THE PARADISE MYSTERY
By J. S. Fletcher
CHAPTER I. ONLY THE GUARDIAN
American tourists, sure appreciators of all that is ancient andpicturesque in England, invariably come to a halt, holding their breathin a sudden catch of wonder, as they pass through the half-ruinousgateway which admits to the Close of Wrychester. Nowhere else in Englandis there a fairer prospect of old-world peace. There before their eyes,set in the centre of a great green sward, fringed by tall elms and giantbeeches, rises the vast fabric of the thirteenth-century Cathedral, itshigh spire piercing the skies in which rooks are for ever circling andcalling. The time-worn stone, at a little distance delicate as lacework,is transformed at different hours of the day into shifting shades ofcolour, varying from grey to purple: the massiveness of the great naveand transepts contrasts impressively with the gradual tapering ofthe spire, rising so high above turret and clerestory that it at lastbecomes a mere line against the ether. In morning, as in afternoon, orin evening, here is a perpetual atmosphere of rest; and not around thegreat church alone, but in the quaint and ancient houses which fence inthe Close. Little less old than the mighty mass of stone on which theirivy-framed windows look, these houses make the casual observer feelthat here, if anywhere in the world, life must needs run smoothly. Underthose high gables, behind those mullioned windows, in the beautifulold gardens lying between the stone porches and the elm-shadowed lawn,nothing, one would think, could possibly exist but leisured and pleasantexistence: even the busy streets of the old city, outside the crumblinggateway, seem, for the moment, far off.
In one of the oldest of these houses, half hidden behind trees andshrubs in a corner of the Close, three people sat at breakfast one fineMay morning. The room in which they sat was in keeping with the oldhouse and its surroundings--a long, low-ceilinged room, with oakpanelling around its walls, and oak beams across its roof--a room ofold furniture, and, old pictures, and old books, its antique atmosphererelieved by great masses of flowers, set here and there in old chinabowls: through its wide windows, the casements of which were thrown wideopen, there was an inviting prospect of a high-edged flower garden, and,seen in vistas through the trees and shrubberies, of patches of the westfront of the Cathedral, now sombre and grey in shadow. But on the gardenand into this flower-scented room the sun was shining gaily through thetrees, and making gleams of light on the silver and china on the tableand on the faces of the three people who sat around it.
Of these three, two were young, and the third was one of those menwhose age it is never easy to guess--a tall, clean-shaven, bright-eyed,alert-looking man, good-looking in a clever, professional sort of way, aman whom no one could have taken for anything but a member of one of thelearned callings. In some lights he looked no more than forty: a stronglight betrayed the fact that his dark hair had a streak of grey init, and was showing a tendency to whiten about the temples. Astrong, intellectually superior man, this, scrupulously groomed andwell-dressed, as befitted what he really was--a medical practitionerwith an excellent connection amongst the exclusive society of acathedral town. Around him hung an undeniable air of content andprosperity--as he turned over a pile of letters which stood by hisplate, or glanced at the morning newspaper which lay at his elbow, itwas easy to see that he had no cares beyond those of the day, and thatthey--so far as he knew then--were not likely to affect him greatly.Seeing him in these pleasant domestic circumstances, at the head ofhis table, with abundant evidences of comfort and refinement and modestluxury about him, any one would have said, without hesitation, that Dr.Mark Ransford was undeniably one of the fortunate folk of this world.
The second person of the three was a boy of apparently seventeen--awell-built, handsome lad of the senior schoolboy type, who was devotinghimself in business-like fashion to two widely-differing pursuits--one,the consumption of eggs and bacon and dry toast; the other, the studyof a Latin textbook, which he had propped up in front of him against theold-fashioned silver cruet. His quick eyes wandered alternately betweenhis book and his plate; now and then he muttered a line or two tohimself. His companions took no notice of these combinations of eatingand learning: they knew from experience that it was his way to make upat breakfast-time for the moments he had stolen from his studies thenight before.
It was not difficult to see that the third member of the party, a girlof nineteen or twenty, was the boy's sister. Each had a wealth of brownhair, inclining, in the girl's case to a shade that had tints of gold init; each had grey eyes, in which there was a mixture of blue; each hada bright, vivid colour; each was undeniably good-looking and eminentlyhealthy. No one would have doubted that both had lived a good deal ofan open-air existence: the boy was already muscular and sinewy: thegirl looked as if she was well acquainted with the tennis racket andthe golf-stick. Nor would any one have made the mistake of thinkingthat these two were blood relations of the man at the head of thetable--between them and him there was not the least resemblance offeature, of colour, or of manner.
While the boy learnt the last lines of his Latin, and the doctor turnedover the newspaper, the girl read a letter--evidently, from the largesprawling handwriting, the missive of some girlish correspondent. Shewas deep in it when, from one of the turrets of the Cathedral, a bellbegan to ring. At that, she glanced at her brother.
"There's Martin, Dick!" she said. "You'll have to hurry."
Many a long year before that, in one of the bygone centuries, a worthycitizen of Wrychester, Martin by name, had left a sum of money to theDean and Chapter of the Cathedral on condition that as long as ever theCathedral stood, they should cause to be rung a bell from its smallerbell-tower for three minutes before nine o'clock every morning, all theyear round. What Martin's object had been no one now knew--but this bellserved to remind young gentlemen going to offices, and boys going toschool, that the hour of their servitude was near. And Dick Bewery,without a word, bolted half his coffee, snatched up his book, grabbedat a cap which lay with more books on a chair close by, and vanishedthrough the open window. The doctor laughed, laid aside his newspaper,and handed his cup across the table.
"I don't think you need bother yourself about Dick's ever being late,Mary," he said. "You are not quite aware of the power of legs that areonly seventeen years old. Dick could get to any given point in justabout one-fourth of the time that I could, for instance--moreover, hehas a cunning knowledge of every short cut in the city."
Mary Bewery took the empty cup and began to refill it.
"I don't like him to be late," she remarked. "It's the beginning of badhabits."
"Oh, well!" said Ransford indulgently. "He's pretty free from anythingof that sort, you know. I haven't even suspected him of smoking, yet."
"That's because he thinks smoking would stop his growth and interferewith his cricket," answered Mary. "He would smoke if it weren't forthat."
"That's giving him high praise, then," said Ransford. "You couldn'tgive him higher! Know how to repress his inclinations. An excellentthing--and most unusual, I fancy. Most people--don't!"
He took his refilled cup, rose from the table, and opened a box ofcigarettes which stood on the mantelpiece. And the girl, instead ofpicking up her letter again, glanced at him a little doubtfully.
"That reminds me of--of something I wanted to say to you," she said."You're quite right about people not repressing their inclinations. I--Iwish some people would!"
Ransford turned quickly from the hearth and gave her a sharp look,beneath which her colour heightened. Her eyes shifted their gaze away toher letter, and she picked it up and began to fold it nervously. And atthat Ransford rapped out a name, putting a quick suggestion of meaninginquiry into his voice.
"Bryce?" he asked.
The girl nodded her face sho
wing distinct annoyance and dislike. Beforesaying more, Ransford lighted a cigarette.
"Been at it again?" he said at last. "Since last time?"
"Twice," she answered. "I didn't like to tell you--I've hated to botheryou about it. But--what am I to do? I dislike him intensely--I can'ttell why, but it's there, and nothing could ever alter the feeling.And though I told him--before--that it was useless--he mentioned itagain--yesterday--at Mrs. Folliot's garden-party."
"Confound his impudence!" growled Ransford. "Oh, well!--I'll have tosettle with him myself. It's useless trifling with anything like that. Igave him a quiet hint before. And since he won't take it--all right!"
"But--what shall you do?" she asked anxiously. "Not--send him away?"
"If he's any decency about him, he'll go--after what I say to him,"answered Ransford. "Don't you trouble yourself about it--I'm not at allkeen about him. He's a clever enough fellow, and a good assistant, but Idon't like him, personally--never did."
"I don't want to think that anything that I say should lose him hissituation--or whatever you call it," she remarked slowly. "That wouldseem--"
"No need to bother," interrupted Ransford. "He'll get another in twominutes--so to speak. Anyway, we can't have this going on. The fellowmust be an ass! When I was young--"
He stopped short at that, and turning away, looked out across the gardenas if some recollection had suddenly struck him.
"When you were young--which is, of course, such an awfully long timesince!" said the girl, a little teasingly. "What?"
"Only that if a woman said No--unmistakably--once, a man took it asfinal," replied Ransford. "At least--so I was always given to believe.Nowadays--"
"You forget that Mr. Pemberton Bryce is what most people would call avery pushing young man," said Mary. "If he doesn't get what he wants inthis world, it won't be for not asking for it. But--if you must speakto him--and I really think you must!--will you tell him that he isnot going to get--me? Perhaps he'll take it finally from you--as myguardian."
"I don't know if parents and guardians count for much in thesedegenerate days," said Ransford. "But--I won't have him annoying you.And--I suppose it has come to annoyance?"
"It's very annoying to be asked three times by a man whom you've toldflatly, once for all, that you don't want him, at any time, ever!" sheanswered. "It's--irritating!"
"All right," said Ransford quietly. "I'll speak to him. There's going tobe no annoyance for you under this roof."
The girl gave him a quick glance, and Ransford turned away from her andpicked up his letters.
"Thank you," she said. "But--there's no need to tell me that, because Iknow it already. Now I wonder if you'll tell me something more?"
Ransford turned back with a sudden apprehension.
"Well?" he asked brusquely. "What?"
"When are you going to tell me all about--Dick and myself?" she asked."You promised that you would, you know, some day. And--a whole year'sgone by since then. And--Dick's seventeen! He won't be satisfiedalways--just to know no more than that our father and mother died whenwe were very little, and that you've been guardian--and all that youhave been!--to us. Will he, now?"
Ransford laid down his letters again, and thrusting his hands in hispockets, squared his shoulders against the mantelpiece. "Don't you thinkyou might wait until you're twenty-one?" he asked.
"Why?" she said, with a laugh. "I'm just twenty--do you really think Ishall be any wiser in twelve months? Of course I shan't!"
"You don't know that," he replied. "You may be--a great deal wiser."
"But what has that got to do with it?" she persisted. "Is there anyreason why I shouldn't be told--everything?"
She was looking at him with a certain amount of demand--and Ransford,who had always known that some moment of this sort must inevitably come,felt that she was not going to be put off with ordinary excuses. Hehesitated--and she went on speaking.
"You know," she continued, almost pleadingly. "We don't knowanything--at all. I never have known, and until lately Dick has been tooyoung to care--"
"Has he begun asking questions?" demanded Ransford hastily.
"Once or twice, lately--yes," replied Mary. "It's only natural." Shelaughed a little--a forced laugh. "They say," she went on, "thatit doesn't matter, nowadays, if you can't tell who your grandfatherwas--but, just think, we don't know who our father was--except that hisname was John Bewery. That doesn't convey much."
"You know more," said Ransford. "I told you--always have told you--thathe was an early friend of mine, a man of business, who, with yourmother, died young, and I, as their friend, became guardian to you andDick. Is--is there anything much more that I could tell?"
"There's something I should very much like to know--personally," sheanswered, after a pause which lasted so long that Ransford began to feeluncomfortable under it. "Don't be angry--or hurt--if I tell you plainlywhat it is. I'm quite sure it's never even occurred to Dick--but I'mthree years ahead of him. It's this--have we been dependent on you?"
Ransford's face flushed and he turned deliberately to the window, andfor a moment stood staring out on his garden and the glimpses of theCathedral. And just as deliberately as he had turned away, he turnedback.
"No!" he said. "Since you ask me, I'll tell you that. You've both gotmoney--due to you when you're of age. It--it's in my hands. Not agreat lot--but sufficient to--to cover all your expenses.Education--everything. When you're twenty-one, I'll hand overyours--when Dick's twenty-one, his. Perhaps I ought to have told youall that before, but--I didn't think it necessary. I--I dare say I've atendency to let things slide."
"You've never let things slide about us," she replied quickly, witha sudden glance which made him turn away again. "And I only wanted toknow--because I'd got an idea that--well, that we were owing everythingto you."
"Not from me!" he exclaimed.
"No--that would never be!" she said. "But--don't you understand?I--wanted to know--something. Thank you. I won't ask more now."
"I've always meant to tell you--a good deal," remarked Ransford, afteranother pause. "You see, I can scarcely--yet--realize that you're bothgrowing up! You were at school a year ago. And Dick is still very young.Are--are you more satisfied now?" he went on anxiously. "If not--"
"I'm quite satisfied," she answered. "Perhaps--some day--you'll tell memore about our father and mother?--but never mind even that now. You'resure you haven't minded my asking--what I have asked?"
"Of course not--of course not!" he said hastily. "I ought to haveremembered. And--but we'll talk again. I must get into the surgery--andhave a word with Bryce, too."
"If you could only make him see reason and promise not to offend again,"she said. "Wouldn't that solve the difficulty?"
Ransford shook his head and made no answer. He picked up his lettersagain and went out, and down a long stone-walled passage which led tohis surgery at the side of the house. He was alone there when he hadshut the door--and he relieved his feelings with a deep groan.
"Heaven help me if the lad ever insists on the real truth and on havingproofs and facts given to him!" he muttered. "I shouldn't mind tellingher, when she's a bit older--but he wouldn't understand as she would.Anyway, thank God I can keep up the pleasant fiction about the moneywithout her ever knowing that I told her a deliberate lie just now.But--what's in the future? Here's one man to be dismissed already, andthere'll be others, and one of them will be the favoured man. That manwill have to be told! And--so will she, then. And--my God! she doesn'tsee, and mustn't see, that I'm madly in love with her myself! She's noidea of it--and she shan't have; I must--must continue to be--only theguardian!"
He laughed a little cynically as he laid his letters down on hisdesk and proceeded to open them--in which occupation he was presentlyinterrupted by the opening of the side-door and the entrance of Mr.Pemberton Bryce.
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