Mr. Mulliner Stories · Honeysuckle Cottage (2/3)

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.

This imagery was very foreign to Dr. Brady as he knew him. On the only previous occasion on which they had had any extended conversation, the doctor had talked exclusively about the effect of too much protein on the gastric juices.

“An elfin child; a tender, fairy creature. When I was looking at her just now, Rodman, I nearly broke down. Her little hand lay on the coverlet like some white lily floating on the surface of a still pool, and her dear, trusting eyes gazed up at me.”

He pottered off down the garden, still babbling, and James stood staring after him blankly. And slowly, like some cloud athwart a summer sky, there crept over James’s heart the chill shadow of a nameless fear.

It was about a week later that Mr. Andrew McKinnon, the senior partner in the well-known firm of literary agents, McKinnon & Gooch, sat in his office in Chancery Lane, frowning thoughtfully over a telegram. He rang the bell.

“Ask Mr. Gooch to step in here.” He resumed his study of the telegram. “Oh, Gooch,” he said when his partner appeared, “I’ve just had a curious wire from young Rodman. He seems to want to see me very urgently.”

Mr. Gooch read the telegram.

“Written under the influence of some strong mental excitement,” he agreed. “I wonder why he doesn’t come to the office if he wants to see you so badly.”

“He’s working very hard, finishing that novel for Prodder & Wiggs. Can’t leave it, I suppose. Well, it’s a nice day. If you will look after things here I think I’ll motor down and let him give me lunch.”

As Mr. McKinnon’s car reached the crossroads a mile from Honeysuckle Cottage, he was aware of a gesticulating figure by the hedge. He stopped the car.

“Morning, Rodman.”

“Thank God, you’ve come!” said James. It seemed to Mr. McKinnon that the young man looked paler and thinner. “Would you mind walking the rest of the way? There’s something I want to speak to you about.”

Mr. McKinnon alighted; and James, as he glanced at him, felt cheered and encouraged by the very sight of the man. The literary agent was a grim, hard-bitten person, to whom, when he called at their offices to arrange terms, editors kept their faces turned so that they might at least retain their back collar studs. There was no sentiment in Andrew McKinnon. Editresses of society papers practised their blandishments on him in vain, and many a publisher had waked screaming in the night, dreaming that he was signing a McKinnon contract.

“Well, Rodman,” he said, “Prodder & Wiggs have agreed to our terms. I was writing to tell you so when your wire arrived. I had a lot of trouble with them, but it’s fixed at twenty percent, rising to twenty-five, and two hundred pounds advance royalties on day of publication.”

“Good!” said James absently. “Good! McKinnon, do you remember my aunt, Leila J. Pinckney?”

“Remember her? Why, I was her agent all her life.”

“Of course. Then you know the sort of tripe she wrote.”

“No author,” said Mr. McKinnon reprovingly, “who pulls down a steady twenty thousand pounds a year writes tripe.”

“Well anyway, you know her stuff.”

“Who better?”

“When she died she left me five thousand pounds and her house, Honeysuckle Cottage. I’m living there now. McKinnon, do you believe in haunted houses?”

“No.”

“Yet I tell you solemnly that Honeysuckle Cottage is haunted!”

“By your aunt?” said Mr. McKinnon, surprised.

“By her influence. There’s a malignant spell over the place; a sort of miasma of sentimentalism. Everybody who enters it succumbs.”

“Tut-tut! You mustn’t have these fancies.”

“They aren’t fancies.”

“You aren’t seriously meaning to tell me⁠—”

“Well, how do you account for this? That book you were speaking about, which Prodder & Wiggs are to publish⁠—The Secret Nine. Every time I sit down to write it a girl keeps trying to sneak in.”

“Into the room?”

“Into the story.”

“You don’t want a love interest in your sort of book,” said Mr. McKinnon, shaking his head. “It delays the action.”

“I know it does. And every day I have to keep shooing this infernal female out. An awful girl, McKinnon. A soppy, soupy, treacly, drooping girl with a roguish smile. This morning she tried to butt in on the scene where Lester Gage is trapped in the den of the mysterious leper.”

“No!”

“She did, I assure you. I had to rewrite three pages before I could get her out of it. And that’s not the worst. Do you know, McKinnon, that at this moment I am actually living the plot of a typical Leila J. Pinckney novel in just the setting she always used! And I can see the happy ending coming nearer every day! A week ago a girl was knocked down by a car at my door and I’ve had to put her up, and every day I realize more clearly that sooner or later I shall ask her to marry me.”

“Don’t do it,” said Mr. McKinnon, a stout bachelor. “You’re too young to marry.”

“So was Methuselah,” said James, a stouter. “But all the same I know I’m going to do it. It’s the influence of this awful house weighing upon me. I feel like an eggshell in a maelstrom. I am being sucked on by a force too strong for me to resist. This morning I found myself kissing her dog!”

“No!”

“I did! And I loathe the little beast. Yesterday I got up at dawn and plucked a nosegay of flowers for her, wet with the dew.”

“Rodman!”

“It’s a fact. I laid them at her door and went downstairs kicking myself all the way. And there in the hall was the apple-cheeked housekeeper regarding me archly. If she didn’t murmur ‘Bless their sweet young hearts!’ my ears deceived me.”

“Why don’t you pack up and leave?”

“If I do I lose the five thousand pounds.”

“Ah!” said Mr. McKinnon.

“I can understand what has happened. It’s the same with all haunted houses. My aunt’s subliminal ether vibrations have woven themselves into the texture of the place, creating an atmosphere which forces the ego of all who come in contact with it to attune themselves to it. It’s either that or something to do with the fourth dimension.”

Mr. McKinnon laughed scornfully.

“Tut-tut!” he said again. “This is pure imagination. What has happened is that you’ve been working too hard. You’ll see this precious atmosphere of yours will have no effect on me.”

“That’s exactly why I asked you to come down. I hoped you might break the spell.”

“I will that,” said Mr. McKinnon jovially.

The fact that the literary agent spoke little at lunch caused James no apprehension. Mr. McKinnon was ever a silent trencherman. From time to time James caught him stealing a glance at the girl, who was well enough to come down to meals now, limping pathetically; but he could read nothing in his face. And yet the mere look of his face was a consolation. It was so solid, so matter of fact, so exactly like an unemotional coconut.

“You’ve done me good,” said James with a sigh of relief, as he escorted the agent down the garden to his car after lunch. “I felt all along that I could rely on your rugged common sense. The whole atmosphere of the place seems different now.”

Mr. McKinnon did not speak for a moment. He seemed to be plunged in thought.

“Rodman,” he said, as he got into his car, “I’ve been thinking over that suggestion of yours of putting a love interest into The Secret Nine. I think you’re wise. The story needs it. After all, what is there greater in the world than love? Love⁠—love⁠—aye, it’s the sweetest word in the language. Put in a heroine and let her marry Lester Gage.”

“If,” said James grimly, “she does succeed in worming her way in she’ll jolly well marry the mysterious leper. But look here, I don’t understand⁠—”

“It was seeing that girl that changed me,” proceeded Mr. McKinnon. And as James stared at him aghast, tears suddenly filled his hard-boiled eyes. He openly snuffled. “Aye, seeing her sitting there under the roses, with all that smell of honeysuckle and all. And the birdies singing so sweet in the garden and the sun lighting up her bonny face. The puir wee lass!” he muttered, dabbing at his eyes. “The puir bonny wee lass! Rodman,” he said, his voice quivering, “I’ve decided that we’re being hard on Prodder & Wiggs. Wiggs has had sickness in his home lately. We mustn’t be hard on a man who’s had sickness in his home, hey, laddie? No, no! I’m going to take back that contract and alter it to a flat twelve percent and no advance royalties.”

“What!”

“But you shan’t lose by it, Rodman. No, no, you shan’t lose by it, my manny. I am going to waive my commission. The puir bonny wee lass!”

The car rolled off down the road. Mr. McKinnon, seated in the back, was blowing his nose violently.

“This is the end!” said James.

It is necessary at this point to pause and examine James Rodman’s position with an unbiased eye. The average man, unless he puts himself in James’s place, will be unable to appreciate it. James, he will feel, was making a lot of fuss about nothing. Here he was, drawing daily closer and closer to a charming girl with big blue eyes, and surely rather to be envied than pitied.

But we must remember that James was one of Nature’s bachelors. And no ordinary man, looking forward dreamily to a little home of his own with a loving wife putting out his slippers and changing the gramophone records, can realize the intensity of the instinct for self-preservation which animates Nature’s bachelors in times of peril.

James Rodman had a congenital horror of matrimony. Though a young man, he had allowed himself to develop a great many habits which were as the breath of life to him; and these habits, he knew instinctively, a wife would shoot to pieces within a week of the end of the honeymoon.

James liked to breakfast in bed; and, having breakfasted, to smoke in bed and knock the ashes out on the carpet. What wife would tolerate this practice?

James liked to pass his days in a tennis shirt, grey flannel trousers, and slippers. What wife ever rests until she has enclosed her husband in a stiff collar, tight boots, and a morning suit and taken him with her to thés musicaux?

These and a thousand other thoughts of the same kind flashed through the unfortunate young man’s mind as the days went by, and every day that passed seemed to draw him nearer to the brink of the chasm. Fate appeared to be taking a malicious pleasure in making things as difficult for him as possible. Now that the girl was well enough to leave her bed, she spent her time sitting in a chair on the sun-sprinkled porch, and James had to read to her⁠—and poetry, at that; and not the jolly, wholesome sort of poetry the boys are turning out nowadays, either⁠—good, honest stuff about sin and gasworks and decaying corpses⁠—but the old-fashioned kind with rhymes in it, dealing almost exclusively with love. The weather, moreover, continued superb. The honeysuckle cast its sweet scent on the gentle breeze; the roses over the porch stirred and nodded; the flowers in the garden were lovelier than ever; the birds sang their little throats sore. And every evening there was a magnificent sunset. It was almost as if Nature were doing it on purpose.

At last James intercepted Dr. Brady as he was leaving after one of his visits and put the thing to him squarely:

“When is that girl going?”

The doctor patted him on the arm.

“Not yet, Rodman,” he said in a low, understanding voice. “No need to worry yourself about that. Mustn’t be moved for days and days and days⁠—I might almost say weeks and weeks and weeks.”

“Weeks and weeks!” cried James.

“And weeks,” said Dr. Brady. He prodded James roguishly in the abdomen. “Good luck to you, my boy, good luck to you,” he said.

It was some small consolation to James that the mushy physician immediately afterward tripped over William on his way down the path and broke his stethoscope. When a man is up against it like James every little helps.

He was walking dismally back to the house after this conversation when he was met by the apple-cheeked housekeeper.

“The little lady would like to speak to you, sir,” said the apple-cheeked exhibit, rubbing her hands.

“Would she?” said James hollowly.

“So sweet and pretty she looks, sir⁠—oh, sir, you wouldn’t believe! Like a blessed angel sitting there with her dear eyes all a-shining.”

“Don’t do it!” cried James with extraordinary vehemence. “Don’t do it!”

He found the girl propped up on the cushions and thought once again how singularly he disliked her. And yet, even as he thought this, some force against which he had to fight madly was whispering to him, “Go to her and take that little hand! Breathe into that little ear the burning words that will make that little face turn away crimsoned with blushes!” He wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead and sat down.

“Mrs. Stick-in-the-Mud⁠—what’s her name?⁠—says you want to see me.”

The girl nodded.

“I’ve had a letter from Uncle Henry. I wrote to him as soon as I was better and told him what had happened, and he is coming here tomorrow morning.”

“Uncle Henry?”

“That’s what I call him, but he’s really no relation. He is my guardian. He and daddy were officers in the same regiment, and when daddy was killed, fighting on the Afghan frontier, he died in Uncle Henry’s arms and with his last breath begged him to take care of me.”

James started. A sudden wild hope had waked in his heart. Years ago, he remembered, he had read a book of his aunt’s entitled Rupert’s Legacy, and in that book⁠—

“I’m engaged to marry him,” said the girl quietly.

“Wow!” shouted James.

“What?” asked the girl, startled.

“Touch of cramp,” said James. He was thrilling all over. That wild hope had been realized.

“It was daddy’s dying wish that we should marry,” said the girl.

“And dashed sensible of him, too; dashed sensible,” said James warmly.

“And yet,” she went on, a little wistfully, “I sometimes wonder⁠—”

“Don’t!” said James. “Don’t! You must respect daddy’s dying wish. There’s nothing like daddy’s dying wish; you can’t beat it. So he’s coming here tomorrow, is he? Capital, capital. To lunch, I suppose? Excellent! I’ll run down and tell Mrs. Who-Is-It to lay in another chop.”