The Paradise Mystery
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J. S. Fletcher >> The Paradise Mystery
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18 The Paradise Mystery
by J. S. Fletcher
CHAPTER I
ONLY THE GUARDIAN
American tourists, sure appreciators of all that is ancient
and picturesque in England, invariably come to a halt, holding
their breath in a sudden catch of wonder, as they pass through
the half-ruinous gateway which admits to the Close of
Wrychester. Nowhere else in England is 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
giant beeches, rises the vast fabric of the thirteenth-century
Cathedral, its high spire piercing the skies in which rooks
are for ever circling and calling. The time-worn stone, at a
little distance delicate as lacework, is transformed at
different hours of the day into shifting shades of colour,
varying from grey to purple: the massiveness of the great nave
and transepts contrasts impressively with the gradual tapering
of the spire, rising so high above turret and clerestory that
it at last becomes a mere line against the ether. In morning,
as in afternoon, or in evening, here is a perpetual atmosphere
of rest; and not around the great church alone, but in the
quaint and ancient houses which fence in the Close. Little
less old than the mighty mass of stone on which their
ivy-framed windows look, these houses make the casual observer
feel that here, if anywhere in the world, life must needs run
smoothly. Under those high gables, behind those mullioned
windows, in the beautiful old gardens lying between the stone
porches and the elm-shadowed lawn, nothing, one would think,
could possibly exist but leisured and pleasant existence: even
the busy streets of the old city, outside the crumbling
gateway, seem, for the moment, far off.
In one of the oldest of these houses, half hidden behind trees
and shrubs in a corner of the Close, three people sat at
breakfast one fine May morning. The room in which they sat
was in keeping with the old house and its surroundings--a
long, low-ceilinged room, with oak panelling around its walls,
and oak beams across its roof--a room of old furniture, and,
old pictures, and old books, its antique atmosphere relieved
by great masses of flowers, set here and there in old china
bowls: through its wide windows, the casements of which
were thrown wide open, there was an inviting prospect of a
high-edged flower garden, and, seen in vistas through the
trees and shrubberies, of patches of the west front of the
Cathedral, now sombre and grey in shadow. But on the garden
and into this flower-scented room the sun was shining gaily
through the trees, and making gleams of light on the silver
and china on the table and on the faces of the three people
who sat around it.
Of these three, two were young, and the third was one of those
men whose 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, a man whom no one could have taken
for anything but a member of one of the learned callings. In
some lights he looked no more than forty: a strong light
betrayed the fact that his dark hair had a streak of
grey in it, and was showing a tendency to whiten about the
temples. A strong, intellectually superior man, this,
scrupulously groomed and well-dressed, as befitted what he
really was--a medical practitioner with an excellent
connection amongst the exclusive society of a cathedral town.
Around him hung an undeniable air of content and prosperity
--as he turned over a pile of letters which stood by his
plate, or glanced at the morning newspaper which lay at his
elbow, it was easy to see that he had no cares beyond those of
the day, and that they--so far as he knew then--were not
likely to affect him greatly. Seeing him in these pleasant
domestic circumstances, at the head of his table, with
abundant evidences of comfort and refinement and modest luxury
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--a well-built, handsome lad of the senior schoolboy
type, who was devoting himself in business-like fashion to
two widely-differing pursuits--one, the consumption of eggs
and bacon and dry toast; the other, the study of a Latin
textbook, which he had propped up in front of him against
the old-fashioned silver cruet. His quick eyes wandered
alternately between his book and his plate; now and then he
muttered a line or two to himself. His companions took no
notice of these combinations of eating and learning: they
knew from experience that it was his way to make up at
breakfast-time for the moments he had stolen from his studies
the night before.
It was not difficult to see that the third member of the
party, a girl of nineteen or twenty, was the boy's sister.
Each had a wealth of brown hair, inclining, in the girl's case
to a shade that had tints of gold in it; each had grey eyes,
in which there was a mixture of blue; each had a bright, vivid
colour; each was undeniably good-looking and eminently
healthy. No one would have doubted that both had lived a good
deal of an open-air existence: the boy was already muscular
and sinewy: the girl looked as if she was well acquainted with
the tennis racket and the golf-stick. Nor would any one have
made the mistake of thinking that these two were blood
relations of the man at the head of the table--between them
and him there was not the least resemblance of feature, of
colour, or of manner.
While the boy learnt the last lines of his Latin, and the
doctor turned over the newspaper, the girl read a letter
--evidently, from the large sprawling handwriting, the missive
of some girlish correspondent. She was deep in it when, from
one of the turrets of the Cathedral, a bell began 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 worthy citizen of Wrychester, Martin by name, had left a sum
of money to the Dean and Chapter of the Cathedral on condition
that as long as ever the Cathedral stood, they should cause to
be rung a bell from its smaller bell-tower for three minutes
before nine o'clock every morning, all the year round. What
Martin's object had been no one now knew--but this bell served
to remind young gentlemen going to offices, and boys going to
school, that the hour of their servitude was near. And Dick
Bewery, without a word, bolted half his coffee, snatched up
his book, grabbed at a cap which lay with more books on a
chair close by, and vanished through 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 are only seventeen years old. Dick could
get to any given point in just about one-fourth of the time
that I could, for instance--moreover, he has 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 bad habits."
"Oh, well!" said Ransford indulgently. "He's pretty free from
anything of that sort, you know. I haven't even suspected him
of smoking, yet."
"That's because he thinks smoking would stop his growth and
interfere with his cricket," answered Mary. "He would smoke
if it weren't for that."
"That's giving him high praise, then," said Ransford. "You
couldn't give him higher! Know how to repress his
inclinations. An excellent thing--and most unusual, I fancy.
Most people--don't!"
He took his refilled cup, rose from the table, and opened a
box of cigarettes which stood on the mantelpiece. And the
girl, instead of picking 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--I wish 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 to her letter, and she picked it up and began
to fold it nervously. And at that Ransford rapped out a name,
putting a quick suggestion of meaning inquiry into his voice.
"Bryce?" he asked.
The girl nodded her face showing distinct annoyance and
dislike. Before saying 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 bother you about it. But--what am I to do? I dislike him
intensely--I can't tell why, but it's there, and nothing could
ever alter the feeling. And though I told him--before--that
it was useless--he mentioned it again--yesterday--at Mrs.
Folliot's garden-party."
"Confound his impudence!" growled Ransford. "Oh, well!--I'll
have to settle with him myself. It's useless trifling with
anything like that. I gave 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 all keen about him. He's a clever enough
fellow, and a good assistant, but I don't like him,
personally--never did."
"I don't want to think that anything that I say should lose
him his situation--or whatever you call it," she remarked
slowly. "That would seem--"
"No need to bother," interrupted Ransford. "He'll get another
in two minutes--so to speak. Anyway, we can't have this going
on. The fellow must be an ass! When I was young--"
He stopped short at that, and turning away, looked out across
the garden as if some recollection had suddenly struck him.
"When you were young--which is, of course, such an awfully
long time since!" said the girl, a little teasingly. "What?"
"Only that if a woman said No--unmistakably--once, a man took
it as final," replied Ransford. "At least--so I was always
given to believe. Nowadays--"
"You forget that Mr. Pemberton Bryce is what most people would
call a very pushing young man," said Mary. "If he doesn't get
what he wants in this world, it won't be for not asking for
it. But--if you must speak to him--and I really think you
must!--will you tell him that he is not going to get--me?
Perhaps he'll take it finally from you--as my guardian."
"I don't know if parents and guardians count for much in these
degenerate 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 told flatly, once for all, that you don't want him, at
any time, ever!" she answered. "It's--irritating!"
"All right," said Ransford quietly. "I'll speak to him.
There's going to be no annoyance for you under this roof."
The girl gave him a quick glance, and Ransford turned away
from her and picked up his letters.
"Thank you," she said. "But--there's no need to tell me that,
because I know 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's gone by since then. And--Dick's
seventeen! He won't be satisfied always--just to know no more
than that our father and mother died when we were very little,
and that you've been guardian--and all that you have been!--to
us. Will he, now?"
Ransford laid down his letters again, and thrusting his hands
in his pockets, squared his shoulders against the mantelpiece.
"Don't you think you might wait until you're twenty-one?" he
asked.
"Why?" she said, with a laugh. "I'm just twenty--do you
really think I shall 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 any reason 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. He hesitated--and she went on
speaking.
"You know," she continued, almost pleadingly. "We don't know
anything--at all. I never have known, and until lately Dick
has been too young to care--"
"Has he begun asking questions?" demanded Ransford hastily.
"Once or twice, lately--yes," replied Mary. "It's only
natural." She laughed a little--a forced laugh. "They say,"
she went on, "that it doesn't matter, nowadays, if you can't
tell who your grandfather was--but, just think, we don't know
who our father was--except that his name was John Bewery.
That doesn't convey much."
"You know more," said Ransford. "I told you--always have told
you--that he was an early friend of mine, a man of business,
who, with your mother, died young, and I, as their friend,
became guardian to you and Dick. Is--is there anything much
more that I could tell?"
"There's something I should very much like to know
--personally," she answered, after a pause which lasted so
long that Ransford began to feel uncomfortable under it.
"Don't be angry--or hurt--if I tell you plainly what it is.
I'm quite sure it's never even occurred to Dick--but I'm three
years ahead of him. It's this--have we been dependent on
you?"
Ransford's face flushed and he turned deliberately to the
window, and for a moment stood staring out on his garden and
the glimpses of the Cathedral. And just as deliberately as he
had turned away, he turned back.
"No!" he said. "Since you ask me, I'll tell you that. You've
both got money--due to you when you're of age. It--it's in my
hands. Not a great lot--but sufficient to--to cover all your
expenses. Education--everything. When you're twenty-one,
I'll hand over yours--when Dick's twenty-one, his. Perhaps I
ought to have told you all that before, but--I didn't think it
necessary. I--I dare say I've a tendency to let things
slide."
"You've never let things slide about us," she replied quickly,
with a sudden glance which made him turn away again. "And I
only wanted to know--because I'd got an idea that--well, that
we were owing everything to 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, after another pause. "You see, I can scarcely--yet
--realize that you're both growing 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 me more about our father and mother?--but never
mind even that now. You're sure you haven't minded my asking
--what I have asked?"
"Of course not--of course not!" he said hastily. "I ought to
have remembered. And--but we'll talk again. I must get into
the surgery--and have 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
letters again and went out, and down a long stone-walled
passage which led to his surgery at the side of the house. He
was alone there when he had shut 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 having proofs and facts given to him!" he muttered. "I
shouldn't mind telling her, 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 money without 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, and there'll be others, and one of them will be the
favoured man. That man will have to be told! And--so will
she, then. And--my God! she doesn't see, and mustn't see,
that I'm madly in love with her myself! She's no idea of it
--and she shan't have; I must--must continue to be--only the
guardian!"
He laughed a little cynically as he laid his letters down on
his desk and proceeded to open them--in which occupation he
was presently interrupted by the opening of the side-door and
the entrance of Mr. Pemberton Bryce.
CHAPTER II
MAKING AN ENEMY
It was characteristic of Pemberton Bryce that he always walked
into a room as if its occupant were asleep and he was afraid
of waking him. He had a gentle step which was soft without
being stealthy, and quiet movements which brought him suddenly
to anybody's side before his presence was noticed. He was by
Ransford's desk ere Ransford knew he was in the surgery--and
Ransford's sudden realization of his presence roused a certain
feeling of irritation in his mind, which he instantly
endeavoured to suppress--it was no use getting cross with a
man of whom you were about to rid yourself, he said to
himself. And for the moment, after replying to his
assistant's greeting--a greeting as quiet as his entrance--he
went on reading his letters, and Bryce turned off to that part
of the surgery in which the drugs were kept, and busied
himself in making up some prescription. Ten minutes went by
in silence; then Ransford pushed his correspondence aside,
laid a paper-weight on it, and twisting his chair round,
looked at the man to whom he was going to say some unpleasant
things. Within himself he was revolving a question--how would
Bryce take it?
He had never liked this assistant of his, although he had then
had him in employment for nearly two years. There was
something about Pemberton Bryce which he did not understand
and could not fathom. He had come to him with excellent
testimonials and good recommendations; he was well up to his
work, successful with patients, thoroughly capable as a
general practitioner--there was no fault to be found with him
on any professional grounds. But to Ransford his personality
was objectionable--why, he was not quite sure. Outwardly,
Bryce was rather more than presentable--a tall, good-looking
man of twenty-eight or thirty, whom some people--women
especially--would call handsome; he was the sort of young man
who knows the value of good clothes and a smart appearance,
and his professional manner was all that could be desired.
But Ransford could not help distinguishing between Bryce the
doctor and Bryce the man--and Bryce the man he did not like.
Outside the professional part of him, Bryce seemed to him to
be undoubtedly deep, sly, cunning--he conveyed the impression
of being one of those men whose ears are always on the
stretch, who take everything in and give little out. There
was a curious air of watchfulness and of secrecy about him in
private matters which was as repellent--to Ransford's
thinking--as it was hard to explain. Anyway, in private
affairs, he did not like his assistant, and he liked him less
than ever as he glanced at him on this particular occasion.
"I want a word with you," he said curtly. "I'd better say it
now."
Bryce, who was slowly pouring some liquid from one bottle into
another, looked quietly across the room and did not interrupt
himself in his work. Ransford knew that he must have
recognized a certain significance in the words just addressed
to him--but he showed no outward sign of it, and the liquid
went on trickling from one bottle to the other with the same
uniform steadiness.
"Yes?" said Bryce inquiringly. "One moment."
He finished his task calmly, put the corks in the bottles,
labelled one, restored the other to a shelf, and turned round.
Not a man to be easily startled--not easily turned from a
purpose, this, thought Ransford as he glanced at Bryce's eyes,
which had a trick of fastening their gaze on people with an
odd, disconcerting persistency.
"I'm sorry to say what I must say," he began. "But--you've
brought it on yourself. I gave you a hint some time ago that
your attentions were not welcome to Miss Bewery."
Bryce made no immediate response. Instead, leaning almost
carelessly and indifferently against the table at which he had
been busy with drugs and bottles, he took a small file from
his waistcoat pocket and began to polish his carefully cut
nails.
"Yes?" he said, after a pause. "Well?"
"In spite of it," continued Ransford, "you've since addressed
her again on the matter--not merely once, but twice."
Bryce put his file away, and thrusting his hands in his
pockets, crossed his feet as he leaned back against the table
--his whole attitude suggesting, whether meaningly or not, that
he was very much at his ease.
"There's a great deal to be said on a point like this," he
observed. "If a man wishes a certain young woman to become
his wife, what right has any other man--or the young woman
herself, for that matter to say that he mustn't express his
desires to her?"
"None," said Ransford, "provided he only does it once--and
takes the answer he gets as final."
"I disagree with you entirely," retorted Bryce. "On the last
particular, at any rate. A man who considers any word of a
woman's as being final is a fool. What a woman thinks on
Monday she's almost dead certain not to think on Tuesday. The
whole history of human relationship is on my side there. It's
no opinion--it's a fact."
Ransford stared at this frank remark, and Bryce went on,
coolly and imperturbably, as if he had been discussing a
medical problem.
"A man who takes a woman's first answer as final," he
continued, "is, I repeat, a fool. There are lots of reasons
why a woman shouldn't know her own mind at the first time of
asking. She may be too surprised. She mayn't be quite
decided. She may say one thing when she really means another.
That often happens. She isn't much better equipped at the
second time of asking. And there are women--young ones--who
aren't really certain of themselves at the third time. All
that's common sense."
"I'll tell you what it is!" suddenly exclaimed Ransford, after
remaining silent for a moment under this flow of philosophy.
"I'm not going to discuss theories and ideas. I know one
young woman, at any rate, who is certain of herself. Miss
Bewery does not feel any inclination to you--now, nor at any
time to be! She's told you so three times. And--you should
take her answer and behave yourself accordingly!"
Bryce favoured his senior with a searching look.
"How does Miss Bewery know that she mayn't be inclined to--in
the future?" he asked. "She may come to regard me with
favour."
"No, she won't!" declared Ransford. "Better hear the truth,
and be done with it. She doesn't like you--and she doesn't
want to, either. Why can't you take your answer like a man?"
"What's your conception of a man?" asked Bryce.
"That!--and a good one," exclaimed Ransford.
"May satisfy you--but not me," said Bryce. "Mine's different.
My conception of a man is of a being who's got some
perseverance. You can get anything in this world--anything!
--by pegging away for it."
"You're not going to get my ward," suddenly said Ransford.
"That's flat! She doesn't want you--and she's now said so
three times. And--I support her."
"What have you against me?" asked Bryce calmly. "If, as you
say, you support her in her resolution not to listen to my
proposals, you must have something against me. What is it?"
"That's a question you've no right to put," replied Ransford,
"for it's utterly unnecessary. So I'm not going to answer it.
I've nothing against you as regards your work--nothing! I'm
willing to give you an excellent testimonial."
"Oh!" remarked Bryce quietly. "That means--you wish me to go
away?"
"I certainly think it would be best," said Ransford.
"In that case," continued Bryce, more coolly than ever, "I
shall certainly want to know what you have against me--or what
Miss Bewery has against me. Why am I objected to as a suitor?
You, at any rate, know who I am--you know that my father is of
our own profession, and a man of reputation and standing, and
that I myself came to you on high recommendation. Looked at
from my standpoint, I'm a thoroughly eligible young man. And
there's a point you forget--there's no mystery about me!"
Ransford turned sharply in his chair as he noticed the
emphasis which Bryce put on his last word.
"What do you mean?" he demanded.
"What I've just said," replied Bryce. "There's no mystery
attaching to me. Any question about me can be answered. Now,
you can't say that as regards your ward. That's a fact, Dr.
Ransford."
Ransford, in years gone by, had practised himself in the art
of restraining his temper--naturally a somewhat quick one.
And he made a strong effort in that direction now, recognizing
that there was something behind his assistant's last remark,
and that Bryce meant him to know it was there.
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