THE MAN WITH THE BRILLIANT EYES
Jim and I witnessed Ralston Murray's will, which left all he possessed
to "Mrs. Rosemary Brandreth." No reference was made in the document to
the fact that Rosemary was engaged to marry him.
Next day we landed, and Murray was so buoyed up with happiness that he
was able to travel to London without a rest. He stayed at a quiet hotel
in St. James's Square, and we took Rosemary Brandreth with us to the
Savoy. Murray applied for a special licence, and the marriage was to
take place in town, as soon as possible, so that they two might travel
to Devonshire as husband and wife. Jim and I both pined for Courtenaye
Abbey, but we wouldn't desert our new friends. Besides, their affairs
had now become as exciting to us as a mystery play. There were many
questions we asked ourselves and each other concerning obscure and
unexplained details. But--if Murray didn't choose to ask them, they were
no business of ours!
Jim consulted a firm considered to be among the smartest solicitors in
London; and thanks to their "smartness," by hook or by crook the
difficulty of the codicil was got over.
The wedding was to take place at Major Murray's hotel, in the salon of
his suite, as he was not able to go through a ceremony in church. Jim
and I were the only invited guests; but at the last moment a third guest
invited himself: the cousin to whom the Ralston property would have gone
if its owner hadn't preferred Ralston Murray for his heir.
It seemed that the distant relatives had always kept up a
correspondence--letters three or four times a year; and I imagine that
Murray made the disappointed man a consolation allowance, though he
hinted at nothing of the kind to me. In any case, Doctor Paul Jennings
(who lived and practised at Merriton, not far from Ralston Old Manor)
reported unofficially on the condition of the place at stated intervals.
Murray had wired the news of his arrival in England to Jennings, and
that he would be bringing a wife to Devonshire; whereupon the doctor
asked by telegram if he might attend the wedding. Neither Murray nor the
bride-elect could think of any reason why he should not come, so he was
politely bidden to be present.
I was rather curious about the cousin to whom Murray had referred on
shipboard; and as the acquaintanceship between the two men seemed to be
entirely impersonal, I thought it "cheeky" of Jennings to wangle himself
to the wedding. Jim agreed with me as to the cheekiness. He said,
however, that the request was natural enough. This poor country doctor
had heard, no doubt, that Murray was doomed to death, and had
accordingly hoped great things for himself. There had seemed to be no
reason why these great things shouldn't happen: yet now the dying man
was about to take a wife! Jennings had been too impatient to wait till
the couple turned up in Devonshire to see what the lady was like.
"Besides," Jim went on (with the shrewdness I always accused him of
picking up in America), "besides, the fellow probably hopes to make a
good impression on the bride, and so get taken on as family physician."
"He'll be disappointed about _that_!" I exclaimed, with a flash of
naughty joy, for somehow I'd made up my mind not to like Doctor
Jennings. "Major Murray has promised Rosemary and me to consult Beverley
Drake about himself. It's the most perfect thing that Sir Beverley
should be in Exeter! Not to call him to the case would be tempting
Providence!"
Jim doesn't know or care much about doctors, but even he knew something
of Sir Beverley Drake. He is the man, of course, who did such wonders in
the war for soldiers who'd contracted obscure tropical diseases while
serving in Egypt, India, Mesopotamia, Salonika, and so on.
You could bet pretty safely that a person named Drake would be of
Devonshire extraction, and you would not lose your money on Beverley of
that ilk.
He had spent half his life in the East, and hadn't been settled down as
a Harley Street specialist for many years when the war broke out.
Between 1914 and 1919 he had worn himself to a thread in France, and had
temporarily retired from active life to rest in his native town, Exeter.
But he had known both my wonderful grandmother and old Mr. Ralston. He
wasn't likely to refuse his services to Ralston Murray. Consequently, I
didn't quite see Doctor Paul Jennings getting a professional foothold in
Major Murray's house, no matter what his personal charm might be.
As it turned out, the personal charm was a matter of opinion. Jennings
had the brightest eyes and the reddest lips ever seen on a man. He was
youngish, and looked more like a soldier than a doctor. Long ago some
Ralston girl had married a Jennings; consequently, the cousinship,
distant as it was. But though you can't associate Spain with a
"Jennings," there was Spanish blood in the man's veins. If you had met
him in Madrid, he would have looked more at home than as a doctor in a
Devonshire village. Not that he had stuck permanently to the village
since taking up practice there. He had gone to the Front, and brought
back a decoration. Also he had brought back a French wife, said to have
been an actress.
I heard some of these things from Murray, some from Jennings himself on
the day of the wedding. And they made me more curious about the man than
I should have been otherwise. Why, for instance, the Parisian wife? Do
Parisian women, especially actresses, marry obscure English doctors in
country villages which are hardly on the map?
No. There must be a very special reason for such a match; and I sought
for it when I met Paul Jennings. But his personality, though attractive
to many women, no doubt, wasn't quite enough to account for the
marriage. I resolved to look for something further when I got to
Devonshire and met Mrs. Jennings.
* * * * *
You wouldn't believe that a wedding ceremony in a private sitting room
of an old-fashioned hotel, with the bridegroom stretched on a sofa,
could be the prettiest sight imaginable; but it was. I never saw so
charming or so pathetic a picture!
Jim and I had sent quantities of flowers, and Doctor Jennings had sent
some, too. Rosemary and I arranged them, for there was no conventional
nonsense about this bride keeping herself in seclusion till the last
minute! Her wish was to be with the man she loved as often as she could,
and to belong to him with as little delay as possible.
We transformed the room into a pink-and-white bower, and then taxied
back to the Savoy to dress. There had been no time for Rosemary to have
a gown made, and as she had several white frocks I advised her to wear
one which Murray hadn't seen. But no! She wouldn't do that. She must be
married in something new; in fact, _everything_ new, nothing she'd ever
worn before. The girl seemed superstitious about this: and her pent-up
emotion was so intense that the least opposition would have reduced her
to tears.
Luckily she found in a Bond Street shop an exquisite model gown just
over from Paris. It was pale dove-colour and silver, and there was an
adorable hat to match. The faint gray, which had a delicate suggestion
of rose in its shadows, enhanced the pearly tints of the bride's
complexion, the coral of her lips, and the gold of her ash-blonde hair.
She was a vision when I brought her back to her lover, just in time to
be at his side before the clergyman in his surplice appeared from the
next room.
To see her kneeling by Murray's sofa with her hand in his sent the tears
stinging to my eyes, but I wouldn't let them fall. She looked like an
angel of sweetness and light, and I reproached myself bitterly because I
had half suspected her of mercenary plans.
Once during the ceremony I glanced at Doctor Jennings. He was gazing at
the bride as I had gazed, fixedly, absorbedly, with his brilliant eyes.
So intent was his look that I wondered its magnetism did not call
Rosemary's eyes to his; but she was as unconscious of his stare as he of
mine. He must have admired her; yet there was something deeper than
admiration; and I would have given a good deal to know what it
was--whether benevolent or otherwise. His expression, however, told no
tale beyond its intense interest.
There was a little feast after the wedding, with an imposing cake, and
everything that other, happier brides have. It seemed a mockery to drink
health to the newly married pair, knowing as we did that Ralston Murray
had been given three months at most to live. Yet we drank, and made a
brave pretence at all the conventional wedding merriment; for if we
hadn't laughed, some of us would have cried.
An hour later Major and Mrs. Murray started off on the first stage of
their journey to Devonshire. They went by car, a magnificent Rolls-Royce
rather like a travelling boudoir; and in another car was Murray's
nurse-valet, with the comfortable elderly maid I had found for Rosemary.
They were to travel at a moderate pace, to stay a night at Glastonbury,
and go on next morning to Ralston Old Manor, which they expected to
reach early in the afternoon. As for Jim and me, we were too keen on
seeing the dear old Abbey together, as our future home, to waste a
minute more than need be _en route_, no matter how beautiful the journey
by road.
Our packing had been done before the wedding, and we were in a fast
express tearing westward an hour after the Murrays had set off by car.
Ours had been such a long honeymoon--months in America--that outsiders
considered it over and done with long ago. We two knew that it wasn't
over and done with, and never would be, but we couldn't go about
proclaiming that fact; therefore we made no objection when Doctor
Jennings proposed travelling in the train with us. We reflected that, if
he were in the same train he would be in the same compartment, and so it
happened; but, though I didn't warm to the man, I was interested in
trying to study the character behind those brilliant eyes.
Some people's eyes seem to reveal their souls as through clear windows.
Other eyes conceal, as if they were imitation windows, made of mirrors.
I thought that Paul Jennings' were the mirror windows; but he had a
manner which appeared almost ostentatiously frank. He told us of the
difficulties he had had in getting on, before the war, and praised
Ralston Murray's generosity. "Ralston would never tell you this," he
said, "but it was he who made it possible for me to marry. He has been
awfully decent to me, though we hardly know each other except through
letters; and I only wish I could do something for him in return. All
I've been able to do so far is very little: just to look after the
Manor, and now to get the place ready for Murray and his bride: or
rather, my wife has done most of that. I wish I were a great doctor, and
my joy would be to put my skill at Ralston's service. But as it is,
he'll no doubt try to get an opinion from Beverley Drake?"
Jennings put this as a question rather than stating it, and I guessed
that there had been no talk on the subject between him and Murray. But
there could be no secret: and Jim answered promptly that we were staying
in Exeter on purpose to see Sir Beverley. We'd made an appointment with
him by telegram, Jim added, and would go on the rest of the way, which
was short, by car. Even with that delay we should reach the Abbey in
time for dinner.
"My wife is meeting me at Exeter, as I have business there," Doctor
Jennings replied. "She will come to the train. I hope you will let me
introduce her to you, Lady Courtenaye?"
I murmured that I should be charmed, and felt in my bones that he hoped
we would invite them to motor with us. Jim glanced at me for a
"pointer," but I looked sweetly blank. It would not have taken us far
out of our way to drop the Jenningses at Merriton. But I just didn't
want to do it. So _there_!
All the same, I was curious to see what the Parisian wife was like; and
at Exeter we three got out of the train together. "There she is!"
exclaimed Jennings suddenly, and his face lit up.
"He's in love!" I thought, and caught sight of the lady to whom he was
waving his hand.
"Why, you've married Gaby Lorraine!" I cried, before I had stopped to
think.
But the doctor was not offended. "Yes, I have, and I'm jolly proud of
her!" he said. "It's she, not I, who keeps dark in Merriton about her
past glories.... She wants only to be Mrs. Paul Jennings here in the
country. Hello, cherie! Here I am!"
Gaby Lorraine was a well-known musical comedy actress; at least _had_
been. Before the war and even during the first year of the war she had
been seen and heard a good deal in England. Because of her pretty
singing voice and smart recitations, she had been taken up by people
more or less in Society. Then she had disappeared, about the time that
Grandmother took me to Rome, and letters from friends mentioning her had
said there was some "hushed-up scandal." Exactly what it was nobody
seemed to know. One thought it had to do with cocaine. Another fancied
it was a question of kleptomania or "something really weird." The world
had forgotten her since, but here she was, a Mrs. Jennings, married to a
Devonshire village doctor, greeting her husband like a good wife at the
railway station.
Nothing could have been more perfect than her conception of this new
part she'd chosen to play. Neat, smooth brown hair; plain tailor-made
coat and skirt; little white waistcoat; close-fitting toque; low-heeled
russet shoes; gloves to match: admirable! Only the "liquid powder" which
gives the strange pallor loved in Paris suggested that this _chic_
figure had ever shown itself on the stage.
"I wish I knew _what_ the scandal had been!" I murmured half to myself
and half to Jim, as we parted in the station after introductions.
"That sounds unlike you, darling," Jim reproached me. "Why should you
want to know?"
"Because," I explained, "whatever it was, is the reason why she married
this country doctor. If there'd been no scandal, Mademoiselle Gaby
Lorraine wouldn't be Mrs. Paul Jennings."