Читать книгу The Case of Mrs. Ruhmkorff's Will - Percy Andreae - Страница 6

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Mr. Richard Coxton, the affianced husband by tacit consent of Belle Staunton, was a frequent visitor at Glen Elc. He and Clive Cunninghame were, as I have said, old school chums, and the friendship formed between them on the school playground had been kept up in after life, as it appeared, with equal warmth on both sides. In addition to this, of course, Richard Coxton's relation to Mrs. Cunninghame's ward gave him in itself a claim upon her hospitality.

It so chanced, however, that I was fully a week at Glen Elc before I saw Mr. Coxton there, and his arrival at last caused quite a pleasant break in the monotony of our daily existence. Knowing what I did of the situation, I was somewhat anxious as to the effect it might produce upon my patient. But the restlessness he gave sign of was no greater than might have been caused by the expectation of any other visitor for whom he had a regard.

"Coxton is one of the finest fellows living," he said to me on the morning of his arrival. It was a Saturday, and the visitor was to stay over Sunday. "You know, I was his fag at college, nurse, and I owe him about all I know. He used to carry off all the prizes, and I have yet to see the man who can beat him in any field where the brain is concerned."

After this somewhat enthusiastic description I might have expected to be disappointed with the individual himself. But, to say the truth, I was not. Richard Coxton was one of those men who burst upon you at first sight. Somewhat dark in complexion, with remarkably fine eyes, tall and well-built, he was a figure that would have impressed anyone who first saw him as uncommon and striking. His manner was self-possessed—indeed, most gravely so for one of his years—and his mode of speaking refined and pleasing. Nevertheless, there was an air of decision about him that contrasted not disagreeably with the almost punctilious courtesy of his general bearing, and I put him down at once mentally, as one whom it would require some courage to cross in any serious matter.

I can hardly say at this distance of time whether the favourable impression created upon me by this man at my first meeting with him was due in some measure to the courteous attention he bestowed upon me personally or not. Maybe it was. I am frank to confess that I am not less susceptible to the fascination pertaining to polite manners than most of my sex, and Mr. Coxton's politeness was the most perfect thing one can imagine. Not that he bestowed more than ordinary notice upon me, or made the slightest effort to ingratiate himself with me. He merely had the knack of saying just the right thing in the right way, and at the right moment; and this is a gift that confers, I think, more than any other that peculiar power to please, which is the secret of so many social favourites' success.

Mrs. Cunninghame accompanied her guest into the sick-room; and while the two young men were exchanging greetings, I observed that she kept her eyes anxiously fixed upon her son's face, as if she felt apprehensive of the effect of their meeting. But no sign of any unusual emotion could be detected in Mr. Cunninghame's face or manner. Only for an instant I fancied that I saw a shade of embarrassment settle on his features as he grasped the hand of the friend whom, if all I had been told was true, he knew to be his successful rival. But it passed almost immediately, and the next moment he was welcoming him with so evident a sense of genuine pleasure that it was impossible to believe he could harbour any ill-feeling towards him.

"Let me introduce you to my nurse," he said, waving his hand in my direction. "Mother, you are growing absent-minded"—this in an aside to Mrs. Cunninghame. "If you ever happen to break your leg, Dick, which, I may tell you, isn't quite the funny thing you may think it, you can't do better than place yourself unreservedly in the hands of Nurse Forsyth. Nurse Forsyth, this is Mr. Richard Coxton, an old college chum of mine—a prince of scholars, and as wretched a sportsman as you may find within a radius of a hundred miles from anywhere you please."

Mr. Coxton passed round by the head of the couch and extended his hand to me.

"I am pleased to know you, Miss Forsyth," he said. "You are from Guy's, I see."

I wondered at his knowing my hospital dress, and said so.

"It would be something to wonder at if I had forgotten it," he answered with a smile. "I was a student at Guy's for close upon two years."

He entered into a short discussion about the hospital and its associations, and, after naming a whole string of people who had been on the hospital staff in his time, and of some of whom I was able to give him news, he adroitly turned the conversation to matters of more general interest, in the discussion of which Clive Cunninghame could take part.

The two presently fell into a talk about the ordinary topics of the day, and seeing them thus engrossed, Mrs. Cunninghame and I withdrew.

One thing struck me as strange. Although I knew Miss Staunton was at home, she had evidently entirely ignored the arrival of the man to whom she was, according to all reports, betrothed. It seemed impossible to suppose that she had not been informed of his presence in the house. Yet I was quite positive that she did not descend from her own room until the second gong had sounded for lunch, which was fully two hours after Mr. Coxton had arrived at Glen Elc.

That afternoon, however, I saw the two walking along together in the grounds. I had just wheeled Mr. Cunninghame's couch to the window, which commanded a full view of the slope of lawn at the back of the house, and where he was wont, at this time of the day, to pass an hour or two reading a novel or the daily journals, when I saw Richard Coxton and Miss Staunton emerge from the avenue of chestnuts on the left and cross the lawn slantwise towards the ornamental water at the foot of the slope. They were engaged in animated conversation, and did not glance once in the direction of the house, or they must have noticed Clive Cunninghame lying at the open window of his room. The latter, I observed, had dropped the book he had been reading, and lay, with both hands under his head, silently gazing out at the couple as they passed by. As I turned away to leave the room, I caught a glimpse of his face. There was a serious expression in it which I had never seen there before, and I noted it with an inward comment; but whether it was called forth by the sight of the two promenaders I could not determine.

I thought no more about the whole incident, in fact, until I returned to the room half-an-hour afterwards to bring Mr. Cunninghame the cup of cocoa he was accustomed to take in the course of the afternoon. To my surprise, I then found him still lying the same position as I had left him, with his book on his lap, gazing fixedly through the open window into the distance. I was almost beside him before he moved. When be turned his face to me I was startled at the pained look it bore. Thinking he was suffering physically, I was about to inquire if I could do anything to make his position more comfortable, when, with a sudden impetuous movement, he picked up the novel that lay in his lap and flung it passionately into the farthest corner of the room.

I believe he only then became aware of my presence, for he looked so taken aback when I quietly went to pick up the innocent volume and place it on the shelf that I could have laughed had I not felt a trifle too much frightened.

"Awfully sorry, nurse," he said, in a penitent tone. "I'm a confounded brute, and apologise most humbly. I'd kick myself on the spot if I could, but with this broken leg of mine it's a sheer impossibility."

He spoke in his usual rollicking manner. But, though he plainly endeavoured to pass this little act of passion off as the effect of an acute pain in his injured limb, I was not deceived as to its real cause. A glance out of the window had taught me that Belle Staunton and Mr. Coxton were still taking exercise together in the grounds, and that he had probably been engaged for the last half-hour in watching their movements. A feeling of pity for the poor fellow overcame me. There was so much manly vigour about him, so much pure unaftectedness and genuine, if somewhat rough, nature in all he said and did, that the ludicrous character which generally attaches to the antics of the unfortunate lover, and which so often robs him of the compassion that is, after all, his just due, seemed altogether absent in his case.

This little outburst of temper appeared to have relieved him; for he took up one of the daily papers, which I had placed on the table beside his couch, and was presently quite absorbed in its columns. As for myself, I pondered a good deal on this incident, which left me a certain sense of inquietude. I had grown so accustomed to see my patient bright and cheerful that I had almost ceased to regard him otherwise than as an ordinary invalid, whom a temporary disablement had rendered helpless. It was not long before I had occasion to congratulate myself upon having received this timely warning—if warning it was—of the graver responsibilities that rested upon me.