Beaumaroy Home from the Wars

by Anthony Hope

  Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

  BEAUMAROY HOME FROM THE WARS

  BY ANTHONY HOPE

  METHUEN & CO. LTD. 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. LONDON

  _First Published in 1919_

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER PAGE

  I. DOCTOR MARY'S PAYING GUEST 1

  II. THE GENERAL REMEMBERS 13

  III. MR. SAFFRON AT HOME 27

  IV. PROFESSIONAL ETIQUETTE 39

  V. A FAMILIAR IMPLEMENT 53

  VI. ODD STORY OF CAPTAIN DUGGLE! 66

  VII. A GENTLEMANLY STRANGER 80

  VIII. CAPTAIN ALEC RAISES HIS VOICE 94

  IX. DOCTOR MARY'S ULTIMATUM 107

  X. THAT MAGICAL WORD MOROCCO! 123

  XI. THE CAR BEHIND THE TREES 138

  XII. THE SECRET OF THE TOWER 151

  XIII. RIGHT OF CONQUEST 163

  XIV. THE SCEPTRE IN THE GRAVE 178

  XV. A NORMAL CASE 192

  XVI. DEAD MAJESTY 206

  XVII. THE CHIEF MOURNERS 220

  XVIII. THE GOLD AND THE TREASURE 234

  BEAUMAROY HOME FROM THE WARS

  CHAPTER I

  DOCTOR MARY'S PAYING GUEST

  "Just in time, wasn't it?" asked Mary Arkroyd.

  "Two days before the--the ceremony! Mercifully it had all been kept veryquiet, because it was only three months since poor Gilly was killed. Iforget whether you ever met Gilly? My half-brother, you know?"

  "Only once--in Collingham Gardens. He had an _exeat_, and dashed in oneSaturday morning when we were just finishing our work. Don't youremember?"

  "Yes, I think I do. But since my engagement I'd gone into colours--oh,of course, I've gone back into mourning now!--and everything wasready--settlements and so on, you know. And rooms taken at Bournemouth.And then it all came out!"

  "How?"

  "Well, Eustace--Captain Cranster, I mean----Oh, I think he really musthave had shell-shock, as he said, even though the doctor seemed to doubtit! He gave the Colonel as a reference in some shop, and--and the bankwouldn't pay the cheque. Other cheques turned up too; and in the end thepolice went through his papers, and found letters from--well, from her,you know. From Bogota. South America, isn't it? He'd lived there tenyears, you know, growing something--beans, or coffee, or coffee-beans,or something--I don't know what. He tried to say the marriage wasn'tbinding, but the Colonel--wasn't it providential that the Colonel washome on leave? Mamma could never have grappled with it! The Colonel wassure it was, and so were the lawyers."

  "What happened then?"

  "The great thing was to keep it quiet. Now wasn't it? And there was theshell-shock--or so Eustace--Captain Cranster, I mean--said, anyhow. So,on the Colonel's advice, Mamma squared the cheque business and--and theygave him twenty-four hours to clear out. Papa--I call the Colonel papa,you know, though he's really my stepfather--used a little influence, Ithink. Anyhow it was managed. I never saw him again, Mary."

  "Poor dear! Was it very bad?"

  "Yes! But--suppose we had been married! Mary, where should I have been?"

  Mary Arkroyd left that problem alone. "Were you very fond of him?" sheasked.

  "Awfully!" Cynthia turned up to her friend pretty blue eyes suffused intears. "It was the end of the world to me. That there could be such men!I went to bed. Mamma could do nothing with me. Oh, well, she wrote toyou about all that."

  "She told me you were in a pretty bad way."

  "I was just desperate! Then one day--in bed--the thought of you came. Itseemed an absolute inspiration. I remembered the card you sent on mylast birthday--you've never forgotten my birthdays, though it's yearssince we met--with your new address here--and your 'Doctor,' and all theletters after your name! I thought it rather funny." A faint smile, thefirst since Miss Walford's arrival at Inkston, probably the first sinceCaptain Eustace Cranster's shell-shock had wrought catastrophe--appearedon her lips. "How I waited for your answer! You don't mind having me, doyou, dear? Mamma insisted on suggesting the P.G. arrangement. I wasafraid you'd shy at it."

  "Not a bit! I should have liked to have you anyhow, but I can make youmuch more comfortable with the P.G. money. And your maid too--she looksas if she was accustomed to the best! By the way, need she be quite sotearful? She's more tearful than you are yourself."

  "Jeanne's very, very fond of me," Cynthia murmured reproachfully.

  "Oh, we'll get her out of that," said Mary briskly. "The tears, I mean,not the fondness. I'm very fond of you myself. Six years ago you were acharming kitten, and I used to enjoy being your 'visiting governess'--tosay nothing of finding the guineas very handy while I was waiting toqualify. You're rather like a kitten still, one of those blue-eyedones--Siamese, aren't they?--with close fur and a wondering look. Butyou mustn't mew down here, and you must have lots of milk and cream.Even if rations go on, I can certify all the extras for you. That's thegood of being a doctor!" She laughed cheerfully as she took a cigarettefrom the mantelpiece and lit it.

  Cynthia, on the other hand, began to sob, prettily and not in a noisyfashion, yet evidently heading towards a bout of grief. Moreover, nosooner had the first sound of lamentation escaped from her lips, thanthe door was opened smartly and a buxom girl, in lady's-maid uniform,rushed in, darted across the room, and knelt by Cynthia, sobbing alsoand exclaiming, "Oh, my poor Mees Cynthia!"

  Mary smiled in a humorous contempt. "Stop this!" she commanded ratherbrusquely. "You've not been deceived too, have you, Jeanne?"

  "Me, madame? No. But my poor Mees----"

  "Leave your poor Mees to me." She took a paper bag from the mantelpiece."Go and eat chocolates."

  Fixed with a firm and decidedly professional glance, Jeanne stoppedsobbing and rose slowly to her feet.

  "Don't listen outside the door. You must have been listening. Wait tillyou're rung for. Miss Cynthia will be all right with me. We're going fora walk. Take her upstairs and put on her hat for her, and a thick coat;it's cold and going to rain, I think."

  "A walk, Mary?" Cynthia's sobs stopped to make way for this protest. Thedescription of the weather did not sound attractive.

  "Yes, yes. Now off with both of you! Here, take the chocolates, Jeanne,and try to remember that it might have been worse."

  Jeanne's brown eyes were eloquent of reproach.

  "Captain Cranster might have been found out too late--after thewedding," Mary explained with a smile. "Try to look at it like that.Five minutes to get ready, Cynthia!" She was ready for the weatherherself, in the stout coat and skirt and weather-proof hat in which shehad driven the two-seater on her round that morning.

  The disconsolate pair drifted ruefully from the room, though Jeanne didrecollect to take the chocolates. Doctor Mary stood looking down at thefire, her lips still shaped in that firm, wise, and philosophical smilewith which doctors and nurses--and indeed, sometimes, anybody whohappens to be feeling pretty well himself--console or exasperatesuffering humanity. "A very good thing the poor silly child did come tome!" That was the form her thoughts took. For although Dr. Mary Arkroydwas, and knew herself to be, no dazzling genius at her profession--inmoments of candour she would speak of having "scraped through" herqualifying examinations--she had a high opinion of her own common senseand her power of guiding weaker mortals.

  For all that Jeanne's cheek bulged with a chocolate, there was openresentment on her full pouting lips, and a hint of the same feeling inCynthia's still liquid eyes, when mistress and maid came downstairsagain. Without heeding these signs, Mary drew on her gauntlets, took herwalking-stick, and
flung the hall door open. A rush of cold wind filledthe little hall. Jeanne shivered ostentatiously; Cynthia sighed andmuffled herself deeper in her fur collar. "A good walking day!" saidMary decisively.

  Up to now, Inkston had not impressed Cynthia Walford very favourably. Itwas indeed a mixed kind of a place. Like many villages which lie near toLondon and have been made, by modern developments, more accessible thanonce they were, it showed chronological strata in its buildings. Down bythe station all was new, red, suburban. Mounting the tarred road, thewayfarer bore slightly to the right along the original village street;bating the aggressive "fronts" of one or two commercial innovators, thiswas old, calm, serene, grey in tone and restful, ornamented by three orfour good-class Georgian houses, one quite fine, with well-wrought irongates (this was Dr. Irechester's); turning to the right again, but moresharply, the wayfarer found himself once more in villadom, but avilladom more ornate, more costly, with gardens to be measured inacres--or nearly. This was Hinton Avenue (Hinton because it was thebuilder's wife's maiden name, Avenue because avenue is genteel). HereMary dwelt, but by good luck her predecessor, Dr. Christian Evans, hadseized upon a surviving old cottage at the end of the avenue, and,indeed, of Inkston village itself. Beyond it stretched meadows, whilethe road, turning again, ran across an open heath, and pursued its wayto Sprotsfield, four miles distant, a place of greater size where allamenities could be found.

  It was along this road that the friends now walked, Mary setting a briskpace. "When once you've turned your back on the Avenue, it's heapsbetter," she said. "Might be real country, looking this way, mightn'tit? Except the Naylors' place--oh, and Tower Cottage--there are nohouses between this and Sprotsfield."

  The wind blew shrewdly, with an occasional spatter of rain; the witheredbracken lay like a vast carpet of dull copper colour under the cloudysky; scattered fir trees made fantastic shapes in the early gloom of aDecember day. A sombre scene, yet wanting only sunshine to make it flashin a richness of colour; even to-day its quiet and spaciousness, itsmelancholy and monotony, seemed to bid a sympathetic and soothingwelcome to aching and fretted hearts.

  "It really is rather nice out here," Cynthia admitted.

  "I come almost every afternoon. Oh, I've plenty of time! My round in themorning generally sees me through--except for emergencies--births anddeaths, and so on. You see, my predecessor, poor Christian Evans, neverhad more than the leavings, and that's all I've got. I believe the realdoctor--the old-established one--Dr. Irechester, was angry at first withDr. Evans for coming; he didn't want a rival. But Christian was such ameek, mild, simple little Welshman, not the least pushing or ambitious;and very soon Dr. Irechester, who's quite well off, was glad to leavehim the dirty work--I mean," she explained, smiling, "the cottages andthe panel work--National Insurance, you know--and so on. Well, as youknow, I came down as _locum_ for Christian--he was a fellow-student ofmine--and when the dear little man was killed in France, Dr. Irechesterhimself suggested that I should stay on. He was rather nice. He said,'We all started to laugh at you, at first, but we don't laughnow--anyhow, only my wife does! So, if you stay on, I don't doubt weshall work very well together, my dear colleague.' Wasn't that rathernice of him, Cynthia?"

  "Yes, dear," said Cynthia, in a voice that sounded a good many milesaway.

  Mary laughed. "I'm bound to be interested in you, but I suppose you'renot bound to be interested in me," she observed resignedly. "All thesame, I made a sensation at Inkston just at first. And they were evenmore astonished when it turned out that I could dance and play lawntennis."

  "That's a funny little place," said Cynthia, pointing to the left sideof the road.

  "Tower Cottage, that's called."

  "But what a funny place!" Cynthia insisted. "A round tower, like aMartello tower, only smaller, of course; and what looks just like anordinary cottage--or small farmhouse--joined on to it. What could thetower have been for?"

  "I'm sure I don't know. Origin lost in the mists of antiquity! An oldgentleman named Saffron lives there now."

  "A patient of yours, Mary?"

  "Oh no! He's well off--rich, I believe. So he belongs to Dr. Irechester.But I often meet him along the road. Lately there's always been ayounger man with him--a companion, or secretary, or something of thatsort, I hear he is."

  "There are two men coming along the road now."

  "Yes, that's them--the old man and his friend. He's rather striking tolook at."

  "Which of them?"

  "The old man, of course. I haven't looked at the secretary. Cynthia, Ibelieve you're beginning to feel a little better!"

  "Oh no, I'm not! I'm afraid I'm not, really!" But there had been acheerfully roguish little smile on her face. It vanished very promptlywhen observed.

  The two men approached them, on their way, no doubt, to Tower Cottage.The old man was not above middle height, indeed scarcely reached it;but he made the most of his inches, carrying himself very upright, withan air of high dignity. Close-cut white hair showed under anold-fashioned peaked cap; he wore a plaid shawl swathed round him, hisleft arm being enveloped in its folds; his right rested in the arm ofhis companion, who was taller than he, lean and loose-built, clad in analmost white (and very unseasonable-looking) suit of some homespunmaterial. He wore no covering on his head, a thick crop of curly hair(of a colour indistinguishable in the dim light) presumably affordingsuch protection as he needed. His face was turned down towards the oldman, who was looking up at him and apparently talking to him, though inso low a tone that no sound reached Mary and Cynthia as they passed by.Neither man gave any sign of noticing their presence.

  "Mr. Saffron, you said? Rather a queer name, but he looks a nice oldman; patriarchal, you know. What's the name of the other one?"

  "I did hear; somebody mentioned him at the Naylors'--somebody who hadheard something about him in France. What was the name? It was somethingqueer too, I think."

  "They've got queer names and they live in a queer house!" Cynthiaactually gave a little laugh. "But are you going to walk all night, Marydear?"

  "Oh, poor thing! I forgot you! You're tired? We'll turn back."

  They retraced their steps, again passing Tower Cottage, into which itsoccupants must have gone, for they were no longer to be seen.

  "That name's on the tip of my tongue," said Mary in amused vexation. "Ishall get it in a moment!"

  Cynthia had relapsed into gloom. "It doesn't matter in the least," shemurmured.

  "It's Beaumaroy!" said Mary in triumph.

  "I don't wonder you couldn't remember that!"