CHAPTER X
THE MAGICAL WORD MOROCCO!
When Mary arrived home, she found Cynthia and Captain Alec still in
possession of the drawing-room; their manner accused her legitimate entry
into the room of being an outrageous intrusion. She took no heed of that,
and indeed little heed of them. To tell the truth, she was ashamed to
confess, but it was the truth, she felt rather tired of them that
evening. Their affair deserved every laudatory epithet, except that of
interesting; so she declared peevishly within herself as she tried to
join in conversation with them. It was no use. They talked on, and in
justice to them it may be urged that they were fully as bored with Mary
as she was with them; so naturally their talents did not shine their
brightest. But they had plenty to say to one another, and dutifully threw
in a question or a reference to Mary every now and then. Sitting apart
at the other end of the long low room--it ran through the whole depth of
her old-fashioned dwelling--she barely heeded and barely answered. They
smiled at one another and were glad.
She was very tired; her feelings were wounded, her nerves on edge; she
could not even attempt any cool train of reasoning. The outcome of her
talk with Beaumaroy filled her mind rather than the matter of it; and,
more even than that, the figure of the man seemed to be with her, almost
to stand before her, with his queer alternations of despair and mirth, of
defiance and pleading, of derision and alarm. One moment she was
intensely irritated with him; in the next she half forgave the plaintive
image which the fancy of her mind conjured up before her eyes.
Her eyes closed--she was so very tired, the fight had taken it out of
her! To have to do things like that was an odious necessity, which had
never befallen her before. That man had done--well, Captain Alec was
quite right about him! Yet still the shadowy image, though thus
reproached, did not depart; it was smiling at her now with its old
mockery--the kindly mockery which his face wore before they quarrelled,
and before its light was quenched in that forlorn bewilderment. And it
seemed as though the image began to say some words to her, disconnected
words, not making a sentence, but yet having for the image a pregnant
meaning, and seeming to her--though vaguely and very dimly--to be the key
to what she had to understand. She was stupid not to understand words so
full of meaning--just as stupid as Beaumaroy had thought.
Then Doctor Mary fell asleep, sound asleep; she had been very near it for
the last ten minutes.
Captain Alec and Cynthia were in two chairs, close side by side, in front
of the fire. Once Cynthia glanced over her shoulder; the Captain had
glanced over his in the same direction already. One of his hands held one
of Cynthia's. It was well to be sure that Mary was asleep, really asleep.
She had gone to sleep on the name of Beaumaroy; on it she awoke. It came
from Captain Alec's lips. He was standing on the hearthrug with his arm
round Cynthia's waist, and his other hand raising one of hers to his
lips. He looked admirably handsome--strong, protecting, devoted. And
Cynthia, in her fragile appealing prettiness, was a delicious foil, a
perfect complement to the picture. But now, under stress of
emotion--small blame to a man who was making a vow of eternal
fidelity!--under stress of emotion, as, on a previous occasion, under
that of indignation, the Captain had raised his voice!
"Yes, against all the scoundrels in the world, whether they're called
Cranster or Beaumaroy!" he said.
Mary's eyes opened. She sat up. "Cranster and Beaumaroy?" They were the
words which her ears had caught. "What in the world has Mr. Beaumaroy to
do with--" But she broke off, as she saw the couple by the fire. "But
what are you two doing?"
Cynthia broke away from her lover, and ran to her friend with
joyous avowals.
"I must have been sound asleep," cried Mary, kissing her. Alec had
followed across the room and now stood close by her. She looked up at
him. "Oh, I see! She's to be safe now from such people?" On this
particular occasion Mary's look at the Captain was not admiring; it was a
little scornful.
"That's the idea," agreed the happy Alec. "Another idea is that I
trot you both over in the car to Old Place--to break the news and
have dinner."
"Splendid!" cried Cynthia. "Do come, Mary!"
Mary shook her head. "No; you go, you two," she said. "I'm tired, and I
want to think." She passed her hand across her eyes. She seemed to wipe
away the mists of sleep. Her face suddenly grew animated and exultant.
"No, I don't want to think! I know!" she exclaimed emphatically.
"Mary dear, are you still asleep? Are you talking in your sleep?"
"The keyword! It came to me, somehow, in my sleep. The keyword--Morocco!"
"What the deuce has Morocco--" Captain Alec began, with justifiable
impatience.
"Ah, you never heard that, and, dear Captain Alec, you wouldn't have
understood it if you had. You thought he was reciting poems. What he was
really doing--"
"Look here, Doctor Mary, I've just been accepted by Cynthia, and I'm
going to take her to my mother and father. Can you get your mind on to
that?" He looked at her curiously, not at all understanding her
excitement, perhaps resenting the obvious fact that his Cynthia's
happiness was not foremost in her friend's mind.
With a great effort Mary brought herself down to the earth--to the earth
of romantic love from the heaven of professional triumph. True, the
latter was hers, the former somebody else's. "I do beg your pardon. I do
indeed. And do let me kiss you again, Cynthia darling--and you, dear
Captain Alec, just once! And then you shall go off to dinner." She
laughed excitedly. "Yes, I'm going to push you out."
"Let's go, Alec," said Cynthia, not unkindly, yet just a little
pettishly. The great moment of her life--surely as great a moment as
there had ever been in anybody's life--had hardly earned adequate
recognition from Mary. As usual, her feelings and Alec's were at one.
Before they passed to other and more important matters, when they drove
off in the car she said to Alec, "It seems to me that Mary's strangely
interested in that Mr. Beaumaroy. Had she been dreaming of him, Alec?"
"Looks like it! And why the devil Morocco?" His intellect baffled,
Captain Alec took refuge in his affections.
Left alone, and so thankful for it, Doctor Mary did not attempt to sit
still. She walked up and down, she roved here and there, smoking any
quantity of cigarettes; she would certainly have forbidden such excess to
a patient. The keyword; its significance had seemed to come to her in
her sleep. Something in that subconsciousness theory? The word explained,
linked up, gave significance--that magical word Morocco!
Yes, they fell into place now, the things that had been so puzzling, and
that looked now so obviously suggestive. Even one thing which she had
thought nothing about, which had not struck her as having any
significance, now took on its meaning--the gray shawl which the old
gentleman so constantly wore swathed round his body, enveloping the whole
of it except his right arm. Did he wear the shawl while he took his
meals? Doctor Mary could not tell as to that. Perhaps he did not; at his
meals only Beaumaroy, and perhaps their servant, would be present. But he
seemed to wear it whenever he went abroad, whenever he was exposed to the
scrutiny of strangers. That indicated secretiveness, perhaps fear, the
apprehension of something. The caution bred by that might give way under
the influence of great cerebral excitement. Unquestionably Mr. Saffron
had been very excited when he waved the sheet of hieroglyphics and
shouted to Beaumaroy about Morocco. But whether he wore the shawl or not
in the safe privacy of Tower Cottage, whatever might be the truth about
that--perhaps he varied his practice according to his condition--on one
thing Doctor Mary would stake her life; he used the combination
knife-and-fork!
For it was over that implement that Beaumaroy had tripped up. It ought to
have been hidden before she was admitted to the cottage. Somebody had
been careless, somebody had blundered--whether Beaumaroy himself or his
servant was immaterial. Beaumaroy had lied, readily and ingeniously, but
not quite readily enough. The dart of his hand had betrayed him; that,
and a look in his eyes, a tell-tale mirth which had seemed to mock both
her and himself, and had made his ingenious lie even at the moment
unconvincing. Yes, whether Mr. Saffron wore the shawl or not, he
certainly used the combination table implement!
And the "poems?" The poems which Mr. Saffron recited to himself in bed,
and which he had said, in Captain Alec's hearing, were good and "went
well." It was Beaumaroy, of course, who had called them poems; the
Captain had merely repeated the description. But with her newly found
insight Doctor Mary knew better. What Mr. Saffron declaimed in that
vibrating, metallic voice, were not poems, but--speeches!
And "Morocco" itself! To anybody who remembered history for a few years
back, even with the general memory of the man in the street, to anybody
who had read the controversies about the war, Morocco brought not puzzle,
but enlightenment. For had not Morocco been really the starting point of
the Years of Crisis--those years intermittent in excitement, but constant
in anxiety? Beaumaroy was to start tomorrow for Morocco--on the strength
of the hieroglyphics! Perhaps he was to go on from Morocco to Libya;
perhaps he was to raise the Senussi (Mary had followed the history of the
war), to make his appearance at Cairo, Jerusalem, Bagdad! He was to be a
forerunner, was Mr. Beaumaroy. Mr. Saffron, his august master, would
follow in due course! With a sardonic smile she wondered how the
ingenious man would get out of starting for Morocco; perhaps he would not
succeed in obtaining a passport, or, that excuse failing, in eluding the
vigilance of the British authorities. Or some more hieroglyphics might
come, carrying another message, postponing his start, saying that the
propitious moment had not yet arrived after all. There were several
devices open to ingenuity; many ways in which Beaumaroy might protract a
situation not so bad for him even as it stood, and quite rich in
possibilities. Her acid smile was turned against herself when she
remembered that she had been fool enough to talk to Beaumaroy about
sensitive honor!
Well, never mind Mr. Beaumaroy! The case as to Mr. Saffron stood pretty
plain. It was queer and pitiful, but by no means unprecedented. She might
be not much of an alienist, as Dr. Irechester had been kind enough to
suggest to Mr. Naylor, but she had seen such cases herself--even
stranger ones, where even higher Powers suffered impersonation, with
effects still more tragically absurd to onlookers. And she remembered
reading somewhere--was it in Maudslay--that in the days of Napoleon, when
princes and kings were as ninepins to be set up and knocked down at the
tyrant's pleasure, the asylums of France were full of such great folk?
Potentates there galore! If she had Mr. Saffron's "record" before her,
she would expect to read of a vain ostentatious man, ambitious in his own
small way; the little plant of these qualities would, given a morbid
physical condition, develop into the fantastic growth of delusion which
she had now diagnosed in the case of Mr. Saffron--diagnosed with the
assistance of some lucky accidents!
But what was her duty now--the duty of Dr. Mary Arkroyd, a duly
qualified, accredited, responsible medical practitioner? With a slight
shock to her self-esteem she was obliged to confess that she had only
the haziest idea. Had not people who kept a lunatic to be licensed or
something? Or did that apply only to lunatics in the plural? And did
Beaumaroy keep Mr. Saffron within the meaning of whatever the law
might be? But at any rate she must do something; the state of things
at Tower Cottage could not go on as it was. The law of the
land--whatever it was--must be observed, Beaumaroy must be foiled, and
poor old Mr. Saffron taken proper care of. The course of her
meditations was hardly interrupted by the episode of her light evening
meal; she was back in her drawing-room by half past eight, her mind
engrossed with the matter still.
It was a little after nine when there was a ring at the hall door. Not
the lovers back so early? She heard a man's voice in the hall. The next
moment Beaumaroy was shown in, and the door shut behind him. He stood
still by it, making no motion to advance towards her. He was breathing
quickly, and she noticed beads of perspiration on his forehead. She had
sprung to her feet at the sight of him and faced him with indignation.
"You have no right to come here, Mr. Beaumaroy, after what passed
between us this afternoon."
"Besides being, as you saw yourself, very excited, my poor old friend
isn't at all well tonight."
"I'm very sorry; but I'm no longer Mr. Saffron's medical attendant. If I
declined to be this afternoon, I decline ten times more tonight."
"For all I know, he's very ill indeed, Dr. Arkroyd." Beaumaroy's manner
was very quiet, restrained, and formal.
"I have come to a clear conclusion about Mr. Saffron's case since I
left you."
"I thought you might. I suppose 'Morocco' put you on the scent? And I
suppose, too, that you looked at that wretched bit of paper?"
"I--I thought of it--" Here Mary was slightly embarrassed.
"You'd have been more than human if you hadn't. I was out again after it
in five minutes--as soon as I missed it; you'd gone, but I concluded
you'd seen it. He scribbles dozens like that."
"You seem to admit my conclusion about his mental condition," she
observed stiffly.
"I always admit when I cease to be able to deny. But don't let's stand
here talking. Really, for all I know, he may be dying. His heart seems to
me very bad."
"Go and ask Dr. Irechester."
"He dreads Irechester. I believe the sight of Irechester might finish
him. You must come."
"I can't--for the reasons I've told you."
"Why? My misdeeds? Or your rules and regulations? My God, how I hate
rules and regulations! Which of them is it that is perhaps to cost the
old man his life?"
Mary could not resist the appeal; that could hardly be her duty, and
certainly was not her inclination. Her grievance was not against poor old
Mr. Saffron, with his pitiful delusion of greatness, of a greatness, too,
which now had suffered an eclipse almost as tragical as that which had
befallen his own reason. What an irony in his mad aping of it now!
"I will come, Mr. Beaumaroy, on condition that you give me candidly and
truthfully all the information which, as Mr. Saffron's medical attendant,
I am entitled to ask."
"I'll tell you all I know about him, and about myself, too."
"Your affairs and--er--position matter to me only so far as they bear on
Mr. Saffron."
"So be it. Only come quickly; and bring some of your things that may help
a man with a bad heart."
Mary left him, went to her surgery, and was quickly back with her bag.
"I'll get out the car."
"It'll take a little longer, I know, but do you mind if we walk? Cars
always alarm him. He thinks that they come to take him away. Every car
that passes vexes him; he looks to see if it will stop. And when yours
does--" He ended with a shrug.
For the first time Mary's feelings took on a keen edge of pity. Poor old
gentleman! Fancy his living like that! And cars, military cars, too, had
been so common on the road across the heath.
"I understand. Let us go at once. You walked yourself, I suppose?"
"Ran," said Beaumaroy, and, with the first sign of a smile, wiped the
sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
"I'm ready, Mr. Beaumaroy," said Doctor Mary.
They walked along together in silence for fully half the way. Then
Beaumaroy spoke. "He was extremely excited--at his worst--when he and I
went into the cottage. I had to humor him in every way; it was the only
thing to do. That was followed by great fatigue, a sort of collapse. I
persuaded him to go to bed. I hope we shall find him there, but I don't
know. He would let me go only on condition that I left the door of the
Tower unlocked, so that he could go in there if he wanted to. If he has,
I'm afraid that you may see something--well, something rather bizarre,
Dr. Arkroyd."
"That's all in the course of my profession."
Silence fell on them again, till the outline of cottage and Tower came
into view through the darkness. Beaumaroy spoke only once again before
they reached the garden gate.
"If he should happen to be calmer now, I hope you will not consider it
necessary to tell him that you suspect anything unusual."
"He is secretive?"
"He lives in terror."
"Of what?"
"Of being shut up. May I lead the way in, Dr. Arkroyd?"
They entered the cottage, and Beaumaroy shut the door. A lamp was burning
dimly in the passage. He turned it up. "Would you kindly wait here one
minute?" Receiving her nod of acquiescence, he stepped softly up the
stairs, and she heard him open a door above; she knew it was that of Mr.
Saffron's bedroom, where she had visited the old man. She waited, now
with a sudden sense of suspense. It was very quiet in the cottage.
Beaumaroy was down again in a minute.
"It is as I feared," he said quietly. "He has got up again, and gone into
the Tower. Shall I try and get him out, or will you--"
"I will go in with you, of course, Mr. Beaumaroy."
His old mirthful, yet rueful, smile came on his lips--just for a moment.
Then he was grave and formal again. "This way, then, if you please, Dr.
Arkroyd," he said deferentially.
