The Paradise Mystery by J. S. Fletcher (simple e reader TXT) 📗

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