Part 71 (1/2)
”In the act of quitting the Registrar's outer office,” says the burnt-out Julius in a weary voice, ”in the company of Lord Beauvayse, and followed by his valet and a woman who probably were witnesses; for when the Father entered the inner office the register was lying open on the table, the entry of the marriage still wet upon the page.”
”And your religious correspondent pried first,” says Saxham, with savage irony, ”and afterwards tattled?”
”And afterwards, seeing in the _Times_ that Lord Beauvayse was under orders for South Africa, mentioned his accidental discovery when writing to me,” says Julius Fraithorn wearily.
”That will do. When can I see the letter at your hotel? The sooner the better,” says Saxham, with a curious smile, ”for all purposes. Can you walk there with me now? Very well”--as Julius a.s.sents--”that is arranged, then.”
”What is to be done, Saxham?” Julius stumbles up. The fires that burned in him a few moments ago are quenched; his slack hand trembles irresolutely at his beautiful weak mouth, and his deer-like eyes waver.
”I advise you,” says Saxham, ”to leave the doing of what is to be done to me.” His own blue eyes have so strange a flare in them, and his heavy form seems so alive and instinct with threatening and dangerous possibilities, that Julius falters:
”You believe Lord Beauvayse has been a party to--has wilfully compromised Miss Mildare? You--you mean to remonstrate with him? Do you--do you think that he will listen to a remonstrance?”
”He will find it best in this instance,” says Saxham dourly.
”Do not--do not be tempted to use any violence, Saxham,” urges the Chaplain nervously, looking at the tense muscles of the grim, square face and the purposeful right hand that hovers near the b.u.t.t of the Doctor's revolver. ”For your own sake as much as for his!”
Saxham's laugh is ugly to hear.
”Do you think that Lord Beauvayse would wind up as top-dog if it came to a struggle between us?”
”It must not come to a struggle, Saxham,” says the Chaplain, very pale.
”We--we are under Martial Law. He is your superior officer.” (Saxham, Attached Medical Staff, holds the honorary rank of Lieutenant in Her Majesty's Army.) ”Remember, if Carslow--the man who killed Vickers, of the _Pittsburg Trumpeter_”--he refers to a grim tragedy of the beginning of the siege--”had not been medically certified insane, they would have taken him out and shot him.”
Saxham shrugs his ma.s.sive shoulders, and with the utter unmelodiousness that distinguishes the performance of a man devoid of a musical ear, whistles a fragment of a little tune. It is often on the lips of another man, and the Doctor has picked it up unconsciously, with one or two other characteristic habits and phrases, and has fallen into the habit of whistling it as he goes doggedly, unwearyingly, upon his ever-widening round of daily duties. It helps him, perhaps, though it gets upon the nerves of other people, making the younger nurses, not unmindful of his arbitrary action in the matter of the violet powder, want to shriek.
”The Military Executive would be perfectly welcome to take me out and shoot me, if first I might be permitted to look in at Staff Bomb proof South, and render Society the distinguished service of ridding it of Lord Beauvayse. Who's there?”
Saxham reopens the door, at which the nurse, now returned, has knocked.
The tired but cheerful-faced young woman, in an unstarched cap and ap.r.o.n, and rumpled gown of Galatea cotton-twill, informs the Doctor that they have telephoned up from Staff Bomb proof South Lines, and that the pa.s.sword for the day is ”Honour.”
”You are going to him now?” asks the Chaplain anxiously and apprehensively.
”Oddly enough, I have been sent for to attend to a sh.e.l.l casualty,” says Saxham, picking up and putting on his Service felt, and moving to take down the canvas wallet that is his inseparable companion, from the hook on which it hangs. ”Or, rather, Taggart was; and as he has thirty diphtheria cases for tracheotomy at the Children's Hospital, and McFadyen's hands are full at the Refugees' Infirmary, the Major asks if I will take the duty.
It's an order, I suppose, couched in a civil way.”
He swings the heavy wallet over his shoulders, and picks up his worn hunting-crop.
”And so, let's be moving,” he says, his hand upon the door-k.n.o.b. ”Your hotel is on my way. I may need that letter, or I may not. And in any case I prefer to have seen it before I meet the man.”
”One moment.” The Chaplain speaks with a strained look of anxiety, squeezing a damp white handkerchief into a ball between his palms. ”You have taken upon yourself the duty of bringing Lord Beauvayse to book over this--very painful matter.... I should like ... I should wish you to leave the task of enlightening Miss Mildare to me.”
”To you. And why?”
Saxham waits for the answer, a heavy figure filling up the doorway, with scowling brows, and sullen eyes that carefully avoid the Chaplain's face.
”Because I--because in inflicting upon her what must necessarily be a--a painful humiliation”--the Rev. Julius clears his throat, and laboriously rolls the damp handkerchief-ball into a sausage--”I wish to convince Miss Mildare that my respect and my--esteem for her have--not diminished.”