THE GENERAL REMEMBERS
Amongst many various, and no doubt useful, functions, Miss Delia Wall
performed that of gossip and newsagent-general to the village of
Inkston. A hard-featured, swarthy spinster of forty, with a roving,
inquisitive, yet not unkindly eye, she perambulated--or rather
percycled--the district, taking stock of every incident. Not a cat could
kitten or a dog have the mange without her privity; critics of her
mental activity went near to insinuating connivance. Naturally,
therefore, she was well acquainted with the new development at Tower
Cottage, although the isolated position of that dwelling made thorough
observation piquantly difficult. She laid her information before an
attentive, if not very respectful, audience gathered round the tea-table
at Old Place, the Naylors' handsome house on the outskirts of
Sprotsfield and on the far side of the heath from Inkston. She was
enjoying herself, although she was, as usual, a trifle distrustful of
the quality of Mr. Naylor's smile; it smacked of the satiric. "He looks
at you as if you were a specimen," she had once been heard to complain;
and, when she said "specimen," it was obviously beetles that she had in
mind.
"Everybody knows old Mr. Saffron--by sight, I mean--and the woman who
does for him," she said. "There's never been anything remarkable about
_them_. He took his walk as regular as clock-work every afternoon, and
she bought just the same things every week; her books must have tallied
almost to a penny every month, Mrs. Naylor! I know it! And it was a very
rare thing indeed for Mr. Saffron to go to London, though I have known
him to be away once or twice; but very, very rarely!" She paused and
added dramatically, "Until the armistice!"
"Full of ramifications, that event, Miss Wall. It affects even my
business." Mr. Naylor, though now withdrawn from an active share in its
conduct, was still interested in the large shipping firm from which he
had drawn his comfortable fortune.
She looked at him suspiciously, as he put the ends of the slender white
fingers of his two hands together, and leant forward to listen--with
that smile of his and eyes faintly twinkling. But the problem was
seething in her brain; she had to go on.
"A week after the armistice Mr. Saffron went to London by the 9.50. He
travelled first, Anna."
"Did he, dear?" Mrs. Naylor, a stout and placid dame, was not yet
stirred to excitement.
"He came down by the 4.11, and those two men with him. And they've been
there ever since!"
"Two men, Delia! I've only seen one."
"Oh yes, there's another! Sergeant Hooper they call him; a short
thickset man with a black moustache. He buys two bottles of rum every
week at the 'Green Man.' And--one minute, please, Mr. Naylor----"
"I was only going to say that it looks to me as if this man Hooper were,
or had been, a soldier. What do you think?"
"Never mind papa! Go on, Miss Wall. _I'm_ interested." This
encouragement came from Gertie Naylor, a pretty girl of seventeen who
was consuming much tea, bread, and honey.
"And since then the old gentleman and this Mr. Beaumaroy go to town
regularly every week on Wednesdays! Now who are they, how did Mr.
Saffron get hold of them, and what are they doing here? I'm at a loss,
Anna."
Apparently an _impasse_! And Mr. Naylor did not seem to assist matters
by asking whether Miss Wall had kept a constant eye on the Agony
Column. Mrs. Naylor took up her knitting and switched off to another
topic.
"Dr. Arkroyd's friend, Delia dear! What a charming girl she looks!"
"Friend, Anna? I didn't know that! A patient, I understand, anyhow.
She's taking Valentine's beef juice. Of course they _do_ give that in
drink cases, but I should be sorry to think----"
"Drugs, more likely," Mr. Naylor suavely interposed. Then he rose from
his chair and began to pace slowly up and down the long room, looking at
his beautiful pictures, his beautiful china, his beautiful chairs, all
the beautiful things that were his. His family took no notice of this
roving up and down; it was a habit, and was tacitly accepted as meaning
that he had--for the moment--had enough of the company, and even of his
own sallies at its expense.
"I've asked Dr. Arkroyd to bring her over--Miss Walford, I mean--the
first day it's fine enough for tennis," Mrs. Naylor pursued. There was a
hard court at Old Place, so that winter did not stop the game entirely.
"What a name, too!"
"Walford? It's quite a good name, Delia."
"No, no, Anna! Beaumaroy, of course." Miss Wall was back at the larger
problem.
"There's Alec's voice--he and the General are back from their golf.
Ring for another teapot, Gertie dear."
The door opened; not Alec but the General came in, and closed the door
carefully behind him; it was obviously an act of precaution and not
merely a normal exercise of good manners. Then he walked up to his
hostess and said, "It's not my fault, Anna. Alec would do it, though I
shook my head at him, behind the fellow's back."
"What do you mean, General?" cried the hostess. Mr. Naylor, for his
part, stopped roving.
The door again! "Come in, Mr. Beaumaroy--here's tea."
Mr. Beaumaroy obediently entered, in the wake of Captain Alec Naylor,
who duly presented him to Mrs. Naylor, adding that Beaumaroy had been
kind enough to make the fourth in a game with the General, the Rector of
Sprotsfield, and himself. "And he and the parson were too tough a nut
for us, weren't they, sir?" he added to the General.
Besides being an excellent officer and a capital fellow, Alec Naylor was
also reputed to be one of the handsomest men in the Service; six feet
three, very straight, very fair, with features as regular as any
romantic hero of them all, and eyes as blue. The honourable limp that at
present marked his movements would, it was hoped, pass away. Even his
own family were often surprised into a new admiration of his physical
perfections, remarking, one to the other, how Alec took the shine out of
every other man in the room.
There was no shine--no external obvious shine--to take out of Mr.
Beaumaroy--Miss Wall's puzzling, unaccounted-for Mr. Beaumaroy. The
light showed him now more clearly than when Mary Arkroyd met him on the
heath road, but perhaps thereby did him no service. His features, though
irregular, were not ugly or insignificant, but he wore a rather battered
aspect; there were deep lines running from the corners of his mouth, and
crowsfeet had started under the grey eyes which, in their turn, looked
more sceptical than ardent, rather mocking than eager. Yet when he
smiled, his face became not merely pleasant, but confidentially
pleasant; he seemed to smile especially to and for the person to whom he
was talking; and his voice was notably agreeable, soft and clear--the
voice of a high-bred man, but not exactly of a high-bred Englishman.
There was no accent definite enough to be called foreign, certainly not
to be assigned to any particular race; but there was an exotic touch
about his manner of speech suggesting that, even if not that of a
foreigner, it was shaped and coloured by the inflexions of foreign
tongues. The hue of his plentiful and curly hair, indistinguishable to
Mary and Cynthia, now stood revealed as neither black, nor red, nor
auburn, nor brown, nor golden, but just--and rather surprisingly--a
plain yellow, the colour of a cowslip or thereabouts. Altogether rather
a rum-looking fellow! This had been Alec Naylor's first remark when the
Rector of Sprotsfield pointed him out, as a possible fourth, at the golf
club, and the rough justice of the description could not be denied. He,
like Alec, bore his scars; the little finger of his right hand was
amputated down to the knuckle.
Yet, after all this description--in particularity, if not otherwise,
worthy of a classic novelist--the thing still remains that most struck
observers. Mr. Hector Beaumaroy had an adorable candour of manner. He
answered questions with innocent readiness and pellucid sincerity. It
would be impossible to think him guilty of a lie; ungenerous to suspect
so much as a suppression of the truth. Even Mr. Naylor, hardened by
five-and-thirty years' experience of what sailors will blandly swear to
in collision cases, was struck with the open candour of his bearing.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, Miss Wall, that's right, we go to town every
Wednesday. No particular reason why it should be Wednesday, but old
gentlemen somehow do better--don't you think so?--with method and
regular habits."
"I'm sure you know what's best for Mr. Saffron," said Delia. "You've
known him a long time, haven't you?"
Mr. Naylor drew a little nearer and listened. The General had put
himself into the corner--a remote corner of the room--and sat there with
an uneasy and rather glowering aspect.
"Oh, no, no!" answered Beaumaroy. "A matter of weeks only. But the dear
old fellow seemed to take to me--a friend put us in touch originally. I
seem to be able to do just what he wants."
"I hope your friend is not really ill--not seriously?" This time the
question was Mrs. Naylor's, not Miss Delia's.
"His health is really not so bad, but"--he gave a glance round the
company, as though inviting their understanding--"he insists that he's
not the man he was."
"Absurd!" smiled Naylor. "Not much older than I am, is he?"
"Only just turned seventy, I believe. But the idea's very persistent."
"Hypochondria!" snapped Miss Delia.
"Not altogether. I'm afraid there is a little real heart trouble. Dr.
Irechester----"
"Oh, with Dr. Irechester, dear Mr. Beaumaroy, you're all right!"
Again Beaumaroy's glance--that glance of innocent appeal--ranged over
the company (except the General, out of its reach). He seemed troubled
and embarrassed.
"A most accomplished man, evidently, and a friend of yours, of course.
But--well, there it is--a mere fancy, of course, but unhappily my old
friend doesn't take to him. He--he thinks that he's rather
inquisitorial. A doctor's duty, I suppose----"
"Irechester's a sound man, a very sound man," said Mr. Naylor. "And,
after all, one can ask almost any question if one does it
tactfully--can't one, Miss Wall?"
"As a matter of fact, he's only seen Mr. Saffron twice--he had a little
chill. But his manner, unfortunately, rather--er--alarmed----"
Gertie Naylor, with the directness of youth, propounded a solution of
the difficulty. "If you don't like Dr. Irechester----"
"Oh, it's not I who----"
"Why not have Mary?" Gertie made her suggestion eagerly. She was very
fond of Mary, who, from the height of age, wisdom, and professional
dignity, had stooped to offer her an equal friendship.
"She means Dr. Mary Arkroyd," Mrs. Naylor explained.
"Yes, I know, Mrs. Naylor--I know about Dr. Arkroyd. In fact, I know her
by sight. But----"
"Perhaps you don't believe in women doctors?" Alec suggested.
"It's not that. I've no prejudices. But the responsibility is on me, and
I know very little of her; and--well, to change one's doctor--it's
rather invidious----"
"Oh, as to that, Irechester's a sensible man; he's got as much work as
he wants, and as much money too. He won't resent an old man's fancy."
"Well, I'd never thought of a change, but if you all suggest it----"
Somehow it did seem as if they all--and not merely youthful Gertie--had
suggested it. "But I should rather like to know Dr. Arkroyd first."
"Come and meet her here; that's very simple. She often comes to tennis
and tea. We'll let you know the first time she's coming."
Beaumaroy most cordially accepted the idea--and the invitation. "Any
afternoon I shall be delighted--except Wednesdays. Wednesdays are
sacred--aren't they, Miss Wall? London on Wednesdays for Mr. Saffron and
me--and the old brown bag!" He laughed in a quiet merriment. "That old
bag's been in a lot of places with me and has carried some queer
cargoes. Now it just goes to and fro, between here and town, with Mudie
books. Must have books, living so much alone as we do!" He had risen as
he spoke, and approached Mrs. Naylor to take leave.
She gave him her hand very cordially. "I don't suppose Mr. Saffron cares
to meet people; but any spare time you have, Mr. Beaumaroy, we shall be
delighted to see you."
Beaumaroy bowed as he thanked her, adding, "And I'm promised a chance of
meeting Dr. Arkroyd before long?"
The promise was renewed, and the visitor took his leave, declining
Alec's offer to "run him home" in the car. "The car might startle my old
friend," he pleaded. Alec saw him off, and returned to find the General,
who had contrived to avoid more than a distant bow of farewell to
Beaumaroy, standing on the hearthrug, apparently in a state of some
agitation.
The envious years had refused to Major-General Punnit, C.B.--he was a
distant cousin of Mrs. Naylor's--the privilege of serving his country in
the Great War. His career had lain mainly in India and was mostly behind
him even at the date of the South African War, in which, however, he had
done valuable work in one of the supply services. He was short, stout,
honest, brave, shrewd, obstinate, and as full of prejudices, religious,
political, and personal, as an egg is of meat. And all this time he had
been slowly and painfully recalling what his young friend Colonel Merman
(the Colonel was young only relatively to the General) had told him
about Hector Beaumaroy. The name had struck on his memory the moment the
Rector pronounced it, but it had taken him a long while to "place it"
accurately. However, now he had it pat; the conversation in the club
came back. He retailed it now to the company at Old Place.
A pleasant fellow, Beaumaroy, socially a very agreeable fellow. And as
for courage, as brave as you like. Indeed he might have had letters
after his name save for the fact that he--the Colonel--would never
recommend a man unless his discipline was as good as his leading, and
his conduct at the base as praiseworthy as at the front. (Alec Naylor
nodded his handsome head in grave approval; his father looked a little
discontented, as though he were swallowing unpalatable, though
wholesome, food.) His whole idea--Beaumaroy's, that is--was to shield
offenders, to prevent the punishment fitting the crime, even to console
and countenance the wrongdoer. No sense of discipline, no moral
sense--the Colonel had gone as far as that. Impossible to promote or to
recommend for reward--almost impossible to keep. Of course, if he had
been caught young and put through the mill, it might have been
different--"it _might_"--the Colonel heavily underlined the
possibility--but he came from Heaven knew where, after a life spent
Heaven knew how. "And he seemed to know it himself," the Colonel had
said, thoughtfully rolling his port round in the glass. "Whenever I
wigged him, he offered to go--said he'd chuck his commission and
enlist--said he'd be happier in the ranks. But I was weak, I couldn't
bear to do it." After thus quoting his friend, the General added: "He
was weak--damned weak--and I told him so."
"Of course he ought to have got rid of him," said Alec. "Still, sir,
there's nothing--er--disgraceful."
"It seems hardly to have come to that," the General admitted
reluctantly.
"It all rather makes me like him," Gertie affirmed courageously.
"I think that, on the whole, we may venture to know him in times of
peace," Mr. Naylor summed up.
"That's your look out," remarked the General. "I've warned you. You can
do as you like."
Delia Wall had sat silent through the story. Now she spoke up and got
back to the real point:
"There's nothing in all that to show how he comes to be at Mr.
Saffron's."
The General shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, Saffron be hanged! He's not the
British Army," he said.