The Secret of the Tower | Page 2

the fondness. I'm very fond of you myself. Six years ago you were a
charming kitten, and I used to enjoy being your 'visiting governess'--to
say nothing of finding the guineas very handy while I was waiting to
qualify. You're rather like a kitten still, one of those blue-eyed
ones--Siamese, aren't they?--with close fur and a wondering look. But
you mustn't mew down here, and you must have lots of milk and cream.
Even if rations go on, I can certify all the extras for you. That's the
good of being a doctor!" She laughed cheerfully as she took a cigarette
from the mantelpiece and lit it.
Cynthia, on the other hand, began to sob prettily and not in a noisy
fashion, yet evidently heading towards a bout of grief. Moreover, no
sooner had the first sound of lamentation escaped from her lips, than
the door was opened smartly and a buxom girl, in lady's maid uniform,
rushed in, darted across the room, and knelt by Cynthia, sobbing also
and exclaiming, "Oh, my poor Mees Cynthia!"
Mary smiled in a humorous contempt.
"Stop this!" she commanded rather brusquely. "You've not been
deceived too, have you, Jeanne?"
"Me, madame? No. My poor Mees--"
"Leave your poor Mees to me." She took a paper bag from the
mantelpiece. "Go and eat chocolates."
Fixed with a firm and decidedly professional glance, Jeanne stopped
sobbing and rose slowly to her feet.
"Don't listen outside the door. You must have been listening. Wait till
you're rung for. Miss Cynthia will be all right with me. We're going for
a walk. Take her upstairs and put her hat on her, and a thick coat; it's
cold and going to rain, I think."

"A walk, Mary?" Cynthia's sobs stopped, to make way for this protest.
The description of the weather did not sound attractive.
"Yes, yes. Now off with both of you! Here, take the chocolates, Jeanne,
and try to remember that it might have been worse."
Jeanne's brown eyes were eloquent of reproach.
"Captain Cranster might have been found out too late--after the
wedding," Mary explained with a smile. "Try to look at it like that. Five
minutes to get ready, Cynthia!" She was ready for the weather herself,
in the stout coat and skirt and weather-proof hat in which she had
driven the two-seater on her round that morning.
The disconsolate pair drifted ruefully from the room, though Jeanne did
recollect to take the chocolates. Doctor Mary stood looking down at the
fire, her lips still shaped in that firm, wise, and philosophical smile with
which doctors and nurses--and indeed, sometimes, anybody who
happens to be feeling pretty well himself--console, or exasperate,
suffering humanity. "A very good thing the poor silly child did come to
me!" That was the form her thoughts took. For although Dr. Mary
Arkroyd was, and knew herself to be, no dazzling genius at her
profession--in moments of candor she would speak of having "scraped
through" her qualifying examinations--she had a high opinion of her
own common sense and her power of guiding weaker mortals.
For all that Jeanne's cheek bulged with a chocolate, there was open
resentment on her full, pouting lips, and a hint of the same feeling in
Cynthia's still liquid eyes, when mistress and maid came downstairs
again. Without heeding these signs, Mary drew on her gauntlets, took
her walking-stick, and flung the hall door open. A rush of cold wind
filled the little hall. Jeanne shivered ostentatiously; Cynthia sighed and
muffled herself deeper in her fur collar. "A good walking day!" said
Mary decisively.
Up to now, Inkston had not impressed Cynthia Walford very favorably.
It was indeed a mixed kind of a place. Like many villages which lie
near to London and have been made, by modern developments, more

accessible than once they were, it showed chronological strata in its
buildings. Down by the station all was new, red, suburban. Mounting
the tarred road, the wayfarer bore slightly to the right along the original
village street; bating the aggressive "fronts" of one or two commercial
innovators, this was old, calm, serene, gray in tone and restful,
ornamented by three or four good class Georgian houses, one quite fine,
with well wrought iron gates (this was Dr. Irechester's); turning to the
right again, but more sharply, the wayfarer found himself once more in
villadom, but a villadom more ornate, more costly, with gardens to be
measured in acres--or nearly. This was Hinton Avenue (Hinton because
it was the maiden name of the builder's wife; Avenue because avenue is
genteel). Here Mary dwelt, but by good luck her predecessor, Dr.
Christian Evans, had seized upon a surviving old cottage at the end of
the avenue, and, indeed, of Inkston village itself. Beyond it stretched
meadows, while the road, turning