed in
sheet, regarded him with ill-concealed alarm. Even the sight of Mr.
Priestley swathed in his pink flannel and lace appeared to bring it no
joy. Two round eyes followed his every movement, and as he advanced
towards the bed the sheet that framed the face took on a tense
appearance beside either cheek, as if two small hands were gripping it
convulsively. The face did not speak, for the simple reason that its
owner was totally incapable of uttering a word. It is very difficult
to inaugurate a chatty conversation when your throat has gone quite
dry and your tongue has apparently affixed itself irrevocably to the
roof of your mouth.
Carrying his pink flannel with the dignity of a Roman in his toga, Mr.
Priestley halted beside the bed and stared down into the silent face
with a look that was almost grim. “And now, young woman,” he said, in
a voice which matched his look only too well, “I want an explanation,
if you please.”
Reader, have you ever drunk home-made elderberry wine? Not a pale
imitation, I mean, but the real, genuine, honest article? Have you
gone still further and imbibed a full three-quarters of a pint of it?
For, if you have, there is no need for me to explain. However, in case
your life has been empty and vain, I will point out that home-made
elderberry wine (the real, honest stuff) does practically nothing for
about a quarter of an hour. During that period it just sits and
ruminates. Then it makes up for lost time.
Suddenly the sheet on either side of Laura’s face relaxed. She smiled.
“Yes, I expect you do,” she agreed.
Mr. Priestley smiled too. “I certainly do.”
Laura laughed. “I’ve been wondering when you were going to ask for
one.”
Mr. Priestley laughed too. In the space of a few seconds the whole
thing seemed to have taken on a completely different aspect. It was
not a tragedy at all; it was—yes, utterly incredible but perfectly
true—really quite funny!
Laura seemed to find it funny too. Her laugh degenerated into a
giggle.
Mr. Priestley sat down on the bed. “Of course, you know I’m not that
man Mullins,” he stated rather than asked. How very obtuse of him
never to have realised that before! Of course she knew it. “When did
you begin to find out?”
“I knew all the time,” giggled Laura. “Oh, dear, this is ridiculous,
isn’t it?”
“Quite absurd,” grinned Mr. Priestley. “I’m afraid, by the way, that I
must have been rather a handicap to you this evening.”
“Not at all,” said Laura politely.
“You see, I’ve never associated with professional criminals before. My
name is——” A glimmer of sense returned to Mr. Priestley, and he
withheld that confidence.
Laura was giggling again. “You know, I’m not _really_ a professional
criminal,” she volunteered. “I’m quite honest. Is that a dreadful
disappointment?”
Mr. Priestley beamed. “No, are you really? That is a great relief, a
very great relief. That’s really a load off my mind. But in that
case—well, would you mind telling me the real truth about this
evening?”
But Laura, though disposed to giggle, had not quite lost her head in
her newly awakened sense of humour. She hastily searched her mind for
a tale that should relieve Mr. Priestley’s mind as much as possible,
without betraying her trust.
“Well,” she said slowly, “what I told you first of all was near
enough. I knew you weren’t Mullins, of course, but I was desperately
anxious for some one to help me, so I just pretended to think you
were. Besides,” she added severely, “I thought it would serve you
right.”
“I deserved it, I know,” agreed Mr. Priestley, but with no signs of
contrition.
“That man _has_ got some compromising letters of mine. He may have
some miniatures too; I don’t know anything about that. But you needn’t
let your conscience worry you about having shot him. He was a thorough
blackguard, and you never did a better thing in your life.”
“That’s a relief too,” murmured Mr. Priestley thoughtfully. “So far we
seem to have been too busy for my conscience to have recovered from
its shock, but doubtless I should have had a very bad time to-night if
you hadn’t told me that. You’re—you’re sure he deserved it?
Blackmailer, eh? If he was a blackmailer I’m not only not sorry,” said
Mr. Priestley defiantly, “I’m glad. I’ve always considered shooting
the only cure for blackmailers.”
“He was, yes. Oh, he deserved it all right; please don’t worry about
that. By the way,” Laura added curiously, “what were you going to do
about it? Had you formed any sort of plan?”
“Well,” Mr. Priestley, replied with diffidence, “I’d rather thought
(after you were safe, of course) of going to the police and explaining
the whole thing. It wasn’t murder, you see; only manslaughter. As it
is, I’m not at all sure that I shall do anything.”
“Don’t!” Laura said earnestly. “You can’t do any good, and you may do
a lot of harm. Besides,” she went on, looking down her pretty nose, “I
don’t really want to be brought into it, you know, as I certainly
should be if you went to the police.”
Mr. Priestley started slightly. “You! By Gad, yes; I was forgetting
about that. Of course you mustn’t be brought into it. Your husband
would never forgive you. And for that matter——” He coloured modestly.
“Yes?” Laura encouraged.
“Only that the circumstances are a little altered. I was looking on
you as a young woman without—well, without a reputation to lose; in
which case it wouldn’t matter a rap that you should sleep in this bed
and I on the sofa over there in the same room. As it is, of course——!”
Laura raised herself discreetly on an elbow and thumped a hard pillow
into a semblance of softness. “Yes?” she said almost nonchalantly.
“Well, I mean,” Mr. Priestley amplified, a little uncomfortably, “we
don’t want to add divorce to our other crimes, do we?”
“Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” Laura said brightly. “I’m not
really married. I only said that because I thought it would make you
readier to help me. Look, there’s no mark even of a wedding-ring.”
She extended her left hand and Mr. Priestley, in order to examine it
the better, held its slim fingers in his. When he put it down on the
bed again he continued to hold its slim fingers. Mr. Priestley was a
very absent-minded man.
But he was not a man of the world. A man of the world would instantly
have said all the pretty things which this new piece of information
should require. Mr. Priestley only said, rather blankly; “But don’t
you see, that’s almost worse. You’d be hopelessly compromised. Of
course I shall spend the night in the kitchen.” He looked a little
wistfully at the sofa near the fire. It was not the most comfortable
sofa ever made, but compared with a Windsor chair in the kitchen it
was Heaven.
“On a hard chair, in a draught?” Laura smiled lazily. Her cheeks were
a little flushed, for the honest elderberry wine was hard at work now
making the place hot for influenza germs, and her whole body was
permeated with a pleasant warmth. She tried to put herself in Mr.
Priestley’s place and face a hard chair in a draughty kitchen. “It
seems to me I’m compromised quite deeply as it is. After all we’re
supposed to be married, you know. By the way, is that the door-key?”
She disengaged her fingers from Mr. Priestley’s and extended them
invitingly.
Mr. Priestley put the key into them.
Laura weighed it pensively in her hand. “You’re very conventional,
aren’t you?” she asked.
Mr. Priestley, who was under the impression that he had just killed
one of his fellow-men and was not in the least sorry for it, nodded.
“In some circumstances,” he said primly, “one has to be.”
“Well,” said Laura, as if arriving at a decision, “I’m not. Never! If
the people are all right, the circumstances can take care of
themselves; that’s my creed.” With a sudden movement she thrust the
key far down inside the bed and showed her empty hand. “Now, go and
make yourself as comfy as you can on that sofa with both
dressing-gowns and this eiderdown; and if you want to say anything to
me, say: ‘It’s your own silly fault, my dear girl!’ Because it is, you
know.”
Mr. Priestley jumped to his feet and stood for a moment, looking down
at the flushed and ever so faintly mocking face. “No,” he said slowly,
“I won’t say that. I’ll say: ‘You’re a very dear, sweet girl. But
please give me that key.’”
Laura shook her head violently. “No! I’ve made up my mind, and I’m not
going to alter it. Now, please run along to that sofa, because I want
to go to sleep.”
Mr. Priestley saw she meant it, and his colour deepened. He turned
towards the sofa without a word.
But the elderberry wine, in the intervals of combating influenza
germs, had not performed its last miracle yet. With a swift movement
Mr. Priestley turned about, darted back to the bed and kissed the
astonished maiden in it unskilfully but heartily on her lips. Then he
retired to his sofa.
Ten minutes later two rhythmical breathings filled the room, one only
just audible, the other distinctly so. The elderberry wine had done
its last job.