The Secret of the Tower. Anthony HopeЧитать онлайн книгу.
than ardent, rather mocking than eager. Yet when he smiled, his face became not merely pleasant, but confidentially pleasant; he seemed to smile especially to and for the person to whom he was talking; and his voice was notably agreeable, soft and clear—the voice of a high-bred man, but not exactly of a high-bred Englishman. There was no accent definite enough to be called foreign, certainly not to be assigned to any particular race, but there was an exotic touch about his manner of speech suggesting that, even if not that of a foreigner, it was shaped and colored by the inflexions of foreign tongues. The hue of his plentiful and curly hair, indistinguishable to Mary and Cynthia, now stood revealed as neither black, nor red, nor auburn, nor brown, nor golden, but just, and rather surprisingly, a plain yellow, the color of a cowslip or thereabouts. Altogether rather a rum-looking fellow! This had been Alec Naylor’s first remark when the Rector of Sprotsfield pointed him out, as a possible fourth, at the golf club, and the rough justice of the description could not be denied. He, like Alec, bore his scars; the little finger of his right hand was amputated down to the knuckle.
Yet, after all this description, in particularity if not otherwise worthy of a classic novelist, the thing yet remains that most struck observers. Mr. Hector Beaumaroy had an adorable candor of manner. He answered questions with innocent readiness and pellucid sincerity. It would be impossible to think him guilty of a lie; ungenerous to suspect so much as a suppression of the truth. Even Mr. Naylor, hardened by five-and-thirty years’ experience of what sailors will blandly swear to in collision cases, was struck with the open candor of his bearing.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, Miss Wall, that’s right, we go to town every Wednesday. No particular reason why it should be Wednesday, but old gentlemen somehow do better—don’t you think so?—with method and regular habits.”
“I’m sure you know what’s best for Mr. Saffron,” said Delia. “You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?”
Mr. Naylor drew a little nearer and listened. The General had put himself into the corner, a remote corner of the room, and sat there with an uneasy and rather glowering aspect.
“Oh no, no!” answered Beaumaroy. “A matter of weeks only. But the dear old fellow seemed to take to me—a friend put us in touch originally. I seem to be able to do just what he wants.”
“I hope your friend is not really ill, not seriously?” This time the question was Mrs. Naylor’s, not Miss Delia’s.
“His health is really not so bad, but,” he gave a glance round the company, as though inviting their understanding, “he insists that he’s not the man he was.”
“Absurd!” smiled Naylor. “Not much older than I am, is he?”
“Only just turned seventy, I believe. But the idea’s very persistent.”
“Hypochondria!” snapped Miss Delia.
“Not altogether. I’m afraid there is a little real heart trouble. Dr. Irechester—”
“Oh, with Dr. Irechester, dear Mr. Beaumaroy, you’re all right!”
Again Beaumaroy’s glance—that glance of innocent appeal—ranged over the company (except the General, out of its reach). He seemed troubled and embarrassed.
“A most accomplished man, evidently, and a friend of yours, of course. But, well, there it is, a mere fancy, of course, but unhappily my old friend doesn’t take to him. He, he thinks that he’s rather inquisitorial. A doctor’s duty, I suppose—”
“Irechester’s a sound man, a very sound man,” said Mr. Naylor. “And, after all one can ask almost any question if one does it tactfully, can’t one, Miss Wall?”
“As a matter of fact, he’s only seen Mr. Saffron twice—he had a little chill. But his manner, unfortunately, rather, er—alarmed—”
Gertie Naylor, with the directness of youth, propounded a solution of the difficulty. “If you don’t like Dr. Irechester—”
“Oh, it’s not I who—”
“Why not have Mary?” Gertie made her suggestion eagerly. She was very fond of Mary, who, from the height of age, wisdom and professional dignity, had stooped to offer her an equal friendship.
“She means Dr. Mary Arkroyd,” Mrs. Naylor explained.
“Yes, I know, Mrs. Naylor, I know about Dr. Arkroyd. In fact, I know her by sight. But—”
“Perhaps you don’t believe in women doctors?” Alec suggested.
“It’s not that. I’ve no prejudices. But the responsibility is on me, and I know very little of her; and, well to change one’s doctor, it’s rather invidious—”
“Oh, as to that, Irechester’s a sensible man; he’s got as much work as he wants, and as much money too. He won’t resent an old man’s fancy.”
“Well, I’d never thought of a change, but if you all suggest it—” Somehow it did seem as if they all, and not merely youthful Gertie had suggested it. “But I should rather like to know Dr. Arkroyd first.”
“Come and meet her here; that’s very simple. She often comes to tennis and tea. We’ll let you know the first time she’s coming.”
Beaumaroy most cordially accepted the idea and the invitation. “Any afternoon I shall be delighted, except Wednesdays. Wednesdays are sacred, aren’t they, Miss Wall? London on Wednesdays for Mr. Saffron and me, and the old brown bag!” He laughed in a quiet merriment. “That old bag’s been in a lot of places with me and has carried some queer cargoes. Now it just goes to and fro, between here and town, with Mudie books. Must have books, living so much alone as we do!” He had risen as he spoke, and approached Mrs. Naylor to take leave.
She gave him her hand very cordially. “I don’t suppose Mr. Saffron cares to meet people; but any spare time you have, Mr. Beaumaroy, we shall be delighted to see you.”
Beaumaroy bowed as he thanked her, adding, “And I’m promised a chance of meeting Dr. Arkroyd before long?”
The promise was renewed and the visitor took his leave, declining Alec’s offer to “run him home” in the car. “The car might startle my old friend,” he pleaded. Alec saw him off, and returned to find the General, who had contrived to avoid more than a distant bow of farewell to Beaumaroy, standing on the hearthrug apparently in a state of some agitation.
The envious years had refused to Major-General Punnit, C.B.—he was a distant cousin of Mrs. Naylor’s—the privilege of serving his country in the Great War. His career had lain mainly in India and was mostly behind him even at the date of the South African War, in which, however, he had done valuable work in one of the supply services. He as short, stout, honest, brave, shrewd, obstinate, and as full of prejudices, religious, political and personal as an egg is of meat. And all this time he had been slowly and painfully recalling what his young friend Colonel Merman (the Colonel was young only relatively to the General) had told him about Hector Beaumaroy. The name had struck on his memory the moment the Rector pronounced it, but it had taken him a long while to “place it” accurately. However, now he had it pat; the conversation in the club came back. He retailed it now to the company at Old Place.
A pleasant fellow, Beaumaroy; socially a very agreeable fellow. And as for courage, as brave as you like. Indeed he might have had letters after his name save for the fact that he—the Colonel—would never recommend a man unless his discipline was as good as his leading, and his conduct at the base as praiseworthy as at the front. (Alec Naylor nodded his handsome head in grave approval; his father looked a little discontented, as though he were swallowing unpalatable, though wholesome, food). His whole idea—Beaumaroy’s, that is—was to shield offenders, to prevent the punishment fitting the crime, even to console and countenance the wrongdoer. No sense of discipline, no moral sense, the Colonel had gone as far as that. Impossible to promote or to recommend for reward, almost impossible to keep. Of course, if he had been caught young and put through the mill, it might have been different. “It