CHAPTER VI
ODD STORY OF CAPTAIN DUGGLE
Christmas Day of 1918 was a merry feast, and nowhere merrier than at OldPlace. There was a house-party and, for dinner on the day itself, a localcontingent as well: Miss Wall, the Irechesters, Mr. Penrose, and DoctorMary. Mr. Beaumaroy also had been invited by Mrs. Naylor; she consideredhim an interesting man and felt pity for the obvious _ennui_ of hissituation; but he had not felt able to leave his old friend. DoctorMary's Paying Guest was of the house-party, not merely a dinner guest.She was asked over to spend three days and went, accompanied by Jeanne,who by this time was crying much less; crying was no longer the cue; hermistress, and not merely stern Doctor Mary, had plainly shown her that.Gertie Naylor had invited Cynthia to help her in entertaining thesubalterns, though Gertie was really quite equal to that task herself;there were only three of them, and if a pretty girl is not equal to threesubalterns, well, what are we coming to in England? And, as it turnedout, Miss Gertie had to deal with them all, sometimes collectively,sometimes one by one, practically unassisted. Cynthia was otherwiseengaged. Gertie complained neither of the cause nor of its consequence.
The drink, or drugs, hypothesis was exploded, and Miss Wall'sspeculations set at rest, with a quite comforting solatium of romanticand unhappy interest, "a nice tit-bit for the old cat," as Mr. Naylorunkindly put it. Cynthia had told her story; she wanted a richer sympathythan Doctor Mary's common-sense afforded; out of this need the revelationcame to Gertie in innocent confidence, and, with the narrator's tacitapproval, ran through the family and its intimate friends. If Cynthia hadbeen as calculating as she was guileless, she could not have done betterfor herself. Mrs. Naylor's motherliness, old Naylor's courtliness,Gertie's breathless concern and avid appetite for the fullest detail,everybody's desire to console and cheer, all these were at her service,all enlisted in the effort to make her forget, and live and laugh again.Her heart responded; she found herself becoming happy at a rate whichmade her positively ashamed. No wonder tactful Jeanne discovered that thecue was changed!
Fastidious old Naylor regarded his wife with the affection of habit andwith a little disdain for the ordinariness of her virtues--not to say ofthe mind which they adorned. His daughter was to him a precious toy, onwhich he tried jokes, played tricks, and lavished gifts, for the joy ofseeing the prettiness of her reactions to his treatment. It neveroccurred to him to think that his toy might be broken; fond as he was,his feeling for her lacked the apprehensiveness of the deepest love. Buthe idolized his son, and in this case neither without fear nor withoutunderstanding. For four years now he had feared for him bitterly: forhis body, for his life. At every waking hour his inner cry had beeneven as David's, "Would God I had died for thee, my son, my son!" For atevery moment of those four years it might be that his son was even thendead. That terror, endured under a cool and almost off-hand demeanor,was past; but he feared for his son still. Of all who went to the war asCrusaders, none had the temperament more ardently than Alec. As he went,so, obviously, he had come back, not disillusioned, nay, with all hisillusions, or delusions, about this wicked world and its possibilities,about the people who dwell in it and their lamentable limitations,stronger in his mind than ever. How could he get through life withoutbeing too sorely hurt and wounded, without being cut to the very quickby his inevitable discoveries? Old Naylor did not see how it was to bedone, or even hoped for; but the right kind of wife was unquestionablythe best chance.
He had cast a speculative eye on Cynthia Walford, Irechester had caughthim at it, but, as he observed her more, she did not altogether satisfyhim. Alec needed someone more stable, stronger, someone in a senseprotective; somebody more like Mary Arkroyd; that idea passed through histhoughts; if only Mary would take the trouble to dress herself, rememberthat she was, or might be made, an attractive young woman; and, yes,throw her mortar and pestle out of the window without, however,discarding with them the sturdy, sane, balanced qualities of mind whichenabled her to handle them with such admirable competence. But he soonhad to put this idea from him. His son's own impulse was to give, not toseek, protection and support.
Of Cynthia's woeful experience Alec had spoken to his father onceonly: "It makes me mad to think the fellow who did that wore aBritish uniform!"
How unreasonable! Since by all the laws of average, when millions of menare wearing a uniform, there must be some rogues in it. But it was Alec'sway to hold himself responsible for the whole of His Majesty's Forces.Their honor was his; for their misdeeds he must in his own person makereparation. "That fellow Beaumaroy may have lost his conscience, but myboy seems to have acquired five million," the old man grumbled tohimself--a grumble full of pride.
The father might analyze; with Alec it was all impulse, the impulse tosoothe, to obliterate, to atone. The girl had been sorely hurt; withthe acuteness of sympathy he divined that she felt herself in a waysoiled and stained by contact with unworthiness and by a too easyacceptance of it. All that must be swept out of her heart, out of hermemory, if it could be.
Doctor Mary saw what was happening, and with a little pang to which shewould not have liked to own. She had set love affairs, and all thenotions connected therewith, behind her; but she had idealized AlecNaylor a little; and she thought Cynthia, in homely phrase, "hardly goodenough." Was it not rather perverse that the very fact of having been alittle goose should help her to win so rare a swan?
"You're taking my patient out of my hands, Captain Alec!" she said tohim jokingly. "And you're devoting great attention to the case."
He flushed. "She seems to like to talk to me," he answered simply. "Sheseems to me to have rather a remarkable mind, Doctor Mary." (She was"Doctor Mary" to all the Old Place party now, in affection, with a touchof chaff.)
_O sancta simplicitas_! Mary longed to say; that Cynthia was a veryordinary child. Like to talk to him, indeed! Of course she did; and touse her girl's weapons on him; and to wonder, in an almost awestruckdelight, at their effect on this dazzling hero. Well, the guilelessnessof heroes!
So mused Mary, on the unprofessional side of her mind, as she watched,that Christmastide, Captain Alec's delicate, sensitively indirect, anddelayed approach toward the ripe fruit that hung so ready to his hand."Part of his chivalry to assume she can't think of him yet!" Mary washalf-impatient, half-reluctantly admiring; not an uncommon mixture offeeling for the extreme forms of virtue to produce. In the net result,however, her marked image of Alec lost something of its heroicproportions.
But professionally (the distinction must not be pushed too far, she wasnot built in watertight compartments) Tower Cottage remained obstinatelyin the center of her thoughts; and, connected with it, there arose apuzzle over Dr. Irechester's demeanor. She had taken advantage ofBeaumaroy's permission, though rather doubtful whether she was doingright, for she was still inexperienced in niceties of etiquette, and senton the letter, with a frank note explaining her own feelings and thereason which had caused her to pay her visit to Mr. Saffron. But thoughIrechester was quite friendly when they met at Old Place before dinner,and talked freely to her during a rather prolonged period of waiting(Captain Alec and Cynthia, Gertie and two subalterns were very late,having apparently forgotten dinner in more refined delights), he made noreference to the letters, nor to Tower Cottage or its inmates. Maryherself was too shy to break the ice, but wondered at his silence, andthe more because the matter evidently had not gone out of his mind. Forafter dinner, when the port had gone round once and the proper healthsbeen honored, he said across the table to Mr. Penrose:
"We were talking the other day of the Tower, on the heath, you know, byold Saffron's cottage, and none of us knew its history. You know allabout Inkston from time out o' mind. Have you got any story about it?"
Mr. Penrose practiced as a solicitor in London, but lived in a little oldhouse near the Irechesters' in the village street, and devoted hisleisure to the antiquities and topography of the neighborhood; his lorewas plentiful and curious, if not important. He was a small, neat oldfellow, with
white whiskers of the antique cut, a thin voice, and a drycackling laugh.
"There was a story about it, and one quite fit for Christmas evening, ifyou're in the mood to hear it."
The thin voice was penetrating. At the promise of a story silence fell onthe company, and Mr. Penrose told his tale, vouching as his authority anerstwhile "oldest inhabitant," now gathered to his fathers; for the taledated back some eighty years, to the date of the ancient's early manhood.
A seafaring man had suddenly appeared, out of space, as it were, atInkston, and taken the cottage. He carried with him a strong smell of rumand tobacco, and gave it to be understood that his name was CaptainDuggle. He was no beauty, and his behavior was worse than his looks. Tothat quiet village, in those quiet strait-laced times, he was a horrorand a portent. He not only drank prodigiously--that, being in characterand also a source of local profit, might have passed with mildcensure--but he swore and blasphemed horribly, spurning the parson,mocking at Revelation, even at the Deity Himself. The Devil was hisfriend, he said. A most terrible fellow, this Captain Duggle. Inkston'shair stood on end, and no wonder!
"No doubt they shivered with delight over it all," commented Mr. Naylor.
Captain Duggle lived all by himself--well, what God-fearing Christian,male or female, would be found to live with him--came and wentmysteriously and capriciously, always full of money, and at least equallyfull of drink! What he did with himself nobody knew, but evil legendsgathered about him. Terrified wayfarers, passing the cottage by night,took oath that they had heard more than one voice!
"This is proper Christmas!" a subaltern interjected into Gertie's ear.
Mr. Penrose, with an air of gratification, continued his narrative.
"The story goes on to tell," he said, "of a final interview with thevillage clergyman, in which that reverend man, as in duty bound, solemnlytold Captain Duggle that however much he might curse, and blaspheme, anddrink, and, er, do all the other things that the Captain did (obviouslyhere Mr. Penrose felt hampered by the presence of ladies), yet Death,Judgment, and Churchyard wait for him at last. Whereupon the Captain,emitting an inconceivably terrific imprecation, which no one ever daredto repeat and which consequently is lost to tradition, declared that thefirst he'd never feared, the second was parson's gabble, and as to thethird, never should his dead toes be nearer any church than for the lastforty years his living feet had been! If so be as he wasn't drowned atsea, he'd make a grave for himself!"
Mr. Penrose paused, sipped port wine, and resumed.
"And so, no doubt, he did, building the Tower for that purpose. By bribesand threats he got two men to work for him. One was the uncle of myinformant. But though he built that Tower, and inside it dug his grave,he never lay there, being, as things turned out, carried off by theDevil. Oh, yes, there was no doubt! He went home one night, a Saturday,very drunk, as usual. On the Sunday night a belated wayfarer, possiblyalso drunk, heard wild shrieks and saw a strange red glow through thewindow of the Tower, now, by the way, boarded up. And no doubt he'd havesmelt brimstone if the wind hadn't set the wrong way! Anyhow CaptainDuggle was never seen again by mortal eyes, at Inkston, at all events.After a time the landlord of the cottage screwed up his courage to resumepossession; the Captain had only a lease of it, though he built the Towerat his own charges, and, I believe, without any permission, the landlordbeing much too frightened to interfere with him. He found everything in asad mess in the house, while in the Tower itself every blessed stick hadbeen burnt up. So the story looks pretty plausible."
"And the grave?" This question came eagerly from at least three ofthe company.
"In front of the fireplace there was a big oblong hole--six feet bythree, by four--planks at the bottom, the sides roughly lined with brick.Captain Duggle's grave; but he wasn't in it!"
"But what really became of him, Mr. Penrose?" cried Cynthia.
"The Rising Generation is very skeptical," said old Naylor. "You, ofcourse, Penrose, believe the story?"
"I do," said Mr. Penrose composedly. "I believe that a devil carried himoff, and that its name was _delirium tremens_. We can guess, can't we,Irechester, why he smashed or burnt everything, and fled in mad terrorinto the darkness? Where to? Was he drowned at sea, or did he take hislife, or did he rot to death in some filthy hole? Nobody knows. But thegrave he dug is there in the Tower, unless it's been filled up since oldSaffron has lived there."
"Why in the world wasn't it filled up before?" asked Alec Naylor with alaugh. "People lived in the cottage, didn't they?"
"I've visited the cottage often," Irechester interposed, "when variouspeople had it, but I never saw any signs of the Tower being used."
"It never was, I'm sure; and as for the grave, well, Alec, in countryparts, to this day, you'd be thought a bold man if you filled up a gravethat your neighbor had dug for himself, and such a neighbor as CaptainDuggle! He might take it into his head some night to visit it, and if hefound it filled up there'd be trouble, nasty trouble!" His laugh cackledout rather uncomfortably. Gertie shivered, and one of the subalternsgulped down his port.
"Old Saffron's a man of education, I believe. No doubt he pays no heed tosuch nonsense, and has had the thing covered up," said Naylor.
"As to that I don't know. Perhaps you do, Irechester? He's your patient,isn't he?"
Dr. Irechester sat four places from Mary. Before he replied to thequestion he cast a glance at her, smiling rather mockingly. "I'veattended him on one or two occasions, but I've never seen the inside ofthe Tower. So I don't know either."
"Oh, but I'm curious! I shall ask Mr. Beaumaroy," cried Cynthia.
The ironical character of Irechester's smile grew more pronounced, andhis voice was at its driest: "Certainly you can ask Beaumaroy, MissWalford. As far as asking goes, there's no difficulty."
A pause followed this pointed remark, on which nobody seemed disposed tocomment. Mrs. Naylor ended the session by rising from her chair.
But Mary Arkroyd was disquieted, worried as to how she stood withIrechester, vaguely but insistently worried over the whole TowerCottage business. Well, the first point she could soon settle, or tryto settle, anyhow.
With the directness which marked her action when once her mind was madeup, she waylaid Irechester as he came into the drawing-room; her resoluteapproach sufficed to detach Naylor from him; he found himself for themoment isolated from everybody except Mary.
"You got my letter, Dr. Irechester? I--I rather expected an answer."
"Your conduct was so obviously and punctiliously correct," he repliedsuavely, "that I thought my answer could wait till I met you here to-day,as I knew that I was to have the pleasure of doing." He looked her fullin the eyes. "You were placed, my dear colleague, in a position in whichyou had no alternative."
"I thought so, Dr. Irechester, but--"
"Oh yes, clearly! I'm far from making any complaint." He gave her acourteous little bow, but it was one which plainly closed the subject.Indeed he passed by her and joined a group that had gathered on thehearthrug, leaving her alone.
So she stood for a minute, oppressed by a growing uneasiness.Irechester said nothing, but surely meant something of import? Hemocked her, but not idly or out of wantonness. He seemed almost to warnher. What could there be to warn her about? He had laid an odd emphasison the word "placed"; he had repeated it. Who had "placed" her there?Mr. Saffron? Or--
Alec Naylor broke in on her uneasy meditation. "It's a clinking night,Doctor Mary," he observed. "Do you mind if I walk Miss Walford home,instead of her going with you in your car, you know? It's only a coupleof miles and--"
"Do you think your leg can stand it?"
He laughed. "I'll cut the thing off, if it dares to make any objection!"