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.
“I'll repeat what I've just said,” he answered. “What do you mean by
that?”
“I hear things,” said Bryce. “People will talk--even a doctor can't
refuse to hear what gossiping and garrulous patients say. Since she
came to you from school, a year ago, Wrychester people have been much
interested in Miss Bewery, and in her brother, too. And there are a good
many residents of the Close--you know their nice, inquisitive ways!--who
want to know who the sister and brother really are--and what your
relationship is to them!”
“Confound their impudence!” growled Ransford.
“By all means,” agreed Bryce. “And--for all I care--let them be
confounded, too. But if you imagine that the choice and select coteries
of a cathedral town, consisting mainly of the relicts of deceased
deans, canons, prebendaries and the like, and of maiden aunts, elderly
spinsters, and tea-table-haunting curates, are free from gossip--why,
you're a singularly innocent person!”
“They'd better not begin gossiping about my affairs,” said Ransford.
“Otherwise--”
“You can't stop them from gossiping about your affairs,” interrupted
Bryce cheerfully. “Of course they gossip about your affairs; have
gossiped about them; will continue to gossip about them. It's human
nature!”
“You've heard them?” asked Ransford, who was too vexed to keep back his
curiosity. “You yourself?”
“As you are aware, I am often asked out to tea,” replied Bryce, “and
to garden-parties, and tennis-parties, and choice and cosy functions
patronized by curates and associated with crumpets. I have heard--with
these ears. I can even repeat the sort of thing I have heard.
'That dear, delightful Miss Bewery--what a charming girl! And that
good-looking boy, her brother--quite a dear! Now I wonder who they
really are? Wards of Dr. Ransford, of course! Really, how very
romantic!--and just a little--eh?--unusual? Such a comparatively young
man to have such a really charming girl as his ward! Can't be more than
forty-five himself, and she's twenty--how very, very romantic! Really,
one would think there ought to be a chaperon!'”
“Damn!” said Ransford under his breath.
“Just so,” agreed Bryce. “But--that's the sort of thing. Do you want
more? I can supply an unlimited quantity in the piece if you like. But
it's all according to sample.”
“So--in addition to your other qualities,” remarked Ransford, “you're a
gossiper?”
Bryce smiled slowly and shook his head.
“No,” he replied. “I'm a listener. A good one, too. But do you see my
point? I say--there's no mystery about me. If Miss Bewery will honour
me with her hand, she'll get a man whose antecedents will bear the
strictest investigation.”
“Are you inferring that hers won't?” demanded Ransford.
“I'm not inferring anything,” said Bryce. “I am speaking for myself, of
myself. Pressing my own claim, if you like, on you, the guardian. You
might do much worse than support my claims, Dr. Ransford.”
“Claims, man!” retorted Ransford. “You've got no claims! What are you
talking about? Claims!”
“My pretensions, then,” answered Bryce. “If there is a mystery--as
Wrychester people say there is--about Miss Bewery, it would be safe with
me. Whatever you may think, I'm a thoroughly dependable man--when it's
in my own interest.”
“And--when it isn't?” asked Ransford. “What are you then?--as you're so
candid.”
“I could be a very bad enemy,” replied Bryce.
There was a moment's silence, during which the two men looked
attentively at each other.
“I've told you the truth,” said Ransford at last. “Miss Bewery flatly
refuses to entertain any idea whatever of ever marrying you. She
earnestly hopes that that eventuality may never be mentioned to her
again. Will you give me your word of honour to respect her wishes?”
“No!” answered Bryce. “I won't!”
“Why not?” asked Ransford, with a faint show of anger. “A woman's
wishes!”
“Because I may consider that I see signs of a changed mind in her,” said
Bryce. “That's why.”
“You'll never see any change of mind,” declared Ransford. “That's
certain. Is that your fixed determination?”
“It is,” answered Bryce. “I'm not the sort of man who is easily
repelled.”
“Then, in that case,” said Ransford, “we had better part company.” He
rose from his desk, and going over to a safe which stood in a corner,
unlocked it and took some papers from an inside drawer. He consulted
one of these and turned to Bryce. “You remember our agreement?” he
continued. “Your engagement was to be determined by a three months'
notice on either side, or, at my will, at any time by payment of three
months' salary?”
“Quite right,” agreed Bryce. “I remember, of course.”
“Then I'll give you a cheque for three months' salary--now,” said
Ransford, and sat down again at his desk. “That will settle matters
definitely--and, I hope, agreeably.”
Bryce made no reply. He remained leaning against the table, watching
Ransford write the cheque. And when Ransford laid the cheque down at the
edge of the desk he made no movement towards it.
“You must see,” remarked Ransford, half apologetically, “that it's the
only thing I can do. I can't have any man who's not--not welcome to
her, to put it plainly--causing any annoyance to my ward. I repeat,
Bryce--you must see it!”
“I have nothing to do with what you see,” answered Bryce. “Your opinions
are not mine, and mine aren't yours. You're really turning me away--as
if I were a dishonest foreman!--because in my opinion it would be a very
excellent thing for her and for myself if Miss Bewery would consent to
marry me. That's the plain truth.”
Ransford allowed himself to take a long and steady look at Bryce. The
thing was done now, and his dismissed assistant seemed to be taking it
quietly--and Ransford's curiosity was aroused.
“I can't make you out!” he exclaimed. “I don't know whether you're the
most cynical young man I ever met, or whether you're the most obtuse--”
“Not the last, anyway,” interrupted Bryce. “I assure you of that!”
“Can't you see for yourself, then, man, that the girl doesn't want you!”
said Ransford. “Hang it!--for anything you know to the contrary, she may
have--might have--other ideas!”
Bryce, who had been staring out of a side window for the last minute or
two, suddenly laughed, and, lifting a hand, pointed into the garden. And
Ransford turned--and saw Mary Bewery walking there with a tall lad, whom
he recognized as one Sackville Bonham, stepson of Mr. Folliot, a wealthy
resident of the Close. The two young people were laughing and chatting
together with evident great friendliness.
“Perhaps,” remarked Bryce quietly, “her ideas run in--that direction? In
which case, Dr. Ransford, you'll have trouble. For Mrs. Folliot, mother
of yonder callow youth, who's the apple of her eye, is one of the
inquisitive ladies of whom I've just told you, and if her son unites
himself with anybody, she'll want to know exactly who that anybody is.
You'd far better have supported me as an aspirant! However--I suppose
there's no more to say.”
“Nothing!” answered Ransford. “Except to say good-day--and good-bye to
you. You needn't remain--I'll see to everything. And I'm going out now.
I think you'd better not exchange any farewells with any one.”
Bryce nodded silently, and Ransford, picking up his hat and gloves, left
the surgery by the side door. A moment later, Bryce saw him crossing the
Close.