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The Floating Press - Anthony Hope

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107 pages

English

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Although this novel from Anthony Hope doesn't have the same level of swashbuckling sword play as his best-known work, The Prisoner of Zenda, it is still a fast-paced, action-packed read. Containing elements of mystery and romance, The Secret of the Tower explores unusual goings-on in the Tower Cottage, a centerpiece of the small English village of Inkston.

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 juillet 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776583553
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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THE SECRET OF THE TOWER
* * *
ANTHONY HOPE

*
The Secret of the Tower First published in 1919 Epub ISBN 978-1-77658-355-3 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77658-356-0 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
Chapter I - Doctor Mary's Paying Guest Chapter II - The General Remembers Chapter III - Mr. Saffron at Home Chapter IV - Professional Etiquette Chapter V - A Familiar Implement Chapter VI - Odd Story of Captain Duggle Chapter VII - A Gentlemanly Stranger Chapter VIII - Captain Alec Raises His Voice Chapter IX - Doctor Mary's Ultimatum Chapter X - The Magical Word Morocco! Chapter XI - The Car Behind the Trees Chapter XII - The Secret of the Tower Chapter XIII - Right of Conquest Chapter XIV - The Scepter in the Grave Chapter XV - A Normal Case Chapter XVI - Dead Majesty Chapter XVII - The Chief Mourners Chapter XVIII - The Gold and the Treasure
Chapter I - Doctor Mary's Paying Guest
*
"Just in time, wasn't it?" asked Mary Arkroyd.
"Two days before the—the ceremony! Mercifully it had all been kept veryquiet, because it was only three months since poor Gilly was killed. Iforget whether you ever met Gilly? My half-brother, you know?"
"Only once—in Collingham Gardens. He had an exeat , and dashed in oneSaturday morning when we were just finishing our work. Don't youremember?"
"Yes, I think I do. But since my engagement I'd gone into colors. Oh, ofcourse I've gone back into mourning now! And everything wasready—settlements and so on, you know. And rooms taken at Bournemouth.And then it all came out!"
"How?"
"Well, Eustace—Captain Cranster, I mean. Oh, I think he really must havehad shell-shock, as he said, even though the doctor seemed to doubt it!He gave the Colonel as a reference in some shop, and—and the bankwouldn't pay the check. Other checks turned up, too, and in the end thepolice went through his papers, and found letters from—well, from her,you know. From Bogota. South America, isn't it? He'd lived there tenyears, you know, growing something—beans, or coffee, or coffee-beans, orsomething—I don't know what. He tried to say the marriage wasn'tbinding, but the Colonel—wasn't it providential that the Colonel washome on leave? Mamma could never have grappled with it! The Colonel wassure it was, and so were the lawyers."
"What happened then?"
"The great thing was to keep it quiet. Now, wasn't it? And there was theshell-shock—or so Eustace—Captain Cranster, I mean—said, anyhow. So,on the Colonel's advice, Mamma squared the check business and—and theygave him twenty-four hours to clear out. Papa—I call the Colonel Papa,you know, though he's really my stepfather—used a little influence, Ithink. Anyhow it was managed. I never saw him again, Mary."
"Poor dear! Was it very bad?"
"Yes! But—suppose we had been married! Mary, where should I have been?"
Mary Arkroyd left that problem alone. "Were you very fond of him?"she asked.
"Awfully!" Cynthia turned up to her friend pretty blue eyes suffused intears. "It was the end of the world to me. That there could be such men!I went to bed. Mamma could do nothing with me. Oh, well, she wrote to youabout all that."
"She told me you were in a pretty bad way."
"I was just desperate! Then one day—in bed—the thought of you came. Itseemed an absolute inspiration. I remembered the card you sent on mylast birthday—you've never forgotten my birthdays, though it's yearssince we met—with your new address here—and your 'Doctor,' and all theletters after your name! I thought it rather funny." A faint smile, thefirst since Miss Walford's arrival at Inkston, probably the first sinceCaptain Eustace Cranster's shell-shock had wrought catastrophe—appearedon her lips. "How I waited for your answer! You don't mind having me, doyou, dear? Mamma insisted on suggesting the P.G. arrangement. I wasafraid you'd shy at it."
"Not a bit! I should have liked to have you anyhow, but I can make youmuch more comfortable with the P.G. money. And your maid too—she looksas if she was accustomed to the best! By the way, need she be quite sotearful? She's more tearful than you are yourself."
"Jeanne's very, very fond of me," Cynthia murmured reproachfully.
"Oh, well get her out of that," said Mary briskly. "The tears, I mean,not the fondness. I'm very fond of you myself. Six years ago you were acharming kitten, and I used to enjoy being your 'visiting governess'—tosay nothing of finding the guineas very handy while I was waiting toqualify. You're rather like a kitten still, one of those blue-eyedones—Siamese, aren't they?—with close fur and a wondering look. But youmustn't mew down here, and you must have lots of milk and cream. Even ifrations go on, I can certify all the extras for you. That's the good ofbeing a doctor!" She laughed cheerfully as she took a cigarette from themantelpiece and lit it.
Cynthia, on the other hand, began to sob prettily and not in a noisyfashion, yet evidently heading towards a bout of grief. Moreover, nosooner had the first sound of lamentation escaped from her lips, than thedoor was opened smartly and a buxom girl, in lady's maid uniform, rushedin, darted across the room, and knelt by Cynthia, sobbing also andexclaiming, "Oh, my poor Mees Cynthia!"
Mary smiled in a humorous contempt.
"Stop this!" she commanded rather brusquely. "You've not been deceivedtoo, 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 stoppedsobbing and rose slowly to her feet.
"Don't listen outside the door. You must have been listening. Wait tillyou're rung for. Miss Cynthia will be all right with me. We're going fora walk. Take her upstairs and put her hat on her, and a thick coat; it'scold and going to rain, I think."
"A walk, Mary?" Cynthia's sobs stopped, to make way for this protest. Thedescription 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 minutesto get ready, Cynthia!" She was ready for the weather herself, in thestout coat and skirt and weather-proof hat in which she had driven thetwo-seater on her round that morning.
The disconsolate pair drifted ruefully from the room, though Jeanne didrecollect to take the chocolates. Doctor Mary stood looking down at thefire, her lips still shaped in that firm, wise, and philosophical smilewith which doctors and nurses—and indeed, sometimes, anybody who happensto be feeling pretty well himself—console, or exasperate, sufferinghumanity. "A very good thing the poor silly child did come to me!" Thatwas the form her thoughts took. For although Dr. Mary Arkroyd was, andknew herself to be, no dazzling genius at her profession—in moments ofcandor she would speak of having "scraped through" her qualifyingexaminations—she had a high opinion of her own common sense and herpower of guiding weaker mortals.
For all that Jeanne's cheek bulged with a chocolate, there was openresentment on her full, pouting lips, and a hint of the same feeling inCynthia's still liquid eyes, when mistress and maid came downstairsagain. Without heeding these signs, Mary drew on her gauntlets, took herwalking-stick, and flung the hall door open. A rush of cold wind filledthe little hall. Jeanne shivered ostentatiously; Cynthia sighed andmuffled herself deeper in her fur collar. "A good walking day!" said Marydecisively.
Up to now, Inkston had not impressed Cynthia Walford very favorably. Itwas indeed a mixed kind of a place. Like many villages which lie near toLondon and have been made, by modern developments, more accessible thanonce they were, it showed chronological strata in its buildings. Down bythe station all was new, red, suburban. Mounting the tarred road, thewayfarer bore slightly to the right along the original village street;bating the aggressive "fronts" of one or two commercial innovators, thiswas old, calm, serene, gray in tone and restful, ornamented by three orfour good class Georgian houses, one quite fine, with well wrought irongates (this was Dr. Irechester's); turning to the right again, but moresharply, the wayfarer found himself once more in villadom, but avilladom more ornate, more costly, with gardens to be measured inacres—or nearly. This was Hinton Avenue (Hinton because it was themaiden 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, whilethe road, turning again, ran across an open heath, and pursued its wayto Sprotsfield, four miles distant, a place of greater size where allamenities could be found.
It was along this road that the friends now walked, Mary setting a briskpace. "When once you've turned your back on the Avenue, it's heapsbetter," she said. "Might be real country, looking this way, mightn't it?Except the Naylors' place—Oh, and Tower Cottage—there are no housesbetween this and Sprotsfield."
The wind blew shrewdly, with an occasional spatter of rain; the witheredbracken lay like a vast carpet