The Secret of the Tower

by Anthony Hope

  CHAPTER IV

  PROFESSIONAL ETIQUETTE

  Dr. Irechester was a man of considerable attainments and an active,though not very persevering, intellect. He was widely read both inprofessional and general literature, but had shrunk from the arduous pathof specialization. And he shrank even more from the drudgery of hiscalling. He had private means, inherited in middle life; his wife had arespectable portion; there was, then, nothing in his circumstances tothwart his tastes and tendencies. He had soon come to see in the late Dr.Evans a means of relief rather than a threat of rivalry; even more easilyhe slipped into the same way of regarding Mary Arkroyd, helped thereto bya lingering feeling that, after all and in spite of all, when it came toreally serious cases, a woman could not, at best, play more than secondfiddle. So, as has been seen, he patronized and encouraged Mary; he toldhimself that, when she had thoroughly proved her capacity--within thelimits which he ascribed to it--to take her into partnership would not bea bad arrangement. True, he could pretty well choose his patients now;but as senior partner he would be able to do it completely. It waswell-nigh inconceivable that, for example, the Naylors--greatfriends--should ever leave him; but he would like to be quite secure ofthe pick of new patients, some of whom might, through ignorance or whim,call in Mary. There was old Saffron, for instance. He was, inIrechester's private opinion, or, perhaps it should be said in hisprivate suspicions, an interesting case; yet, just for that reason,unreliable, and evidently ready to take offense. It was because of casesof that kind that he contemplated offering partnership to Mary; he wouldboth be sure of keeping them and able to devote himself to them.

  But his wife laughed at Mary, or at that development of the feministmovement which had produced her and so many other more startlingphenomena. The Doctor was fond of his wife, a sprightly, would-befashionable, still very pretty woman. But her laughter, and the opinionit represented, were to him the merest crackling of thorns under a pot.

  The fine afternoon had come, a few days before Christmas, and he sat,side by side with Mr. Naylor, both warmly wrapped in coats and rugs,watching the lawn tennis at Old Place. Doctor Mary and Beaumaroy wereplaying together, the latter accustoming himself to a finger short ingripping his racquet, against Cynthia and Captain Alec. The Captain couldnot yet cover the court in his old fashion, but his height and reach madehim formidable at the net, and Cynthia was very active. Ten days ofInkston air had made a vast difference to Cynthia. And something else washelping. It required no common loyalty to lost causes and ruinedideals--it is surely not harsh to indicate Captain Cranster by theseterms?--to resist Alec Naylor. In fact he had almost taken Cynthia'sbreath away at their first meeting; she thought that she had never seenanything quite so magnificent, or--all round and from all points of view,so romantic; his stature, handsomeness, limp, renown. Who can besurprised at it? Moreover, he was modest and simple, and no fool withinthe bounds of his experience.

  "She seems a nice little girl, that, and uncommon pretty," Naylorremarked.

  "Yes, but he's a queer fish, I fancy," the Doctor answered, also ratherabsently. Their minds were not running on parallel lines.

  "My boy a queer fish?" Naylor expostulated humorously.

  Irechester smiled; his lips shut close and tight, his smile was quick butnarrow. "You're matchmaking. I was diagnosing," he said.

  Naylor apologized. "I've a desperate instinct to fit all these youngfellows up with mates as soon as possible. Isn't it only fair?"

  "And also extremely expedient. But it's the sort of thing you can leaveto them, can't you?"

  "As to Beaumaroy--I suppose you meant him, not Alec--I think you musthave been talking to old Tom Punnit--or, rather, hearing him talk."

  "Punnit's general view is sound enough, I think, as to the man'scharacteristics; but he doesn't appreciate his cunning."

  "Cunning?" Naylor was openly astonished. "He doesn't strike me as acunning man, not in the least."

  "Possibly, possibly, I say--not in his ends, but in his means andexpedients. That's my view. I just put it on record, Naylor. I never liketalking too much about my cases."

  "Beaumaroy's not your patient, is he?"

  "His employer, I suppose he's his employer, Saffron is. Well, I thoughtit advisable to see Saffron alone. I tried to. Saffron was reluctant,this man here openly against it. Next time I shall insist. Because Ithink, mind you, at present I no more than think, that there's more inSaffron's case than meets the eye."

  Naylor glanced at him, smiling. "You fellows are always startinghares," he said.

  "Game and set!" cried Captain Alec, and--to his partner--"Thank you verymuch for carrying a cripple."

  But Irechester's attention remained fixed on Beaumaroy, and consequentlyon Doctor Mary, for the partners did not separate at the end of theirgame, but, after putting on their coats, began to walk up and downtogether on the other side of the court, in animated conversation, thoughBeaumaroy did most of the talking, Mary listening in her usual grave andcomposed manner. Now and then a word or two reached Irechester's ears,old Naylor seemed to have fallen into a reverie over his cigar, and itmust be confessed that he took no pains not to overhear. Once at least heplainly heard "Saffron" from Beaumaroy; he thought that the same lipsspoke his own name, and he was sure that Doctor Mary's did. Beaumaroy wasspeaking rather urgently, and making gestures with his hands; it seemedas though he were appealing to his companion in some difficulty orperplexity. Irechester's mouth was severely compressed and his glancesuspicious as he watched.

  The scene was ended by Gertie Naylor calling these laggards in to tea, towhich meal the rest of the company had already betaken itself.

  At the tea table they found General Punnit discoursing on war, and giving"idealists" what idealists usually get. The General believed in war; hepressed the biological argument, did not flinch when Mr. Naylor dubbedhim the "British Bernhardi," and invoked the support of "these medicalgentleman" (this with a smile at Doctor Mary's expense) for his point ofview. War tested, proved, braced, hardened; it was nature's crucible; itwas the antidote to softness and sentimentality; it was the vindicationof the strong, the elimination of the weak.

  "I suppose there's a lot in all that, sir," said Alec Naylor, "but Idon't think the effect on one's character is always what you say. I thinkI've come out of this awful business a good deal softer than I went in."He laughed in an apologetic way. "More, more sentimental, if you like,with more feeling, don't you know, for human life, and suffering, and soon. I've seen a great many men killed, but the sight hasn't made me anymore ready to kill men. In fact, quite the reverse." He smiled again."Really sometimes, for a row of pins, I'd have turned conscientiousobjector."

  Mrs. Naylor looked apprehensively at the General: would he explode? No,he took it quite quietly. "You're a man who can afford to say it, Alec,"he remarked, with a nod that was almost approving.

  Naylor looked affectionately at his son and turned to Beaumaroy. "Andwhat's the war done to you?" he asked. And this question did draw fromthe General, if not an explosion, at least a rather contemptuous smile:Beaumaroy had earned no right to express opinions!

  But express one he did, and with his habitual air of candor. "I believeit's destroyed every, scruple I ever had!"

  "Mr. Beaumaroy!" exclaimed his hostess, scandalized; while the twogirls, Cynthia and Gertie, laughed.

  "I mean it. Can you see human life treated as dirt, absolutely as cheapas dirt, for three years, and come out thinking it worth anything? Canyou fight for your own hand, right or wrong? Oh, yes, right or wrong, inthe end, and it's no good blinking it. Can you do that for three years inwar, and then hesitate to fight for your own hand, right or wrong, inpeace? Who really cares for right or wrong, anyhow?"

  A pause ensued--rather an uncomfortable pause. There was a raw sincerityin Beaumaroy's utterance that made it a challenge.

  "I honestly think we did care about the rights and wrongs--we inEngland," said Naylor.

  "That was certainly so at the beginning," Irechester agreed.

&nb
sp; Beaumaroy took him up smartly. "Aye, at the beginning. But what aboutwhen our blood got up? What then? Would we, in our hearts, rather havebeen right and got a licking, or wrong and given one?"

  "A searching question!" mused old Naylor. "What say you, Tom Punnit?"

  "It never occurred to me to put the question," the General answeredbrusquely.

  "May I ask why not, sir?" said Beaumaroy respectfully.

  "Because I believed in God. I knew that we were right, and I knew that weshould win."

  "Are we in theology now, or still in biology?" asked Irechester,rather acidly.

  "You're getting out of my 'depth anyhow," smiled Mrs. Naylor. "And I'msure the girls must be bewildered."

  "Mamma, I've done biology!"

  "And many people think they've done theology!" chuckled Naylor. "Done itcompletely!"

  "I've raised a pretty argument!" said Beaumaroy, smiling. "I'm sorry! Ionly meant to answer your question about the effect the whole thing hashad on myself."

  "Even your answer to that was pretty startling, Mr. Beaumaroy," saidDoctor Mary, smiling too. "You gave us to understand that it hadobliterated for you all distinctions of right and wrong, didn't you?"

  "Did I go as far as that?" he laughed. "Then I'm open to the remark thatthey can't have been very strong at first."

  "Now don't destroy the general interest of your thesis," Naylor implored."It's quite likely that yours is a case as common as Alec's, or evencommoner. 'A brutal and licentious soldiery,' isn't that a classic phrasein our histories? All the same, I fancy Mr. Beaumaroy does himself lessthan justice." He laughed. "We shall be able to judge of that when weknow him better."

  "At all events, Miss Gertie, look out that I don't fake the score attennis!" said Beaumaroy.

  "A man might be capable of murder, but not capable of that," said Alec.

  "A truly British sentiment!" cried his father. "Tom, we have got back tothe national ideals."

  The discussion ended in laughter, and the talk turned to lighter matters;but, as Mary Arkroyd drove Cynthia home across the heath, her thoughtsreturned to it. The two men, the two soldiers, seemed to have given anauthentic account of what their experience had done to them. Both, as shesaw the case, had been moved to pity, horror, and indignation that suchthings should be done, or should have to be done, in the world. Afterthat point came the divergence. The higher nature had been raised, thelower debased; Alec Naylor's sympathies had been sharpened andsensitized; Beaumaroy's blunted. Where the one had found ideals andincentives, the other found despair--a despair that issued in excuses anddenied high standards. And the finer mind belonged to the finer soldier;that she knew, for Gertie had told her General Punnit's story, and,however much she might discount it as the tale of an elderly martinet,yet it stood for something, for something that could never be attributedto Alec Naylor.

  And yet, for her mind traveled back to her earlier talk by the tenniscourt, Beaumaroy had a conscience, had feelings. He was fond of old Mr.Saffron; he felt a responsibility for him, felt it, indeed, keenly. Orwas he, under all that seeming openness, a consummate hypocrite? Did hevalue Mr. Saffron only as a milk cow, the doting giver of a largesalary? Was his only desire to humor him, keep him in good health andtemper, and use him to his own profit? A puzzling man, but, at allevents, cutting a poor figure beside Alec Naylor, about whom there couldcircle no clouds of doubt. Doctor Mary's learning and gravity did notprevent her from drawing a very heroic and rather romantic figure ofCaptain Alec--notwithstanding that she sometimes found him rather hardto talk to.

  She felt Cynthia's arm steal around her waist, and Cynthia said softly,"I did enjoy my afternoon. Can we go again soon, Mary?"

  Mary glanced at her. Cynthia laughed and blushed. "Isn't he splendid?"Cynthia murmured. "But I don't like Mr. Beaumaroy, do you?"

  "I say yes to the first question, but I'm not quite ready to answer thesecond," said Mary with a laugh.

  Three days later, on Christmas Eve, one whom Jeanne, who caught sight ofhim in the hall, described as being all there was possible of ugliness,delivered (with a request for an immediate answer) the following note forMary Arkroyd:

  DEAR DR. ARKROYD:

  Mr. Saffron is unwell, and I have insisted that he must see a doctor. Somuch he has yielded, after a fight! But nothing will induce him to seeDr. Irechester again. On this point I tried to reason with him, but invain. He is obstinate and resolved. I am afraid that I am putting you ina difficult and disagreeable position, but it seems to me that I have noalternative but to ask you to call on him professionally. I hope that Dr.Irechester will not be hurt by a whim which is, no doubt, itself merely asymptom of disordered nerves, for Dr. Irechester has been most attentiveand very successful hitherto in dealing with the dear old gentleman. Butmy first duty is to Mr. Saffron. If it will ease matters at all, prayhold yourself at liberty to show this note to Dr. Irechester. May I begyou to be kind enough to call at your earliest convenience, though it is,alas, a rough evening to ask you to come out?

  Yours very faithfully,

  HECTOR BEAUMAROY.

  "How very awkward!" exclaimed Mary. She had prided herself on arigorous abstention from "poaching"; she fancied that men were veryready to accuse women of not "playing the game" and had been resolvedto give no color to such an accusation. "Mr. Saffron has sent forme--professionally. He's ill, it seems," she said to Cynthia.

  "Why shouldn't he?"

  "Because he is a patient of Dr. Irechester, not a patient of mine."

  "But people often change their doctors, don't they? He thinks you'recleverer, I suppose, and I expect you are really."

  There was no use in expounding professional etiquette to Cynthia. Maryhad to decide the point for herself, and quickly; the old man might beseriously ill. Beaumaroy had said at the Naylors' that his attacks weresometimes alarming.

  Suddenly she recollected that he had also seemed to hint that they weremore alarming than Irechester appeared to appreciate; she had not takenmuch notice of that hint at the time, but now it recurred to her verydistinctly. There was no suggestion of the sort in Beaumaroy's letter.Beaumaroy had written a letter that could be shown to Irechester! Wasthat dishonesty, or only a pardonable diplomacy?

  "I suppose I must go, and explain to Dr. Irechester afterwards." She rangthe bell, to recall the maid, and gave her answer. "Say I will be roundas soon as possible. Is the messenger walking?"

  "He's got a bicycle, Miss."

  "All right. I shall be there almost as soon as he is."

  She seemed to have no alternative, just as Beaumaroy had none. Yet whileshe put on her mackintosh, it was very wet and misty, got out her car,and lit her lamps, her face was still fretful and her mind disturbed. Fornow, as she looked back on it, Beaumaroy's conversation with her at OldPlace seemed just a prelude to this summons, and meant to prepare her forit. Perhaps that too was pardonable diplomacy, and no reference to itcould be expected in a letter which she was at liberty to show to Dr.Irechester. She wondered, uncomfortably, how Irechester would take it.