was nearly, and not quite. Civilised young women do not slap butlers’ faces in the street —it simply isn’t done. She turned hot and cold all over at her narrow escape and walked a little faster. The new road had run into an old one, and she could hear the roar of a thoroughfare not too far away. She wished passionately to catch a bus and leave Putney and Mercer to their own devices.
He still kept up with her and went on talking about his wife.
‘It’s no use raking things up that’s bound to be painful to all concerned, and so I’ve told Mrs. Mercer many a time, but being weak in the head —it’s her nerves the doctor says — she kinds of harps on the case and blames herself because she had to give evidence. But as I said to her, “You’re bound to say what you know, and no blame to you if it goes against anyone.” “You can’t tell lies,” I said —“not on your Bible oath in a court of law, you can’t. You’ve got to tell what you’ve seen or heard, and it’s the judge and the jury that does the rest, not you.” But there, she goes on harping on it, and I can’t stop her. But as long as she didn’t annoy you, miss — I’m sure you’d be one that would make allowances for her not being what you might call quite right in the head.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Hilary.
The thoroughfare was most helpfully near. She walked faster and faster. That was at least six times Mercer had told her that Mrs. Mercer wasn’t right in the head. He must be very anxious for it to soak right in. She wondered why. And then she thought she knew. And then she thought that if he said it again, she would probably scream.
They emerged upon the High Street, and her heart jumped with joyful relief.
‘Good morning,’ she said — ‘I’m catching a bus.’ And caught one.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hilary sat in the bus and thought. She thought about the Mercers. She thought a great deal about the Mercers. Mrs. Mercer might be off her head, or she mightn’t. Mercer was uncommonly anxious to make it clear that she was off her head — he kept on saying it every five minutes. There€ was something in Shakespeare — how did it go — ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’ Mercer was rather like that about Mrs. Mercer — he protested so much that you couldn’t help having the feeling that perhaps he was overdoing it. ‘What I tell you three times is true.’ That was Lewis Carroll in The Hunting of the Snark. That seemed to fit Alfred Mercer very well. If he went on saying that Mrs. Mercer was mad often enough it would be believed, and to all intents and purposes mad she would be, and nobody would take any notice of what she said.
An idiotic rhyme cavorted suddenly amongst these serious deliberations:
‘If I had a husband like Mr. Mercer,
I should want him to be a sea-going purser
And go long voyages over the main
And hardly ever come home again.’
Quite definitely and unreasonably, she didn’t like Mercer. But that didn’t necessarily mean that he was telling lies. You may dislike a person very much, and yet they may be telling the truth. Hilary reflected on this curious fact, and decided that she must not allow herself to be biased. Mercer might be speaking the truth and Mrs. Mercer might be off her head, but contrariwise he might be telling lies and Mrs. Mercer might be what she had appeared to Hilary to be —just a poor thing, a dreep — a frightened poor thing with something on her mind. If there were even once chance in a thousand that this was true, something ought to be done about it.
Hilary began to consider what she could do. The Mercers had left the train at Ledlington. She could, of course, go down to Ledlington and try to find Mrs. Mercer, but just how you began to look for a stranger in a strange place like Ledlington she really had no idea. What she wanted was someone to talk the whole thing over with. How could you think a thing like that out all by yourself? What you wanted was someone to say
He still kept up with her and went on talking about his wife.
‘It’s no use raking things up that’s bound to be painful to all concerned, and so I’ve told Mrs. Mercer many a time, but being weak in the head —it’s her nerves the doctor says — she kinds of harps on the case and blames herself because she had to give evidence. But as I said to her, “You’re bound to say what you know, and no blame to you if it goes against anyone.” “You can’t tell lies,” I said —“not on your Bible oath in a court of law, you can’t. You’ve got to tell what you’ve seen or heard, and it’s the judge and the jury that does the rest, not you.” But there, she goes on harping on it, and I can’t stop her. But as long as she didn’t annoy you, miss — I’m sure you’d be one that would make allowances for her not being what you might call quite right in the head.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Hilary.
The thoroughfare was most helpfully near. She walked faster and faster. That was at least six times Mercer had told her that Mrs. Mercer wasn’t right in the head. He must be very anxious for it to soak right in. She wondered why. And then she thought she knew. And then she thought that if he said it again, she would probably scream.
They emerged upon the High Street, and her heart jumped with joyful relief.
‘Good morning,’ she said — ‘I’m catching a bus.’ And caught one.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hilary sat in the bus and thought. She thought about the Mercers. She thought a great deal about the Mercers. Mrs. Mercer might be off her head, or she mightn’t. Mercer was uncommonly anxious to make it clear that she was off her head — he kept on saying it every five minutes. There€ was something in Shakespeare — how did it go — ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’ Mercer was rather like that about Mrs. Mercer — he protested so much that you couldn’t help having the feeling that perhaps he was overdoing it. ‘What I tell you three times is true.’ That was Lewis Carroll in The Hunting of the Snark. That seemed to fit Alfred Mercer very well. If he went on saying that Mrs. Mercer was mad often enough it would be believed, and to all intents and purposes mad she would be, and nobody would take any notice of what she said.
An idiotic rhyme cavorted suddenly amongst these serious deliberations:
‘If I had a husband like Mr. Mercer,
I should want him to be a sea-going purser
And go long voyages over the main
And hardly ever come home again.’
Quite definitely and unreasonably, she didn’t like Mercer. But that didn’t necessarily mean that he was telling lies. You may dislike a person very much, and yet they may be telling the truth. Hilary reflected on this curious fact, and decided that she must not allow herself to be biased. Mercer might be speaking the truth and Mrs. Mercer might be off her head, but contrariwise he might be telling lies and Mrs. Mercer might be what she had appeared to Hilary to be —just a poor thing, a dreep — a frightened poor thing with something on her mind. If there were even once chance in a thousand that this was true, something ought to be done about it.
Hilary began to consider what she could do. The Mercers had left the train at Ledlington. She could, of course, go down to Ledlington and try to find Mrs. Mercer, but just how you began to look for a stranger in a strange place like Ledlington she really had no idea. What she wanted was someone to talk the whole thing over with. How could you think a thing like that out all by yourself? What you wanted was someone to say
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