The Man in the Brown Suit Read Free Page A

reason for settling in Little Hampsley had been the neighbourhood of Hampsley Cavern, a buried cave rich in deposits of the Aurignacian culture. We had a tiny museum in the village, and the curator and Papa spent most of their days messing about underground and bringing to light portions of woolly rhinoceros and cave bear.
    Papa coughed badly all the evening, and the following morning I saw he had a temperature and sent for the doctor.
    Poor Papa, he never had a chance. It was double pneumonia. He died four days later.

Two
    E veryone was very kind to me. Dazed as I was, I appreciated that. I felt no overwhelming grief. Papa had never loved me. I knew that well enough. If he had, I might have loved him in return. No, there had not been love between us, but we had belonged together, and I had looked after him, and had secretly admired his learning and his uncompromising devotion to science. And it hurt me that Papa should have died just when the interest of life was at its height for him. I should have felt happier if I could have buried him in a cave, with paintings of reindeer and flint implements, but the force of public opinion constrained a neat tomb (with marble slab) in our hideous local churchyard. The vicar’s consolations, though well-meant, did not console me in the least.
    It took some time to dawn upon me that the thing I had always longed for—freedom—was at last mine. I was an orphan, and practically penniless, but free. At the same time I realized the extraordinary kindness of all these good people. The vicar did his best to persuade me that his wife was in urgent need of a companion help. Our tiny local library suddenly made up its mind to have an assistant librarian. Finally, the doctor called upon me, and after making various ridiculous excuses for failing to send a proper bill, he hummed and hawed a good deal and suddenly suggested I should marry him.
    I was very much astonished. The doctor was nearer forty than thirty and a round, tubby little man. He was not at all like the hero of “The Perils of Pamela,” and even less like the stern and silent Rhodesian. I reflected a minute and then asked why he wanted to marry me. That seemed to fluster him a good deal, and he murmured that a wife was a great help to a general practitioner. The position seemed even more unromantic than before, and yet something in me urged towards its acceptance. Safety, that was what I was being offered. Safety—and a Comfortable Home. Thinking it over now, I believe I did the little man an injustice. He was honestly in love with me, but a mistaken delicacy prevented him from pressing his suit on those lines. Anyway, my love of romance rebelled.
    â€œIt’s extremely kind of you,” I said. “But it’s impossible. I could never marry a man unless I loved him madly.”
    â€œYou don’t think—?”
    â€œNo, I don’t,” I said firmly.
    He sighed.
    â€œBut, my dear child, what do you propose to do?”
    â€œHave adventures and see the world,” I replied, without the least hesitation.
    â€œMiss Anne, you are very much a child still. You don’t understand—”
    â€œThe practical difficulties? Yes, I do, doctor. I’m not a sentimental schoolgirl—I’m a hardheaded mercenary shrew! You’d know it if you married me!”
    â€œI wish you would reconsider—”
    â€œI can’t.”
    He sighed again.
    â€œI have another proposal to make. An aunt of mine who lives in Wales is in want of a young lady to help her. How would that suit you?”
    â€œNo, doctor, I’m going to London. If things happen anywhere, they happen in London. I shall keep my eyes open and, you’ll see, something will turn up! You’ll hear of me next in China or Timbuctoo.”
    My next visitor was Mr. Flemming, Papa’s London solicitor. He came down specially from town to see me. An ardent anthropologist himself, he was a great admirer