THE RED PLANET

BY

WILLIAM J. LOCKE

AUTHOR OF "THE WONDERFUL YEAR, " "JAFFERY, " "THE BELOVED VAGABOND, " ETC. 

 Not only over death strewn plains, Fierce mid the cold white stars, But over sheltered vales of home, Hides the Red Planet Mars. 

THE RED PLANET

CHAPTER I

"Lady Fenimore's compliments, sir, and will you be so kind as to stepround to Sir Anthony at once?"

Heaven knows that never another step shall I take in this world again;but Sergeant Marigold has always ignored the fact. That is one of themany things I admire about Marigold. He does not throw my poorparalysed legs, so to speak, in my face. He accepts them as the normalequipment of an employer. I don't know what I should do withoutMarigold. .. . You see we were old comrades in the South African War, where we both got badly knocked to pieces. He was Sergeant in mybattery, and the same Boer shell did for both of us. At times we joinin cursing that shell heartily, but I am not sure that we do not holdit in sneaking affection. It initiated us into the brotherhood ofdeath. Shortly afterwards when we had crossed the border-line back intolife, we exchanged, as tokens, bits of the shrapnel which they hadextracted from our respective carcases. I have not enquired what he didwith his bit; but I keep mine in a certain locked drawer. .. . There wereonly the two of us left on the gun when we were knocked out. .. . Ishould like to tell you the whole story, but you wouldn't listen to me. And no wonder. In comparison with the present world convulsion in whichthe slaughtered are reckoned by millions, the Boer War seems a trumperyaffair of bows and arrows. I am a back-number. Still, back-numbers havetheir feelings--and their memories. 

I sometimes wonder, as I sit in this wheel-chair, with my abominablelegs dangling down helplessly, what Sergeant Marigold thinks of me. Iknow what I think of Marigold. I think him the ugliest devil that Godever created and further marred after creating him. He is a long, bonycreature like a knobbly ram-rod, and his face is about the colour andshape of a damp, mildewed walnut. To hide a bald head into which asilver plate has been fixed, he wears a luxuriant curly brown wig, likethose that used to adorn waxen gentlemen in hair-dressing windows. Hisis one of those unhappy moustaches that stick out straight and scantylike a cat's. He has the slit of a letter-box mouth of the Irishman incaricature, and only half a dozen teeth spaced like a skeleton company. Nothing will induce him to procure false ones. It is a matter ofprinciple. Between the wearing of false hair and the wearing of falseteeth he makes a distinction of unfathomable subtlety. He is anobstinate beast. If he wasn't he would not, with four fingers of hisright hand shot away, have remained with me on that gun. In the sameway, neither tears nor entreaties nor abuse have induced him to wear aglass eye. On high days and holidays, whenever he desires to look smartand dashing, he covers the unpleasing orifice with a black shade. Inordinary workaday life he cares not how much he offends the aestheticsense. But the other eye, the sound left eye, is a wonder--the preciousjewel set in the head of the ugly toad. It is large, of ultra-marineblue, steady, fearless, humorous, tender--everything heroic andbeautiful and romantic you can imagine about eyes. Let him clap a handover that eye and you will hold him the most dreadful ogre that everescaped out of a fairy tale. Let him clap a hand over the other eye andlook full at you out of the good one and you will think him theKnightliest man that ever was--and in my poor opinion, you would not befar wrong. 

So, out of this nightmare of a face, the one beautiful eye of SergeantMarigold was bent on me, as he delivered his message. 

I thrust back my chair from the writing-table. 

"Is Sir Anthony ill?"

"He rode by the gate an hour ago looking as well as either you or me, sir. "

"That's not very reassuring, " said I. 

Marigold did not take up the argument. "They've sent the car for you, sir. "

"In that case, " said I, "I'll start immediately. "

Marigold wheeled my chair out of the room and down the passage to thehall, where he fitted me with greatcoat and hat. Then, having trundledme to the front gate, he picked me up--luckily I have always been asmall spare man--and deposited me in the car. I am always nervous ofanyone but Marigold trying to carry me. They seem to stagger and fumbleand bungle. Marigold's arms close round me like an iron clamp and theylift me with the mechanical certainty of a crane. 

He jumped up beside the chauffeur and we drove off. 

Perhaps when I get on a little further I may acquire the trick oftelling a story. At present I am baffled by the many things thatclamour for prior record. Before bringing Sir Anthony on the scene, Ifeel I ought to say something more about myself, to explain why LadyFenimore should have sent for me in so peremptory a fashion. Followingthe model of my favourite author Balzac--you need the awful leisurethat has been mine to appreciate him--I ought to describe the house inwhich I live, my establishment--well, I have begun with SergeantMarigold--and the little country town which is practically the scene ofthe drama in which were involved so many bound to me by close ties offriendship and affection. 

I ought to explain how I come to be writing this at all. 

Well, to fill in my time, I first started by a diary--a sort of WarDiary of Wellingsford, the little country town in question. Then thingshappened with which my diary was inadequate to cope. Everyone came andtold me his or her side of the story. All through, I found thrust uponme the parts of father-confessor, intermediary, judge, advocate, andconspirator. .. . For look you, what kind of a life can a man leadsituated as I am? The crowning glory of my days, my wife, is dead. Ihave neither chick nor child. No brothers or sisters, dead or alive. The Bon Dieu and Sergeant Marigold (the latter assisted by his wife anda maid or two) look after my creature comforts. What have I in theworld to do that is worth doing save concern myself with my country andmy friends?

With regard to my country, in these days of war, I do what I can. Untilfinally flattened out by the War Office, I pestered them for suchemployment as a cripple might undertake. As an instance of what aparalytic was capable I quoted Couthon, member of the NationalConvention and the Committee of Public Safety. You can see his chair, not very unlike mine, in the Musee Carnavalet in Paris. Perhaps that iswhere I blundered. The idea of a shrieking revolutionary in Whitehallmust have sent a cold shiver down their spines. In the meanwhile, Iserve on as many War Committees in Wellingsford as is physicallypossible for Sergeant Marigold to get me into. I address recruitingmeetings. I have taken earnest young Territorial artillery officers incourses of gunnery. You know they work with my own beloved old fifteenpounders, brought up to date with new breeches, recoils, shields, andlimbers. For months there was a brigade in Wellings Park, and I used towatch their drill. I was like an old actor coming once again before thefootlights. .. . Of course it was only in the mathematics of the businessthat I could be of any help, and doubtless if the War Office had heardof the goings on in my study, they would have dropped severely on allof us. Still, I taught them lots of things about parabolas that theydid not know and did not know were to be known--things that, considering the shells they fired went in parabolas, ought certainly tobe known by artillery officers; so I think, in this way, I have done alittle bit for my country. 

With regard to my friends, God has given me many in this quiet markettown--once a Sleepy Hollow awakened only on Thursdays by bleating sheepand lowing cattle and red-faced men in gaiters and hard felt hats; itslife flowing on drowsily as the gaudily painted barges that are towedon the canal towards which, in scattered buildings, it driftsaimlessly; a Sleepy Hollow with one broad High Street, meltinggradually at each end through shops, villas, cottages, into the King'sHighway, yet boasting in its central heart a hundred yards or so ofsplendour, where the truculent new red brick Post Office sneers acrossthe flagged market square at the new Portland-stone Town Hall, whilethe old thatched corn-market sleeps in the middle and the Early Englishspire of the Norman church dreams calmly above them. Once, I say, aSleepy Hollow, but now alive with the tramp of soldiers and the rumbleof artillery and transport; for Wellingsford is the centre of adistrict occupied by a division, which means twenty thousand men of allarms, and the streets and roads swarm with men in khaki, and troops arebilleted in all the houses. The War has changed many aspects, but notmy old friendships. I had made a home here during my soldiering days, long before the South African War, my wife being a kinswoman of SirAnthony, and so I have grown into the intimacy of many folks around. And, as they have been more than good to me, surely I must give them ofmy best in the way of sympathy and counsel. So it is in no spirit ofcuriosity that I have pried into my friends' affairs. They have becomemy own, very vitally my own; and this book is a record of things as Iknow them to have happened. 

My name is Meredyth, with a "Y, " as my poor mother used proudly to say, though what advantage a "Y" has over an "I, " save that of a swaggeringtail, I have always been at a loss to determine; Major Duncan Meredyth, late R. F. A. , aged forty-seven; and I live in a comfortable little houseat the extreme north end of the High Street, standing some way backfrom the road; so that in fine weather I can sit in my front garden andwatch everybody going into the town. And whenever any of my friendspass by, it is their kindly habit to cast an eye towards my gate, and, if I am visible, to pass the time of day with me for such time as theycan spare. 

Years ago, when first I realised what would be my fate for the rest ofmy life, I nearly broke my heart. But afterwards, whether owing to thepower of human adaptability or to the theory of compensation, I grew todisregard my infirmity. By building a series of two or three rooms onto the ground floor of the house, so that I could live in it withoutthe need of being carried up and down stairs, and by acquiring skill inthe manipulation of my tricycle chair, I can get about the place prettymuch as I choose. And Marigold is my second self. So, in spite of thesorrow and grief incident to humanity of which God has given me myshare, I feel that my lot is cast in pleasant places and I am thankful. 

The High Street, towards its southern extremity, takes a sudden bend, forming what the French stage directions call a pan coupe. On the innerangle are the gates of Wellings Park, the residence of Sir AnthonyFenimore, third baronet, and the most considerable man in our littlecommunity. Through these gates the car took me and down the long avenueof chestnut trees, the pride of a district braggart of its chestnutsand its beeches, but now leafless and dreary, spreading out an infinitetracery of branch and twig against a grey February sky. Thence weemerged into the open of rolling pasture and meadow on the highestground of which the white Georgian house was situated. As we neared thehouse I shivered, not only with the cold, but with a premonition ofdisaster. For why should Lady Fenimore have sent for me to see SirAnthony, when he, strong and hearty, could have sent for me himself, or, for the matter of that, could have visited me at my own home? Thehouse looked stark and desolate. And when we drew up at the front doorand Pardoe, the elderly butler, appeared, his face too looked stark anddesolate. 

Marigold lifted me out and carried me up the steps and put me into achair like my own which the Fenimores have the goodness to keep in ahall cupboard for my use. 

"What's the matter, Pardoe?" I asked. 

"Sir Anthony and her ladyship will tell you, sir. They're in themorning room. "

So I was shewn into the morning room--a noble square room with Frenchwindows, looking on to the wintry garden, and with a log fire roaringup a great chimney. On one side of the fire sat Sir Anthony, and on theother, Lady Fenimore. And both were crying. He rose as he saw me--ashort, crop-haired, clean-shaven, ruddy, jockey-faced man offifty-five, the corners of his thin lips, usually curled up in a cheerysmile, now piteously drawn down, and his bright little eyes now dimlike those of a dead bird. She, buxom, dark, without a grey hair in herhead, a fine woman defying her years, buried her face in her hands andsobbed afresh. 

"It's good of you to come, old man, " said Sir Anthony, "but you're init with us. "

He handed me a telegram. I knew, before reading it, what message itcontained. I had known, all along, but dared not confess it to myself. 

"I deeply regret to inform you that your son, Lieutenant OswaldFenimore, was killed in action yesterday while leading his men with theutmost gallantry. "

I had known him since he was a child. By reason of my wife's kinship, Iwas "Uncle Duncan. " He was just one and twenty, but a couple of yearsout of Sandhurst. Only a week before I had received an exuberant letterfrom him extolling his men as "super-devil-angels, " and imploring me ifI loved him and desired to establish the supremacy of British arms, tosend him some of Mrs. Marigold's potted shrimp. 

And now, there he was dead; and, if lucky, buried with a little woodencross with his name rudely inscribed, marking his grave. 

I reached out my hand. 

"My poor old Anthony!"

He jerked his head and glance towards his wife and wheeled me to herside, so that I could put my hand on her shoulder. 

"It's bitter hard, Edith, but--"

"I know, I know. But all the same--"

"Well, damn it all!" cried Sir Anthony, in a quavering voice, "he diedlike a man and there's nothing more to be said. "

Presently he looked at his watch. 

"By George, " said he, "I've only just time to get to my Committee. "

"What Committee?" I asked. 

"The Lord Lieutenant's. I promised to take the chair. "

For the first time Lady Fenimore lifted her stricken face. 

"Are you going, Anthony?"

"The boy didn't shirk his duty. Why should I?"

She looked at him squarely and the most poignant simulacrum of a smileI have ever seen flitted over her lips. 

"Why not, darling? Duncan will keep me company till you come back. "

He kissed his wife, a trifle more demonstratively than he had ever donein alien presence, and with a nod at me, went out of the room. 

And suddenly she burst into sobbing again. 

"I know it's wrong and wicked and foolish, " she said brokenly. "But Ican't help it. Oh, God! I can't help it. "

Then, like an ass, I began to cry, too; for I loved the boy, and thatperhaps helped her on a bit. 

CHAPTER II

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. The tag has been all but outwornduring these unending days of death; it has become almost a cant phrasewhich the judicious shrink from using. Yet to hundreds of thousands ofmourning men and women there has been nothing but its truth to bringconsolation. They are conscious of the supreme sacrifice and therebyare ennobled. The cause in which they made it becomes more sacred. Thecommunity of grief raises human dignity. In England, at any rate, thereare no widows of Ashur. All are silent in their lamentations. You seelittle black worn in the public ways. The Fenimores mourned for theironly son, the idol of their hearts; but the manifestation of theirgrief was stoical compared with their unconcealed desolation on theoccasion of a tragedy that occurred the year before. 

Towards the end of the preceding June their only daughter, Althea, hadbeen drowned in the canal. Here was a tragedy unrelieved, stupid, useless. Here was no consoling knowledge of glorious sacrifice; nodying for one's country. There was no dismissing it with a heroic wordthat caught in the throat. 

I have not started out to write this little chronicle of Wellingsfordin order to weep over the pain of the world. God knows there is in itan infinity of beauty, fresh revelations of which are being every dayunfolded before my eyes. 

If I did not believe with all my soul that out of Darkness comethLight, I would take my old service revolver from its holster and blowout my brains this very minute. The eternal laughter of the earth hasever since its creation pierced through the mist of tears in which attimes it has been shrouded. What has been will be. Nay, more, what hasbeen shall be. It is the Law of what I believe to be God. .. . As aconcrete instance, where do you find a fuller expression of the divinegaiety of the human spirit than in the Houses of Pain, strewn thelength and breadth of the land, filled with maimed and shattered menwho have looked into the jaws of Hell? If it comes to that, I havelooked into them myself, and have heard the heroic jests of men wholooked with me. 

For some years up to the outbreak of the war which has knocked allso-called modern values silly, my young friends, with a certainrespectful superciliousness, regarded me as an amiable personhopelessly out of date. Now that we are at grip with elementals, I findmyself, if anything, in advance of the fashion. This, however, by theway. What I am clumsily trying to explain is that if I am to make thisstory intelligible I must start from the darkness where its roots liehidden. And that darkness is the black depths of the canal by the lockgates where Althea Fenimore's body was found. 

It was high June, in leafy England, in a world at peace. Can onepicture it? With such a wrench of memory does one recall scenes oftender childhood. In the shelter of a stately house lived AltheaFenimore. She was twenty-one; pretty, buxom, like her mother, modern, with (to me) a pathetic touch of mid-Victorian softness andsentimentality; independent in outward action, what we call "open-air";yet an anomaly, fond at once of games and babies. I have seen her inthe morning tearing away across country by the side of her father, themost passionate and reckless rider to hounds in the county, and in theevening I have come across her, a pretty mass of pink flesh andmuslin--no, it can't be muslin--say chiffon--anyhow, something whiteand filmy and girlish--curled up on a sofa and absorbed in a novel ofMrs. Henry Wood, borrowed, if one could judge by the state of itsgreasy brown paper cover, from the servants' hall. I confess that, though to her as to her brother I was "Uncle Duncan, " and loved her asa dear, sweet English girl, I found her lacking in spirituality, inintellectual grasp, in emotional distinction. I should have said thatshe was sealed by God to be the chaste, healthy, placid mother of men. She was forever laughing--just the spontaneous laughter of the gladnessof life. 

On the last afternoon of her existence she came to see me, bringing mea basket of giant strawberries from her own particular bed. We had teain the garden, and with her young appetite she consumed half the fruitshe had brought. At the time I did not notice an unusual touch ofdepression. I remember her holding by its stalk a great half-eatenstrawberry and asking me whether sometimes I didn't find life ratherrotten. I said idly:

"You can't expect the world to be a peach without a speck on it. Ofsuch is the Kingdom of Heaven. The wise person avoids the specks. "

"But suppose you've bitten a specky bit by accident?"

"Spit it out, " said I. 

She laughed. "You think you're like the wise Uncle in the Sunday Schoolbooks, don't you?"

"I know I am, " I said. 

Whereupon she laughed again, finished the strawberry, and changed theconversation. 

There seemed to be no foreshadowing of tragedy in that. I had known her(like many of her kind) to proclaim the rottenness of the Universe whenshe was off her stroke at golf, or when a favourite young man did notappear at a dance. I attributed no importance to it. But the next day Iremembered. What was she doing after half-past ten o'clock, when shehad bidden her father and mother goodnight, on the steep and lonelybank of the canal, about a mile and a half away? No one had seen herleave the house. No one, apparently, had seen her walking through thetown. Nothing was known of her until dawn when they found her body bythe lock gate. She had been dead some hours. It was a mysteriousaffair, upon which no light was thrown at the inquest. No one savemyself had observed any sign of depression, and her half-bantering talkwith me was trivial enough. No one could adduce a reason for hermidnight walk on the tow-path. The obvious question arose. Whom had shegone forth to meet? What man? There was not a man in the neighbourhoodwith whom her name could be particularly associated. Generally, itcould be associated with a score or so. The modern young girl of herposition and upbringing has a drove of young male intimates. With oneshe rides, with another she golfs, with another she dances a two-step, with another she Bostons; she will let Tom read poetry to her, although, as she expresses it, "he bores her stiff, " because her sexresponds to the tribute; she plays lady patroness to Dick, and tries tointrigue him into a soft job; and as for Harry she goes on telling himmonth after month that unless he forswears sack and lives cleanly shewill visit him with her high displeasure. Meanwhile, most of thesesatellites have affaires de coeur of their own, some respectable, others not; they regard the young lady with engaging frankness as awoman and a sister, they have the run of her father's house, and wouldfeel insulted if anybody questioned the perfect correctness of theirbehaviour. Each man has, say, half a dozen houses where he is welcomedon the same understanding. Of course, when one particular young man andone particular young woman read lunatic things in each other's eyes, then the rest of the respective quasi-sisters and quasi-brothers haveto go hang. (In parenthesis, I may state that the sisters are moreruthlessly sacrificed than the brothers. ) At any rate, frankness is thesaving quality of the modern note. 

In the case of Althea, there had been no sign of such specialisation. She could not have gone forth, poor child, to meet the twenty with whomshe was known to be on terms of careless comradeship. She had gone fromher home, driven by God knows what impulse, to walk in thestarlight--there was no moon--along the banks of the canal. In thedarkness, had she missed her footing and stepped into nothingness andthe black water? The Coroner's Jury decided the question in theaffirmative. They brought in a verdict of death by misadventure. And upto the date on which I begin this little Chronicle of Wellingsford, namely that of the summons to Wellings Park, when I heard of the deathof young Oswald Fenimore, that is all I knew of the matter. 

Throughout July my friends were like dead people. There was nothingthat could be said to them by way of consolation. The sun had gone outof their heaven. There was no light in the world. Having known Death asa familiar foe, and having fought against its terrors; having only bythe grace of God been able to lift up a man's voice in my hour of awfulbereavement, and cry, "O Death, where is thy sting, O Grave, thyVictory?" I could suffer with them and fear for their reason. Theylived in a state of coma, unaware of life, performing, like automata, their daily tasks. 

Then, in the early days of August, came the Trumpet of War, and theyawakened. In my life have I seen nothing so marvellous. No broken spellof enchantment in an Arabian tale when dead warriors spring into lifewas ever more instant and complete. They arose in their full vigour;the colour came back to their cheeks and the purpose into their eyes. They laughed once more. Their days were filled with work andcheerfulness. In November Sir Anthony was elected Mayor. Being apractical, hard-headed little man, loved and respected by everybody, hedrove a hitherto contentious Town Council into paths of high patriotismlike a flock of sheep. And no less energy did Lady Fenimore exhibit inthe sphere of her own activities. 

A few days after the tidings came of Oswald's death, Sir Anthony wasriding through the town and pulled up before Perkins' the fishmonger's. Perkins emerged from his shop and crossed the pavement. 

"I hear you've had bad news. "

"Yes, indeed, Sir Anthony. "

"I'm sorry. He was a fine fellow. So was my boy. We're in the sameboat, Perkins. "

Perkins assented. "It sort of knocks one's life to bits, doesn't it?"said he. "We've nothing left. "

"We have our country. "

"Our country isn't our only son, " said the other dully. 

"No. She's our mother, " said Sir Anthony. 

"Isn't that a kind of abstraction?"

"Abstraction!" cried Sir Anthony, indignantly. "You must be imbibingthe notions of that poisonous beast Gedge. "

Gedge was a smug, socialistic, pacifist builder who did not hold withwar--and with this one least of all, which he maintained was beingwaged for the exclusive benefit of the capitalist classes. In the eyesof the stalwarts of Wellingsford, he was a horrible fellow, capable ofany stratagem or treason. 

Perkins flushed. "I've always voted conservative, like my father beforeme, Sir Anthony, and like yourself I've given my boy to my country. I've no dealings with unpatriotic people like Gedge, as you know verywell. "

"Of course I do, " cried Sir Anthony. "And that's why I ask you what thedevil you mean by calling England an abstraction. For us, she's theonly thing in the world. We're elderly chaps, you and I, Perkins, andthe only thing we can do to help her is to keep our heads high. Ifpeople like you and me crumple up, the British Empire will crumple up. "

"That's quite true, " said Perkins. 

Sir Anthony bent down and held out his hand. 

"It's damned hard lines for us, and for the women. But we must keep ourend up. It's doing our bit. "

Perkins wrung his hand. "I wish to God, " said he, "I was young enough--"

"By God! so do I!" said Sir Anthony. 

This little conversation (which I afterwards verified) was reported tome by my arch-gossip, Sergeant Marigold. 

"And I tell you what, sir, " said he after the conclusion, "I'm of thesame way of thinking and feeling. "

"So am I. "

"Besides, I'm not so old, sir. I'm only forty-two. "

"The prime of life, " said I. 

"Then why won't they take me, sir?"

If there had been no age limit and no medical examination Marigoldwould have re-enlisted as John Smith, on the outbreak of war, without amoment's consideration of the position of his wife and myself. And Mrs. Marigold, a soldier's wife of twenty years' standing, would have takenit, just like myself, as a matter of course. But as he could notre-enlist, he pestered the War Office (just as I did) and I pesteredfor him to give him military employment. And all in vain. 

"Why don't they take me, sir? When I see these fellows with threestripes on their arms, and looking at them and wondering at them as ifthey were struck three stripes by lightning, and calling themselvesSergeants and swanking about and letting their men waddle up to theirgun like cows--and when I see them, as I've done with your eyes--watchone of their men pass by an officer in the street without saluting, anddon't kick the blighter to--to--to barracks--it fairly makes me sick. And I ask myself, sir, what I've done that I should be loafing hereinstead of serving my country. "

"You've somehow mislaid an eye and a hand and gone and got a tin head. That's what you've done, " said I. "And the War Office has a markagainst you as a damned careless fellow. "

"Tin head or no tin head, " he grumbled, "I could teach those mother'sdarlings up there the difference between a battery of artillery and askittle-ally. "

"I believe you've mentioned the matter to them already, " I observedsoftly. 

Marigold met my eye for a second and then looked rather sheepish. I hadheard of a certain wordy battle between him and a Territorial Sergeantwhom he had set out to teach. Marigold encountered a cannonade ofblasphemous profanity, new, up-to-date, scientific, against which thetime-worn expletives in use during his service days were ineffectual. He was routed with heavy loss. 

"This is a war of the young, " I continued. "New men, new guns, newnotions. Even a new language, " I insinuated. 

"I wish 'em joy of their language, " said Marigold. Then seeing that Iwas mildly amusing myself at his expense, he asked me stiffly if therewas anything more that he could do for me, and on my saying no, hereplied "Thank you, sir, " most correctly and left the room. 

On the 3d of March Betty Fairfax came to tea. 

Of all the young women of Wellingsford she was my particular favourite. She was so tall and straight, with a certain Rosalind boyishness abouther that made for charm. I am not yet, thank goodness, one of thefossils who hold up horror-stricken hands at the independent ways ofthe modern young woman. If it were not for those same independent waysthe mighty work that English women are doing in this war would be leftundone. Betty Fairfax was breezily independent. She had a little moneyof her own and lived, when it suited her, with a well-to-do andcomfortable aunt. She was two and twenty. I shall try to tell you moreabout her, as I go on. 

As I have said, and as my diary tells me, she came to tea on the 3d ofMarch. She was looking particularly attractive that afternoon. Shadedlamps and the firelight of a cosy room, with all their soft shadows, give a touch of mysterious charm to a pretty girl. Her jacket had ahigh sort of Medici collar edged with fur, which set off her shapelythroat. The hair below her hat was soft and brown. Her brows were wide, her eyes brown and steady, nose and lips sensitive. She had a way ofthrowing back her head and pointing her chin fearlessly, as though inperpetual declaration that she cared not a hang either forblack-beetles or Germans. And she was straight as a dart, with thefigure of a young Diana--Diana before she began to worry her head aboutbeauty competitions. A kind of dark hat stuck at a considerable angleon her head gave her the prettiest little swaggering air in theworld. .. . Well, there was I, a small, brown, withered, grizzled, elderly, mustachioed monkey, chained to my wheel-chair; there were thebrave logs blazing up the wide chimney; there was the tea table on myright with its array of silver and old china; and there, on the otherside of it, attending to my wants, sat as brave and sweet a type ofyoung English womanhood as you could find throughout the length andbreadth of the land. Had I not been happy, I should have been anungrateful dog. 

We talked of the war, of local news, of the wounded at the hospital. 

And here I must say that we are very proud of our WellingsfordHospital. It is the largest and the wealthiest in the county. We owe itto the uneasy conscience of a Wellingsford man, a railway speculator inthe forties, who, having robbed widows and orphans and, after trial atthe Old Bailey, having escaped penal servitude by the skin of histeeth, died in the odour of sanctity, and the possessor of a colossalfortune in the year eighteen sixty-three. This worthy gentleman builtthe hospital and endowed it so generously that a wing of it has beenturned into a military hospital with forty beds. I have the honour toserve on the Committee. Betty Fairfax entered as a Probationer early inSeptember, and has worked there night and day ever since. That is whywe chatted about the wounded. Having a day off, she had indulged in theluxury of pretty clothes. Of these I had duly expressed my admiration. 

Tea over, she lit a cigarette for me and one for herself and drew herchair a trifle nearer the fire. After a little knitting of the brow, she said:--

"You haven't asked me why I invited myself to tea. "

"I thought, " said I, "it was for my beaux yeux. "

"Not this time. I rather wanted you to be the first to receive acertain piece of information. "

I glanced at her sharply. "You don't mean to say you're going to bemarried at last?"

In some astonishment she retorted:--

"How did you guess?"

"Holy simplicity!" said I. "You told me so yourself. "

She laughed. Suddenly, on reflection, her face changed. 

"Why did you say 'at last'?"

"Well--" said I, with a significant gesture. 

She made a defiant announcement:--

"I am going to marry Willie Connor. "

It was my turn to be astonished. "Captain Connor?" I echoed. 

"Yes. What have you to say against him?"

"Nothing, my dear, nothing. "

And I hadn't. He was an exemplary young fellow, a Captain in aTerritorial regiment that had been in hard training in theneighbourhood since August. He was of decent family and upbringing, abarrister by profession, and a comely pink-faced boy with a fairmoustache. He brought a letter or two of introduction, was billeted onMrs. Fairfax, together with one of his subs, and was made welcome atvarious houses. Living under the same roof as Betty, it was naturalthat he should fall in love with her. But it was not at all naturalthat she should fall in love with him. She was not one of the kind thatsuffer fools gladly. .. . No; I had nothing against Willie Connor. He wasmerely a common-place, negative young man; patriotic, keen in his work, an excellent soldier, and, as far as I knew, of blameless life; buthaving met him two or three times in general company, I had found him adull dog, a terribly dull dog, --the last man in the world for BettyFairfax. 

And then there was Leonard Boyce. I naturally had him in my head, whenI used the words "at last. "

"You don't seem very enthusiastic, " said Betty. 

"You've taken me by surprise, " said I. "I'm not young enough to befamiliar with these sudden jerks. "

"You thought it was Major Boyce. "

"I did, Betty. True, you've said nothing about it to me for ever solong, and when I have asked you for news of him your answers haveshewed me that all was not well. But you've never told me, or anyone, that the engagement was broken off. "

Her young face was set sternly as she looked into the fire. 

"It's not broken off--in the formal sense. Leonard thought fit to letit dwindle, and it has dwindled until it has perished of inanition. "She flashed round. "I'm not the sort to ask any man for explanations. "

"Boyce went out with the first lot in August, " I said. "He has hadseven awful months. Mons and all the rest of it. You must excuse a manin the circumstances for not being aux petits soins des dames. And heseems to be doing magnificently--twice mentioned in dispatches. "

"I know all that, " she said. "I'm not a fool. But the war has nothingto do with it. It started a month before the war broke out. Don't letus talk of it. "

She threw the end of her cigarette into the fire and lit a fresh one. Iaccepted the action as symbolical. I dismissed Boyce, and said:--

"And so you're engaged to Captain Connor?"

"More than that, " she laughed. "I'm going to marry him. He's going outnext week. It's idiotic to have an engagement. So I'm going to marryhim the day after to-morrow. "

Now here was a piece of news, all flung at my head in a couple ofminutes. The day after to-morrow! I asked for the reason of thisdisconcerting suddenness. 

"He's going out next week. "

"My dear, " said I, "I have known you for a very long time--and Isuppose it's because I'm such a very old friend that you've come totell me all about it. So I can talk to you frankly. Have you consideredthe terrible chances of this war? Heaven knows what may happen. He maybe killed. "

"That's why I'm marrying him, " she said. 

There was a little pause. For the moment I had nothing to say, as I wasbusily searching for her point of view. Then, with pauses between eachsentence, she went on:--

"He asked me two months ago, and again a month ago. I told him to putsuch ideas out of his head. Yesterday he told me they were off to thefront and said what a wonderful help it would be to him if he couldcarry away some hope of my love. So I gave it to him. "--She threw backher head and looked at me, with flushed cheeks. "The love, not thehope. "

"I don't think it was right of him to press for an immediate marriage, "said I, in a grandfatherly way--though God knows if I had been mad fora girl I should have done the same myself when I was young. 

"He didn't" said Betty, coolly. "It was all my doing. I fixed it upthere and then. Looked up Whitaker's Almanack for the necessaryinformation, and sent him off to get a special license. "

I nodded a non-committal head. It all seemed rather mad. Betty rose andfrom her graceful height gazed down on me. 

"If you don't look more cheerful, Major, I shall cry. I've never doneso yet, but I'm sure I've got it in me. "

I stretched out my hand. She took it, and, still holding it, seatedherself on a footstool close to my chair. 

"There are such a lot of things that occur to me, " I said. "Things thatyour poor mother, if she were alive, would be more fitted to touch onthan myself. "

"Such as--"

She knelt by me and gave me both her hands. It was a pretty way shehad. She had begun it soon after her head overtopped mine in my eternalwheelbarrow. There was a little mockery in her eyes. 

"Well--" said I. "You know what marriage means. There is the questionof children. "

She broke into frank laughter. 

"My darling Majy--" That is the penalty one pays for admittingirresponsible modern young people into one's intimacy. They miscall oneabominably. I thought she had outgrown this childish, thoughaffectionate appellation of disrespect. "My darling Majy!" she said. "Children! How many do you think I'm going to have?"

I was taken aback. There was this pure, proud, laughing young face afoot away from me. I said in desperation:--

"You know very well what I mean, young woman. I want to put thingsclearly before you--" It is the most difficult thing in the world for aman--even without legs--to talk straight about the facts of life to ayoung girl. He has no idea how much she knows about them and how muchshe doesn't. To tear away veils and reveal frightening starkness is anact from which he shrinks with all the modesty of a (perhaps) deludedsex. I took courage. "I want, " I repeated, "to put things clearlybefore you. You are marrying this young man. You will have a week'smarried life. He goes away like a gallant fellow to fight for hiscountry. He may be killed in the course of the next few weeks. Like abrave girl you've got to face it. In the course of time a child may beborn--without a father to look after him. It's a terrificresponsibility. "

She knelt upright and put both her hands on my shoulders, almostembracing me, and the laughter died away from her eyes, giving place tosomething which awakened memories of what I had seen once or twice inthe eyes of the dearest of all women. She put her face very close tomine and whispered:

"Don't you see, dear, it's in some sort of way because of that? Don'tyou think it would be awful for a strong, clean, brave English lifelike his to go out without leaving behind him someone to--well, youknow what I mean--to carry on the same traditions--to be the same cleanbrave Englishman in the future?"

I smiled and nodded. Quite a different kind of nod from the previousone. 

"Thousands of girls are doing it, you dear old Early Victorian, andaren't ashamed to say so to those who really love and can understandthem. And you do love and understand, don't you?"

She set me off at arm's length, and held me with her bright unflinchingeyes. 

"I do, my dear, " said I. "But there's only one thing that troubles me. Marriage is a lifelong business. Captain Connor may win through to agreen old age. I hope to God the gallant fellow will. Your presentmotives are beautiful and heroic. But do you care for him sufficientlyto pass a lifetime with him--after the war--an ordinary, commonplacelifetime?"

With the same clear gaze full on me she said:--

"Didn't I tell you that I had given him my love?"

"You did. "

"Then, " she retorted with a smile, "my dear Major Didymus, what more doyou want?"

"Nothing, my dear Betty. "

I kissed her. She threw her arms round my neck and kissed me again. Sergeant Marigold entered on the sentimental scene and preserved a faceof wood. Betty rose to her feet slowly and serenely and smiled atMarigold. 

"Miss Fairfax's car, " he announced. 

"Marigold, " said I, "Miss Fairfax is going to be married the day afterto-morrow to Captain Connor of the--"

"I know, sir, " interrupted my one-eyed ramrod. "I'm very glad, if I maybe permitted to say so, Miss. I've made it my duty to inspect all thetroops that have been quartered hereabouts during the last eightmonths. And Captain Connor is one of the few that really know theirbusiness. I shouldn't at all mind to serve under him. I can't say more, Miss. I wish you happiness. "

She flushed and laughed and looked adorable, and held out her hand, which he enclosed in his great left fist. 

"And you'll come to my wedding, Sergeant?"

"I will, Miss, " said he. "With considerable pleasure. "

CHAPTER III

When I want to shew how independent I am of everybody, I drive abroadin my donkey carriage. I am rather proud of my donkey, a lithe-limbedpathetically eager little beast, deep bay with white tips to his ears. Marigold bought him for me last spring, from some gipsies, when hispredecessor, Dan, who had served me faithfully for some years, struckwork and insisted on an old-age pension. He is called Hosea, a namebestowed on him, by way of clerical joke, and I am sure with a profanereminiscence of Jorrocks, by the Vicar, because he "came after Daniel. "At first I thought it rather silly; but when I tried to pull him up Ifound that "Whoa-Ho-sea!" came in rather pat; so Hosea he has remained. He has quite a fast, stylish little trot, and I can square my elbowsand cock my head on one side as I did in the days of my youth when thebrief ownership of a tandem and a couple of thoroughbreds would havelanded me in the bankruptcy court, had it not mercifully first landedme in the hospital. 

The afternoon after Betty's visit, I took Hosea to Wellings Park. TheFenimores shewed me a letter they had received from Oswald's Colonel, full of praise of the gallant boy, and after discussing it, which theydid with brave eyes and voices, Sir Anthony said:--

"I want your advice, Duncan, on a matter that has been worrying usboth. Briefly it is this. When Oswald came of age I promised to allowhim a thousand a year till I should be wiped out and he should come in. Now I'm only fifty-five and as strong as a horse. I can reasonablyexpect to live, say, another twenty years. If Oswald were alive Ishould owe him, in prospectu, twenty thousand pounds. He has given hislife for his country. His country, therefore, is his heir, comes in forhis assets, his twenty years' allowance--"

"And the whole of your estate at your death?" I interposed. 

"No. Not at all, " said he. "At my death, it would have been his todispose of as he pleased. Up to my death, he would have had no moreclaim to deal with it than you have. Look at things from my point ofview, and don't be idiotic. I am considering my debt to Oswald, andtherefore, logically, my debt to the country. It is twenty thousandpounds. I'm going to pay it. The only question is--and the question haskept Edith and myself awake the last two nights--is what's the bestthing to do with it? Of course I could give it to some fund, --orseveral funds, --but it's a lot of money and I should like it to be usedto the best advantage. Now what do you say?"

"I say, " said I, "that you Croesuses make a half-pay Major ofArtillery's head reel. If I were like you, I should go into a shop andbuy a super-dreadnought, and stick a card on it with a drawing pin, andsend it to the Admiralty with my compliments. "

"Duncan, " said Lady Fenimore, severely, "don't be flippant. "

Heaven knows I was in no flippant mood; but it was worth a foolish jestto bring a smile to Sir Anthony's face. Also this grave, conscientiousproposition had its humorous side. It was so British. It reminded me ofthe story of Swift, who, when Gay and Pope visited him and refused tosup, totted up the cost of the meal and insisted on their acceptinghalf-a-crown apiece. It reminded me too of the rugged old Lancashirecommercial blood that was in him--blood that only shewed itself on therarest and greatest of occasions--the blood of his grandfather, theManchester cotton-spinner, who founded the fortunes of his house. SirAnthony knew less about cotton than he did about ballistics and hadnever sat at a desk in a business office for an hour in his life; butnow and again the inherited instinct to put high impulses on ascrupulously honest commercial basis asserted itself in the quaintestof fashions. 

"There's some sense in what he says, Edith, " remarked Sir Anthony. "It's only vanity that prompted us to ear-mark this sum for somethingspecial. "

"Vanity!" cried Lady Fenimore. "You weren't by any chance thinking ofadvertising our gift or contribution or whatever you like to call it inthe Daily Mail?"

"Heaven forbid, my dear, " Sir Anthony replied warmly; and he stood, hishands under his coat-tails and his gaitered legs apart, regarding herwith the air of a cock-sparrow accused of murdering his young, or asensitive jockey repudiating a suggestion of crooked riding. "Heavenforbid!" he repeated. "Such an idea never entered my head. "

"Then where does the vanity come in?" asked Lady Fenimore. 

They had their little argument. I lit a cigarette and let them argue. In such cases, every married couple has its own queer and private andparticular and idiosyncratic way of coming to an agreement. The thirdparty who tries to foist on it his own suggestion of a way is animbecile. The dispute on the point of vanity, charmingly conducted, ended by Sir Anthony saying triumphantly:--

"Well, my dear, don't you see I'm right?" and by his wife replying witha smile:--

"No, darling, I don't see at all. But since you feel like that, there'snothing more to be said. "

I was mildly enjoying myself. Perhaps I'm a bit of a cynic. I broke in. 

"I don't think it's vanity to see that you get your money's worth. There's lots of legitimate fun in spending twenty thousand poundsproperly. It's too big to let other people manage or mis-manage. Suppose you decided on motor-ambulances or hospital trains, forinstance, it would be your duty to see that you got the best and mostup-to-date ambulances or trains, with the least possible profits, tocontractors and middle-men. "

"As far as that goes, I think I know my way about, " said Sir Anthony. 

"Of course. And as for publicity--or the reverse, hiding your lightunder a bushel--any fool can remain anonymous. "

Sir Anthony nodded at me, rubbed his hands, and turned to his wife. 

"That's just what I was saying, Edith. "

"My dear, that is just what I was trying to make you understand. "

Neither of the two dear things had said, or given the other tounderstand, anything of the kind. But you see they had come in theirown quaint married way to an agreement and were now receptive ofcommonsense. 

"The motor ambulance is a sound idea, " said Sir Anthony, rubbing hischin between thumb and forefinger. 

"So is the hospital train, " said Lady Fenimore. 

What an idiot I was to suggest these alternatives! I looked at mywatch. It was getting late. Hosea, like a silly child, is afraid of thedark. He just stands still and shivers at the night, and the more he isbelaboured the more he shivers, standing stock-still with ears thrownback and front legs thrown forward. As I can't get out and pull, I'm atthe mercy of Hosea. And he knows it. Since the mount of Balaam, therewas never such an intelligent idiot of an ass. 

"What do you say?" asked Sir Anthony. "Ambulance or train?"

"Donkey carriage, " said I. "This very moment minute. "

I left them and trotted away homewards. 

Just as I had turned a bend of the chestnut avenue near the Park gates, I came upon a couple of familiar figures--familiar, that is to say, individually, but startlingly unfamiliar in conjunction. They were ayoung man and girl, Randall Holmes and Phyllis Gedge. Randall hadconcluded a distinguished undergraduate career at Oxford last summer. He was a man of birth, position, and, to a certain extent, of fortune. Phyllis Gedge was the daughter, the pretty and attractive daughter, ofDaniel Gedge, the socialistic builder who did not hold with war. Whatdid young Randall mean by walking in the dark with his arm roundPhyllis's waist? Of course as soon as he heard the click-clack ofHosea's hoofs he whipped his arm away; but I had already caught him. They tried to look mighty unconcerned as I pulled up. I took off my hatpolitely to the lady and held out my hand to the young man. 

"Good evening, Randall, " said I. "I haven't seen you for ages. "

He was a tall, clean-limbed, clear-featured boy, with black hair, whichthough not long, yet lacked the military trimness befitting the headsof young men at the present moment. He murmured something about beingbusy. 

"It will do you good to take a night off, " I said; "drop in afterdinner and smoke a pipe with an old friend. "

I smiled, bowed again politely, whipped up Hosea and trotted off. Iwondered whether he would come. He had said: "Delighted, I'm sure, " buthe had not looked delighted. Very possibly he regarded me as ameddlesome, gossiping old tom-cat. Perhaps for that reason he woulddeem it wise to adopt a propitiatory attitude. Perhaps also he retaineda certain affectionate respect for me, seeing that I had known him as atiny boy in a sailor suit, and had fed him at Harrow (as I did poorOswald Fenimore at Wellington) with Mrs. Marigold's famous pottedshrimp and other comestibles, and had put him up, during here and thereholidays and later a vacation, when his mother and aunts, with whom helived, had gone abroad to take inefficacious cures for the tedium of afutile life. Oxford, however, had set him a bit off my plane. 

As an ordinary soldierman, trained in the elementary virtues ofplain-speaking and direct dealing, love of country and the sacrednessof duty, I have had no use for the metaphysician. I haven't theremotest notion what his jargon means. From Aristotle to William James, I have dipped into quite a lot of them--Descartes, Berkeley, Kant, Schopenhauer (the thrice besotted Teutonic ass who said that womenweren't beautiful), for I hate to be thought an ignorant duffer--and Ihave never come across in them anything worth knowing, thinking, ordoing that I was not taught at my mother's knee. And as for her, dear, simple soul, if you had asked her what was the Categorical Imperative(having explained beforehand the meaning of the words), she would havesaid, "The Sermon on the Mount. "

Of course, please regard this as a criticism not of the metaphysiciansand the philosophers, but of myself. All these great thinkers havetheir niches in the Temple of Fame, and I'm quite aware that theconsensus of human judgment does not immortalise even such an ass asSchopenhauer, without sufficient reason. All I want to convey to you isthat I am only a plain, ordinary God-fearing, law-abiding Englishman, and that when young Randall Holmes brought down from Oxford all sortsof highfalutin theories about everything, not only in God's Universe, but in the super-Universe that wasn't God's, and of every one of whichhe was cocksure, I found my homely self very considerably out of it. 

Then--young Randall was a poet. He had won the Newdigate. The subjectwas Andrea del Sarto, one of my favourite painters--il pittore senzaerrore--and his prize poem--it had, of course, to be academic inform--was excellent. It said just the things about him which Browningsomehow missed, and which I had always been impotently wanting to say. And a year or so afterwards--when I praised his poem--he would shrinkin a more than deprecating attitude: I might just as well have extolledhim for seducing the wife of his dearest friend. His later poems, ofwhich he was immodestly proud--"Sensations Captured on the Wing, " hedefined them--left me cold and unsympathetic. So, for these reasons, the boy and I had drifted apart. Until I had caught him in flagrantedelicto of walking with his arm round the waist of pretty PhyllisGedge, I had not seen him to speak to for a couple of months. 

He came, however, after dinner, looking very sleek and handsome andintellectual, and wearing a velvet dinner jacket which I did not like. After we had gossiped awhile:--

"You said you were very busy?" I remarked. 

He flicked off his cigarette ash and nodded. 

"What at?"

"War poetry, " he replied. "I am trying to supply the real note. It isbadly wanted. There are all kinds of stuff being written, but allindifferent and valueless. If it has a swing, it's merely vulgar, andwhat isn't vulgar is academic, commonplace. There's a crying need forthe high level poetry that shall interpret with dignity and nobilitythe meaning of the war. "

"Have you written much?"

"I have an ode every week in the Albemarle Review. I also write thepolitical article. Didn't you know? Haven't you seen them?"

"I don't take in that periodical, " said I. "The omniscience of the lastcopy I saw dismayed me. I couldn't understand why the Government weresuch insensate fools as not to move from Downing Street to theirEditorial offices. "

Randall, with a humouring smile, defended the Albemarle Review. 

"It is run, " said he, "by a little set of intellectuals--some men upwith me at Oxford--who must naturally have a clearer vision than menwho have been living for years in the yellow fog of party politics. "

He expounded the godlike wisdom of young Oxford at some length, replying vividly to here and there a Socratic interpolation on my part. After a while I began to grow irritated. His talk, like his verse, seemed to deal with unrealities. It was a negation of everything, savethe intellectual. If he and his friends had been in power, there wouldnever have been a war; there never would have been a German menace; thelamb would have lain down in peace, outside the lion. He had an airyway of dismissing the ruder and more human aspects of the war. Said I:--

"Anyone can talk of what might have been. But that's all over and donewith. We're up against the tough proposition of the present. What areyou doing for it?"

He waved a hand. "That's just the point. The present doesn'tmatter--not in the wide conception of things. It is the past and thefuture that count. The present is mere fluidity. "

"The poor devils up to their waists in water in the trenches wouldagree with you, " said I. 

"They would also agree with me, " he retorted, "if they had time to gointo the reconstruction of the future that we are contemplating. "

At this juncture Marigold came in with the decanters and syphons. Inoticed his one eye harden on the velvet dinner-jacket. He fidgetedabout the room, threw a log on the fire, drew the curtains closer, always with an occasional malevolent glance at the jacket. ThenRandall, like a silly young ass, said, from the depths of his easychair, a very silly thing. 

"I see you've not managed to get into khaki yet, Sergeant. "

Marigold took a tactical pace or two to the door. 

"Neither have you, sir, " he said in a respectful tone, and went out. 

Randall laughed, though I saw his dark cheek flush. "If Marigold hadhis way he would have us all in a barrack square. "

"Preferably in those fluid trenches of the present, " said I. "And hewouldn't be far wrong. "

My eyes rested on him somewhat stonily. People have complainedsometimes--defaulters, say, in the old days--that there can be abeastly, nasty look in them. 

"What do you mean, Major?" he asked. 

"Sergeant Marigold, " said I, "is a brave, patriotic Englishman who hasgiven his country all he can spare from the necessary physicalequipment to carry on existence; and it's making him hang-dog miserablethat he's not allowed to give the rest to-morrow. You must forgive hisplain speaking, " I continued, gathering warmth as I went on, "but hecan't understand healthy young fellows like you not wanting to do thesame. And, for the matter of that, my dear Randall, neither do I. Whyaren't you serving your country?"

He started forward in his chair and threw out his arms, and his darkeyes flashed and a smile of conscious rectitude overspread hisclear-cut features. 

"My dear Major--serving my country? Why, I'm working night and day forit. You don't understand. "

"I've already told you I don't. "

The boy was my guest. I had not intended to hold a pistol to his headin one hand and dangle a suit of khaki before his eyes in the other. Ihad been ill at ease concerning him for months, but I had proposed toregain his confidence in a tactful, fatherly way. Instead of which Ifound myself regarding him with my beastly defaulter glare. The bloodsometimes flies to one's head. 

He condescended to explain. 

"There are millions of what the Germans call 'cannon fodder' about. Butthere are few intellects--few men, shall I say?--of genius, scarcely apoet. And men like myself who can express--that's the whole vitalpoint--who can EXPRESS the higher philosophy of the Empire, and canpoint the way to its realisation are surely more valuable than theyokel or factory hand, who, as the sum-total of his capabilities, canbe trained merely into a sort of shooting machine. Just look at it, mydear Major, from a commonsense point of view--" He forgot, the amazingyoung idiot, that he was talking not to a maiden aunt, but to ahard-bitten old soldier. "What good would it serve to stick thecomparatively rare man--I say it in all modesty--the comparatively rareman like myself in the trenches? It would be foolish waste. I assureyou I'm putting all my talents at the disposal of the country. " Seeing, I suppose, in my eyes, the maintained stoniness of non-conviction, hewent on, "But, pay dear sir, be reasonable. " . .. Reasonable! I nearlychoked. If I could have stood once more on my useless legs, I shouldhave swung my left arm round and clouted him on the side of the head. Reasonable indeed! This well-fed, able-bodied, young Oxford prig totell me, an honourable English officer and gentleman, to be reasonable, when the British Empire, in peril of its existence, was calling on allits manhood to defend it in arms! I glared at him. He continued:--

"Yes, be reasonable. Everyone has his place in this World conflict. Wecan't all be practical fighters. You wouldn't set Kitchener or Grey orLord Crewe to bayonet Germans--"

"By God, sir, " I cried, smiting one palm with the fist of the otherhand. "By God, sir, I would, if they were three and twenty. " I hadcompletely lost my temper. "And if I saw them doing nothing, while thecountry was asking for MEN, but writing rotten doggerel and messingabout with girls far beneath them in station, I should call them thedamnedest skunks unskinned!"

He had the decency to rise. "Major Meredyth, " said he, "you're under aterrible misapprehension. You're a military man and must look ateverything from a military point of view. It would be useless todiscuss the philosophy of the situation with you. We're on differentplanes. "

Just what I said. 

"You, " said I, "seem to be hovering near Tophet and the Abyss. "

"No, no, " he answered with an indulgent smile. "You are quotingCarlyle. You must give him up. "

"Damned pro-German, I should think I do, " I cried. I had forgottenwhere my phrase came from. 

"I'm glad to hear it. He's a back-number. I'm a modern. I representequilibrium--" He made a little rocking gesture with his graceful hand. "I am out for Eternal Truth, which I think I perceive. "

"In poor little Phyllis Gedge, I suppose?"

"Why not? Look. I am the son, grandson, great-grandson, of EnglishTories. She is the daughter of socialism, syndicalism, pacifism, internationalism--everything that is most apart from my traditions. Butshe brings to me beauty, innocence, the feminine solution of allintellectual concepts. She, the woman, is the soul of conflictingEngland. She is torn both ways. But as she has to breed men, some day, she is instinctively on our side. She is invaluable to me. She inspiresmy poems. You may not believe it, but she is at the back of mypolitical articles. You must really be a little more broad-minded, Major, and look at these things from the right point of view. From thepoint of view of my work, she is merely a symbol. "

"And you?" said I, wrathfully. "What are you to her? Do you suppose shetakes you for a symbol? I wish to Heaven she did. A round cipher ofnaught, the symbol of inanity. She takes you for an honourablegentleman. I've known the child since she was born. As good a littlegirl as you could wish to meet. "

He drew himself up. "That's the opinion of her I am endeavouring toexpress. "

"Quite so. You win a good decent girl's affection, --if you hadn't, shewould never have let you walk about with her at nightfall, with yourarm round her waist, --and you have the cynical audacity to say thatshe's only a symbol. "

"When you asked me to come in this evening, " said he, "I naturallyconcluded you would broach this subject. I came prepared to give you acomplete explanation of what I am ready to admit was a compromisingsituation. "

"There is only one explanation, " said I angrily. "What are yourintentions regarding the girl?"

He smiled. "Quite honourable. "

"You mean marriage?"

"Oh, no, " said he, emphatically. 

"Then the other thing? That's not honourable. "

"Of course not. Certainly not the other thing. I'm not a blackguard. "

"Then what on earth are you playing at?"

He sighed. "I'm afraid you will never understand. "

"I'm afraid I won't, " said I. "By your own confession you are neither alusty blackguard nor an honourable gentleman. You're a sort ofphilanderer, somewhere in between. You neither mean to fight like a mannor love like a man. I'm sorry to say it, but I've no use for you. As Ican't do it myself, will you kindly ring the bell?"

"Certainly, " said he, white with anger, which I was glad to see, andpressed the electric button beside the mantelpiece. He turned on me, his head high. There was still some breeding left in him. 

"I'm sorry we're at such cross-purposes, Major. All my life long I'veowed you kindnesses I can't ever repay. But at present we're hopelesslyout of sympathy!"

"It seems so, " said I. "I had hoped your father's son would be a betterman!"

"My father, " said he, "was a successful stockbroker, without any ideasin his head save the making of money. I don't see what he has got to dowith my well-considered attitude towards life. "

"Your callow attitude towards life, my poor boy, " said I, "is a matterof profound indifference to me. But I shall give orders that you are nolonger admitted to this house except in uniform. "

"That's absurd, " said he. 

"Not at all, " said I. 

In obedience to the summons of the bell Sergeant Marigold appeared andstood in his ramrod fashion by the door. 

Randall came forward to my wheel-chair, with hand outstretched. 

"I'm desperately sorry, Major, for this disastrous misunderstanding. "

I thrust my hands beneath the light shawl that covered my legs. 

"Don't be such a self-sufficient fool, Randall, " I said, "as to think Idon't understand. In the present position there are no subtleties andno complications. Good-night. "

Marigold, with a wooden face, opened wide the door, and Randall, with ashrug of the shoulders, went out. 

I stayed awake the whole of that livelong night. 

When I learned the death of young Oswald Fenimore, whom I loved farmore dearly than Randall Holmes, I went to bed and slept peacefully. Agallant lad died in battle; there is nothing more to be said, nothingmore to be thought. The finality, heroically sublime, overwhelms thepoor workings of the brain. But in the case of a fellow like RandallHolmes--well, as I have said, I did not get a wink of sleep the wholenight long. 

Someone, a few months ago, told me of a young university man--Oxford orCambridge, I forget--who, when asked why he was not fighting, replied;"What has the war to do with me? I disapprove of this brawling. "

Was that the attitude of Randall, whom I had known all his life long? Ishivered, like a fool, all night. The only consolation I had was tobring commonsense to my aid and to meditate on the statistical factthat the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge were practically empty. 

But my soul was sick for young Randall Holmes. 

CHAPTER IV

On the wedding eve Betty brought the happy young man to dine with me. He was in that state of unaccustomed and somewhat embarrassed bliss inwhich a man would have dined happily with Beelzebub. A fresh-colouredboy, with fair crisply set hair and a little moustache a shade or twofairer, he kept on blushing radiantly, as if apologising in a gallantsort of fashion for his existence in the sphere of Betty's affection. As I had known him but casually and desired to make his closeracquaintance, I had asked no one to meet them, save Betty's aunt, whoma providential cold had prevented from facing the night air. So, in thecomfortable little oak-panelled dining-room, hung round with my belovedcollection of Delft, I had the pair all to myself, one on each side;and in this way I was able to read exchanges of glances whence I mightform sage conclusions. Bella, spruce parlour-maid, waited deftly. Sergeant Marigold, when not occupied in the mild labour of fillingglasses, stood like a guardian ramrod behind my chair--a self-assignedpost to which he stuck grimly like a sentinel. As I always sat with myback to the fire there must have been times when, the blaze roaringmore fiercely than usual up the chimney, he must have sufferedmartyrdom in his hinder parts. 

As I talked--for the first time on such intimate footing--with youngConnor, I revised my opinion of him and mentally took back much that Ihad said in his disparagement. He was by no means the dull dog that Ihad labelled him. By diligent and sympathetic enquiry I learned that hehad been a Natural Science scholar at Trinity College, Cambridge, wherehe had taken a first-class degree--specialising in geology; that byprofession (his father's) he was a mining-engineer, and, in pursuit ofhis vocation, had travelled in Galicia, Mexico and Japan; furthermore, that he had been one of the ardent little band who of recent years hadmade the Cambridge Officers Training Corps an effective school. Hitherto, when I had met him he had sat so agreeably smiling andmodestly mumchance that I had accepted him at his face value. 

I was amused to see how Betty, in order to bring confusion on me, ledhim to proclaim himself. And I loved the manner in which he did so. Tohear him, one would have thought that he owed everything in the worldto Betty--from his entrance scholarship at the University to the wordof special commendation which his company had received from the Generalof his Division at last week's inspection. Yes, he was the modest, clean-bred, simple English gentleman who, without self-consciousness orself-seeking, does his daily task as well as it can be done, justbecause it is the thing that is set before him to do. And he was overhead and ears in love with Betty. 

I took it upon myself to dismiss her with a nod after she had smoked acigarette over her coffee. Mrs. Marigold, as a soldier's wife, Iannounced, had a world of invaluable advice to give her. Willie Connoropened the door. On the threshold she said very prettily:

"Don't drink too much of Major Meredyth's old port. It has been knownbefore now to separate husbands and wives for years and years. "

He looked after her for a few seconds before he closed the door. 

Oh, my God! I've looked like that, in my time, after one dear woman. .. . Humanity is very simple, after all. Every generation does exactly thesame beautiful, foolish things as its forerunner. As he approached thetable, I said with a smile:--

"You're only copying your great-great-grandfather. "

"In what way, sir?" he asked, resuming his place. 

I pushed the decanter of port. "He watched the disappearing skirt ofyour great-great-grandmother. "

"She was doubtless a very venerable old lady, " said he, flushing andhelping himself to wine. "I never knew her, but she wasn't a patch onBetty!"

"But, " said I, "when your great-great-grandfather opened the door forher to pass out, she wasn't venerable at all, but gloriously young. "

"I suppose he was satisfied, poor old chap. " He took a sip. "But thosedays did not produce Betty Fairfaxes. " He laughed. "I'm jolly sorry formy ancestors. "

Well--that is the way I like to hear a young man talk. It was themodern expression of the perfect gentle knight. In so far as went hisheart's intention and his soul's strength to assure it, I had no fearfor Betty's happiness. He gave it to her fully into her own hands;whether she would throw it away or otherwise misuse it was anothermatter. 

Though I have ever loved women, en tout bien et tout honneur, theirways have never ceased from causing me mystification. I think I cansize up a man, especially given such an opportunity as I had in thecase of Willie Connor--I have been more or less trained in the businessall my man's life; but Betty Fairfax, whom I had known intimately foras many years as she could remember, puzzled me exceedingly. I defyanyone to have picked a single fault in her demeanour towards herhusband of to-morrow. She lit a cigarette for him in the most charmingway in the world, and when he guided the hand that held the match, shetouched his crisp hair lightly with the fingers of the other. She wasall smiles. When we met in the drawing-room, she retailed with a spiceof mischief much of Mrs. Marigold's advice. She had seated herself onthe music stool. Swinging round, she quoted:

"'Even the best husband, ' she said, 'will go on swelling himself upwith vanity just because he's a man. A sensible woman, Miss, lets himgo on priding of himself, poor creature. It sort of helps his dignitywhen the time comes for him to eat out of your hand, and makes himthink he's doing you a favour. '"

"When are you going to eat out of my hand, Willie?" she asked. 

"Haven't I been doing it for the past week?"

"Oh, they always do that before they're married--so Mrs. Marigoldinformed me. I mean afterwards. "

"Don't you think, my dear, " I interposed, "it depends on what yourhands hold out for him to eat?"

Her eyes wavered a bit under mine. 

"If he's good, " she answered, "they'll be always full of nice things. "

She sat, flushed, happy, triumphant, her arms straight down, herknuckles resting on the leathern seat, her silver-brocaded, slenderfeet, clear of the floor, peeping close together beneath her whitefrock. 

"And if he isn't good?"

"They'll be full of nasty medicine. "

She laughed and pivoted round and, after running over the keys of thepiano for a second or two, began to play Gounod's "Death March of aMarionette. " She played it remarkably well. When she had ended, Connorwalked from the hearth, where he had been standing, to her side. Inoticed a little puzzled look in his eyes. 

"Delightful, " said he. "But, Betty, what put that thing suddenly intoyour head?"

"We had been talking nonsense, " she replied, picking out a chord ortwo, without looking al him. "And I thought we ought to give all pastvanities and frivolities and lunacies a decent burial. "

He put both hands very tenderly on her shoulders. 

"Requiescat, " said he. 

She spread out her fingers and struck the two resonant chords of an"Amen, " and then glanced up at him, laughing. 

After a while, Marigold announced her car, or, rather, her aunt's car. They took their leave. I gave them my benediction. Presently, Betty, fur-coated, came running in alone. She flung herself down, in herimpetuous way, beside my wheel-chair. No visit of Betty's would havebeen complete without this performance. 

"I haven't had a word with you all the evening, Majy, dear. I've toldWillie to discuss strategy with Sergeant Marigold in the hall, till Icome. Well--you thought I was a damn little fool the other day, didn'tyou? What do you think now?"

"I think, my dear, " said I, with a hand on her forehead, "that you aremarrying a very gallant English gentleman of whose love any woman inthe land might be proud. "

She clutched me round the neck and brought her young face nearmine--and looked at me--I hesitate to say it, --but so itseemed, --somewhat haggardly. 

"I love to hear you say that, it means so much to me. Don't think Ihaven't a sense of proportion. I have. In all this universal slaughterand massacre, a woman's life counts as much as that of a mosquito. " Shefreed an arm and snapped her fingers. "But to the woman herself, herown life can't help being of some value. Such as it is, I want to giveit all, every bit of it, to Willie. He shall have everything, everything, everything that I can give him. "

I looked into the young, drawn, pleading face long and earnestly. Nolonger was I mystified. I remembered her talk with me a couple of daysbefore, and I read her riddle. 

She had struck gold. She knew it. Gold of a man's love. Gold of a man'sstrength. Gold of a man's honour. Gold of a man's stainless past. Goldof a man's radiant future. And though she wore the mocking face andtalked the mocking words of the woman who expected such a man to "eatout of her hand, " she knew that never out of her hand would he eat savethat which she should give him in honourable and wifely service. Sheknew that. She was exquisitely anxious that I should know it too. Floodgates of relief were expressed when she saw that I knew it. Notthat I, personally, counted a scrap. What she craved was a decent humansoul's justification of her doings. She craved recognition of heraction in casting away base metal forever and taking the pure gold toher heart. 

"Tell me that I am doing the right thing, dear, " she said, "andto-morrow I'll be the happiest woman in the world. "

And I told her, in the most fervent manner in my power. 

"You quite understand?" she said, standing up, looking very young andprincess-like, her white throat gleaming between her furs and up-turnedchin. 

"You will find, my dear, " said I, "that the significance of your DeadMarch of a Marionette will increase every day of your married life. "

She stiffened in a sudden stroke of passion, looking, for the instant, electrically beautiful. 

"I wish, " she cried, "someone had written the Dead March of a Devil. "

She bent down, kissed me, and went out in a whirr of furs and draperies. 

Of course, all I could do was to scratch my thin iron-grey hair andlight a cigar and meditate in front of the fire. I knew all aboutit--or at any rate I thought I did, which, as far as my meditation infront of the fire is concerned, comes to the same thing. 

Betty had cast out the base metal of her love for Leonard Boyce inorder to accept the pure gold of the love of Willie Connor. So shethought, poor girl. She had been in love with Boyce. She had beenengaged to Boyce. Boyce, for some reason or the other, had turned herdown. Spretae injuria formae--she had cast Boyce aside. But for all hersplendid surrender of her womanhood to Willie Connor, for the sake ofher country, she still loved Leonard Boyce. Or, if she wasn't in lovewith him, she couldn't get him out of her head or her senses. Somethinglike that, anyhow. I don't pretend to know exactly what goes on in thesoul or nature, or whatever it is, of a young girl, who has given herheart to a man. I can only use the crude old phrase: she was still inlove (in some sort of fashion) with Leonard Boyce, and she was going tomarry, for the highest motives, somebody else. 

"Confound the fellow, " said I, with an irritable gesture and coveredmyself with cigar ash. 

She had called Boyce a devil and implied a wish that he were dead. Formyself I did not know what to make of him, for reasons which I willstate. I never approved of the engagement. As a matter of fact, Iknew--and was one of the very few who knew--of a black mark againsthim--the very blackest mark that could be put against a soldier's name. It was a puzzling business. And when I say I knew of the mark, I mustbe candid and confess that its awful justification lies in theconscience of one man living in the world to-day--if indeed he be stillalive. 

Boyce was a great bronzed, bull-necked man, with an overpoweringpersonality. People called him the very model of a soldier. He wasalways admired and feared by his men. His fierce eye and deep, resonantvoice, and a suggestion of hidden strength, even of brutality, commanded implicit obedience. But both glance and voice would softencaressingly and his manner convey a charm which made him popular withmen--brother officers and private soldiers alike--and with women. Withregard to the latter--to put things crudely--they saw in him theessential, elemental male. Of that I am convinced. It was the opensecret of his many successes. And he had a buoyant, boyish, disarming, chivalrous way with him. If he desired a woman's lips he would alwaysbegin by kissing the hem of her skirt. 

Had I not known what I did, I, an easy-going sort of Christiantemperamentally inclined to see the best in my fellow-creatures, and, as I boastingly said a little while ago, a trained judge of men, shoulddoubtless have fallen, like most other people, under the spell of hisfascination. But whenever I met him, I used to look at him and say tomyself: "What's at the back of you anyway? What about that business atVilboek's Farm?"

Now this is what I knew--with the reservation I have made above--and tothis day he is not aware of my knowledge. 

It was towards the end of the Boer War. Boyce had come out rather late;for which, of course, he was not responsible. A soldier has to go whenhe is told. After a period of humdrum service he was sent off with asection of mounted infantry to round up a certain farm-house suspectedof harbouring Boer combatants. The excursion was a mere matter ofroutine--of humdrum commonplace. As usual it was made at night, butthis was a night of full dazzling moon. The farm lay in a hollow of theveldt, first seen from the crest of a kopje. There it lay below, ramshackle and desolate, a rough wall around; flanked byoutbuildings--barn and cowsheds. The section rode down. The stoep ledto a shuttered front. There was no sign of life. The moonlight blazedfull on it. They dismounted, tethered their horses behind the wall, andentered the yard. The place was deserted, derelict--not even a cat. 

Suddenly a shot rang out from somewhere in the main building, and theSergeant, the next man to Boyce, fell dead, shot through the brain. Themen looked at Boyce for command and saw a hulking idiot paralysed byfear. 

"His mouth hung open and his eyes were like a silly servant girl'slooking at a ghost. " So said my informant. 

Two more shots and two men fell. Boyce still stood white and gasping, unable to move a muscle or utter a sound. His face looked ghastly inthe moonlight. A shot pierced his helmet, and the shock caused him tostagger and lose his legs. A corporal rushed up, thinking he was hit, and, finding him whole, rose, in order to leave him there, and, inrising, got a bullet through the neck. Thus there were four men killed, and the Commanding Officer, of his own accord, put out of action. Itall happened in a few confused moments. Then the remaining men did whatBoyce should have commanded as soon as the first shot was fired--theyrushed the house. 

It contained one solitary inmate, an old man with a couple of Mauserrifles, whom they had to shoot in self-defence. 

Meanwhile Boyce, white and haggard-eyed, had picked himself up;revolver in hand he stood on the stoep. His men came out, cursed him tohis face while giving him their contemptuous reports brought the deadbodies of their comrades into the house and laid them out decently, together with the body of the white-bearded Boer. After that theymounted their horses without a word to him and rode off. And he letthem ride; for his authority was gone; and he knew that they justlylaid the deaths of their comrades at the door of his cowardice. 

What he did during the next few awful hours is known only to God and toBoyce himself. The four dead men, his companions, have told no tales. But at last, one of his men--Somers was his name--came riding back atbreak-neck speed. When he had left the moon rode high in the heavens;when he returned it was dawn--and he had a bloody tunic and the face ofa man who had escaped from hell. He threw himself from his horse andfound Boyce, sitting on the stoep with his head in his hands. He shookhim by the shoulder. Boyce started to his feet. At first he did notrecognise Somers. Then he did and read black tidings in the man's eyes. 

"What's the matter?"

"They're all wiped out, sir. The whole blooming lot. "

He told a tale of heroic disaster. The remnant of the section hadridden off in hot indignation and had missed their way. They had gonein a direction opposite to safety, and after a couple of hours hadfallen in with a straggling portion of a Boer Commando. Refusing tosurrender, they had all been killed save Somers, who, with a bulletthrough his shoulder, had prudently turned bridle and fled hell forleather. 

Boyce put his hands up to his head and walked about the yard for a fewmoments. Then he turned abruptly and stood toweringly over the scaredsurvivor--a tough, wizened little Cockney of five foot six. 

"Well, what's going to happen now?" he asked, in his soft, dangerousvoice. 

Somers replied, "I must leave that to you, sir. "

Boyce regarded him glitteringly for a long time. A scheme of salvationwas taking vivid shape in his mind. .. . 

"My report of this occurrence will be that as soon as, say, three mendropped here, the rest of the troop got into a panic and made a bolt ofit. Say the Sergeant and myself remained. We broke into the house anddid for the old Boer, who, however, unfortunately did for the Sergeant. Then I alone went out in search of my men and following their trackfound they had gone in a wrong direction, and eventually scenteddanger, which was confirmed by my meeting you, with your bloody tunicand your bloody tale. "

"But good God! sir, " cried the man, "You'd be having me shot forrunning away. I could tell a damned different story, Captain Boyce. "

"Who would believe you?"

The Cockney intelligence immediately appreciated the situation. It alsowas ready for the alternative it guessed at the back of Boyce's mind. 

"I know it's a mess, sir, " he replied, with a straight look at Boyce. "A mess for both of us, and, as I have said, I'll leave it to you, sir. "

"Very well, " said Boyce. "It's the simplest thing in the world. Therewere four killed at once, including Sergeant Oldham. You remainedfaithful when the others bolted. You and I tackled the old Boer and yougot wounded. You and I went on trek for the rest of the troop. We gotwithin breathing distance of the Commando--how many strong?"

"About a couple of hundred, sir. "

"And of course we bolted back without knowing anything about the troop, except that we are sure that, dead or alive, the Boers have accountedfor them. If you'll agree to this report, we can ride back toHeadquarters and I think I can promise you sergeant's stripes in a veryshort time!"

"I agree to the report, sir, " said Somers, "because I don't see that Ican do anything else. But to hell with the stripes under falsepretences and don't you try playing that sort of thing off on me. "

"As you like, " replied Boyce, unruffled. "Provided we understand eachother on the main point. "

So they left the farm and rode to Headquarters and Boyce made hisreport, and as all save one of his troop were dead, there were none, save that one, to gainsay him. On his story no doubt was cast; but anofficer who loses his whole troop in the military operation of storminga farm-house garrisoned by one old man does not find peculiar favour inthe eyes of his Colonel. Boyce took a speedy opportunity oftransference, and got into the thick of some fighting. Then he servedwith distinction and actually got mentioned in dispatches for pluckilyrescuing a wounded man under fire. 

For a long time Somers kept his mouth shut; but at last he began totalk. The ugly rumour spread. It even reached my battery which was ahundred miles away; for Johnny Dacre, one of my subs, had a brother inBoyce's old regiment. For my own part I scouted the story as soon as Iheard it, and I withered up young Dacre for daring to bring suchabominable slander within my Rhadamanthine sphere. I dismissed thecalumny from my mind. Providentially, (as I heard later), the news cameof Boyce's "mention, " and Somers was set down as a liar. The poor devilwas had up before the Colonel and being an imaginative and nervous mandenied the truth of the rumour and by dexterous wriggling managed toexculpate himself from the charge of being its originator. 

I must, parenthetically, crave indulgence for these apparentlyirrelevant details. But as, in this chronicle, I am mainly concernedwith the career of Leonard Boyce, I have no option but to give them. They are necessary for a conception of the character of a remarkableman to whom I have every reason and every honourable desire to renderjustice. It is necessary, too, that I should state clearly the mannerin which I happened to learn the facts of the affair at Vilboek's Farm, for I should not like you to think that I have given a credulous ear toidle slander. 

It was in Cape Town, whither I had been despatched, on a false alarm ofenteric. I was walking with Johnny Dacre up Adderley Street, dun withkahki, when he met his brother Reginald, who was promptly introduced toJohnny's second in command. Reggie was off to hospital to see one ofhis men who had been badly hurt. 

"It's the chap, " he said to his brother, "who was with Boyce throughthat shady affair at Vilboek's Farm. "

"I don't know why you call it a shady affair, " said I, somewhat acidly. "I know Captain Boyce--he is a near neighbour of mine at home--and hehas proved himself to be a gallant officer and a brave man. "

The young fellow reddened. "I'm awfully sorry, sir. I withdraw the word'shady. ' But this poor chap has something on his mind, and everyone hasa down on him. He led a dog's life till he was knocked out, and he hasbeen leading a worse one since. I don't call it fair. " He looked at mesquarely out of his young blue eyes--the lucky devil, he is commandinghis regiment now in Flanders, with the D. S. O. Ribbon on his tunic. "Will you come with me and see him, sir?"

"Certainly, " said I, for I had nothing to do, and the boy's earnestnessimpressed me. 

On our way he told me of such mixture of rumour and fact as he wasacquainted with. It was then that I heard the man Somers's name for thefirst time. We entered the hospital, sat by the side of the man's bed, and he told us the story of Vilboek's Farm which I have, in bald terms, just related. Shortly afterwards I returned to the front, where thefamous shell knocked me out of the Army forever. 

What has happened to Somers I don't know. He was, I learned, soonafterwards discharged from the Army. He either died or disappeared inthe full current of English life. Perhaps he is with our armies now. Itdoes not matter. What matters is my memory of his nervous, sallow, Cockney face, its earnestness, its imprint of veracity, and the damninglucidity of his narrative. 

I exacted from my young friends a promise to keep the unsavoury tale tothemselves. No good would arise from a publicity which would stain thehonour of the army. Besides, Boyce had made good. They have kept theirpromise like honest gentlemen. I have never, personally, heard furtherreference to the affair, and of course I have never mentioned it toanyone. 

Now, it is right for me to mention that, for many years, I lived in ahorrible state of dubiety with regard to Boyce. There is no doubt that, after the Vilboek business, he acted in an exemplary manner; there isno doubt that he performed the gallant deed for which he got hismention. But what about Somers's story? I tried to disbelieve it asincredible. That an English officer--not a nervous wisp of a man likeSomers, but a great, hulking, bull-necked gladiator--should have beenparalysed with fear by one shot coming out of a Boer farm, and therebydemoralised and incapacitated from taking command of a handful of men;that, instead of blowing his brains out, he should have imposed hisMephistophelian compact upon the unhappy Somers and carried off theknavish business successfully--I could not believe it. On the otherhand, there was the British private. I have known him all my life, Godbless him! Thank God, it is my privilege to know him now, as he liesknocked to bits, cheerily, in our hospital. It was inconceivable thatout of sheer funk he could abandon a popular officer. And his was noteven a scratch crowd, but a hard-bitten regiment with all sorts ofglorious names embroidered on its colours. .. . 

I hope you see my difficulty in regard to my Betty's love affairs. Ihad nothing against Boyce, save this ghastly story, which might ormight not be true. Officially, he had made an unholy mess of such asimple military operation as rounding up a Boer farm, and the prize ofone dead old Boer had covered him with ridicule; but officially, also, he had retrieved his position by distinguished service. After all, itwas not his fault that his men had run away. On the other hand. .. Well, you cannot but appreciate the vicious circle of my thoughts, whenBetty, in her frank way, came and told me of her engagement to him. What could I say? It would have been damnable of me to hint at scandalof years gone by. I received them both and gave them my paralyticblessing, and Leonard Boyce accepted it with the air of a man who mighthave been blessed, without a qualm of conscience, by the Third Personof the Trinity in Person. 

This was in April, 1914. He had retired from the Army some years beforewith the rank of Major, and lived with his mother--he was a man ofmeans--in Wellingsford. In the June of that year he went off salmonfishing in Norway. On the outbreak of war he returned to England andluckily got his job at once. He did not come back to Wellingsford. Hismother went to London and stayed there until he was ordered out to thefront. I had not seen him since that June. And, as far as I am aware, my dear Betty had not seen him either. 

Marigold entered. 

"Well?" said I. 

"I thought you rang, sir. "

"You didn't, " I said. "You thought I ought to have rung, But you weremistaken. "

I have on my mantelpiece a tiny, corroded, wooden Egyptian bust, of solittle value that Mr. Hatoun of Cairo (and every visitor to Cairo knowsHatoun) gave it me as Baksheesh; it is, however, a genuine bit from apoor humble devil's tomb of about five thousand years ago. And it hasonly one positive eye and no expression. 

Marigold was the living replica of it--with his absurd wig. 

"In a quarter of an hour, " said I, "I shall have rung. "

"Very good, sir, " said Marigold. 

But he had disturbed the harmonical progression of my reflections. Theyall went anyhow. When he returned, all I could say was:

"It's Miss Betty's wedding to-morrow. I suppose I've got a morning coatand a top hat. "

"You have a morning coat, sir, " said Marigold. "But your last silk hatyou gave to Miss Althea, sir, to make a work-bag out of the outside. "

"So I did, " said I. 

It was an unpleasant reminiscence. A hat is about as symbolical agarment as you may be pleased to imagine. I wanted to wear at the liveBetty's wedding the ceremonious thing which I had given, for purposesof vanity, to the dead Althea. I was cross with Marigold. 

"Why did you let me do such a silly thing? You might have known that Ishould want it some day or other. Why didn't you foresee such acontingency?"

"Why, " asked Marigold woodenly, "didn't you or I, sir, or many wiserthan us, foresee the war?"

"Because we were all damned fools, " said I. 

Marigold approached my chair with his great inexorable tentacles ofarms. It was bed time. 

"I'm sorry about the hat, sir, " said he. 

CHAPTER V

In due course Captain Connor's regiment went off to France; not withdrums beating and colours flying--I wish to Heaven it had; if there hadbeen more pomp and circumstance in England, the popular imaginationwould not have remained untouched for so long a time--but in the coldsilent hours of the night, like a gang of marauders. Betty did not goto bed after he had left, but sat by the fire till morning. Then shedressed in uniform and resumed her duties at the hospital. Many asoldier's bride was doing much the same. And her days went on just asthey did before her marriage. She presented a smiling face to theworld; she said:

"If I'm as happy as can be expected in the circumstances, I think it myduty to look happier. "

It was a valiant philosophy. 

The falling of a chimney-stack brought me up against Daniel Gedge, whobefore the war did all my little repairs. The chimney I put into thehands of Day & Higgins, another firm of builders. 

A day or two afterwards Hosea shied at something and I discovered itwas Gedge, who had advanced into the roadway expressing a desire tohave a word with me. I quieted the patriotic Hosea and drew up by thekerb. Gedge was a lean foxy-faced man with a long, reddish nose and along blunt chin from which a grizzled beard sprouted aggressivelyforwards. He had hard, stupid grey eyes. 

"I hope you 'll excuse the liberty I take in stopping you, sir, " hesaid, civilly. 

"That's all right, " said I. "What's the matter?"

"I thought I had given you satisfaction these last twenty years. "

I assented. "Quite correct, " said I. 

"Then, may I ask, sir, without offence, why you've called in Day &Higgins?"

"You may, " said I, "and, with or without offence, I'll answer yourquestion. I've called them in because they're good loyal people. Higgins has joined the army, and so has Day's eldest boy, while youhave been going on like a confounded pro-German. "

"You've no right to say that, Major Meredyth. "

"Not when you go over to Godbury"--the surging metropolis of the Countysome fifteen miles off--"and tell a pack of fools to strike becausethis is a capitalists' war? Not when you go round the mills here, anddo your best to stop young fellows from fighting for their country? Godbless my soul, in whose interests are you acting, if not Germany's?"

He put on his best platform manner. "I'm acting in the best interestsof the people of this country. The war is wrong and incredibly foolishand can bring no advantage to the working man. Why should he go and bekilled or maimed for life? Will it put an extra penny in his pocket orhis widow's? No. Oh!"--he checked my retort--"I know everything youwould say. I see the arguments every day in all your great newspapers. But the fact remains that I don't see eye to eye with you, or those yourepresent. You think one way, I think another. We agree to differ. "

"We don't, " said I. "I don't agree at all. "

"At any rate, " he said, "I can't see how a difference of politicalopinion can affect my ability now to put a new chimney-stack in yourhouse, any more than it has done in the past. "

"In the past, " said I, "political differences were parochial squabblesin comparison with things nowadays. You're either for England, oragainst her. "

He smiled wryly. "I'm for England. We both are. You think her salvationlies one way. I think another. This is a free country in which everyman has a right to his own opinion. "

"Exactly so, " said I. "Therefore you'll admit that I've a right to theopinion that you ought to be locked up either in a gaol or a lunaticasylum as a danger to the state, and that, having that rightfulopinion, I'm justified in not entrusting the safety of my house to onewho, in my aforesaid opinion, is either a criminal or a lunatic. "

Dialectically, I had him there. It afforded me keen enjoyment. Besidesbeing a John Bull Englishman, I am a cripple and therefore ever solittle malicious. 

"It's all very well for you to talk, Major Meredyth, " said he, "butyour opinions cost you nothing--mine are costing me my livelihood. Itisn't fair. "

"You might as well say, " I replied, "that I, who have never dared tosteal anything in my life, live in ease and comfort, whereas poor BillSykes, who has devoted all his days to burglary, has seven years' penalservitude. No, Gedge, " said I, gathering up the reins, "it can't bedone. You can't have it both ways. "

He put a detaining hand on Hosea's bridle and an evil flash came intohis hard grey eyes. 

"I'll have it some other way, then, " he said. "A way you've no idea of. A way that'll knock all you great people of Wellingsford off your highhorses. If you drive me to it, you'll see. I'll bide my time and Idon't care whether it breaks me. "

He stamped his foot and tugged at the bridle. Two or three passers-byhalted wonderingly and Prettilove, the hairdresser, moved across thepavement from his shop door where he had been taking the air. 

"My good fellow, " said I, "you have lost your temper and are talkingdrivel. Kindly unhand my donkey. "

Prettilove, who has a sycophantic sense of humour, burst into a loudguffaw. Gedge swung angrily away, and Hosea and I continued ourinterrupted progress down the High Street. Although I had called hisdark menaces drivel, I could not help wondering what it meant. Was hegoing to guide a German Army to Wellingsford? Was he, a modern GuyFawkes, plotting to blow up the Town Hall while Mayor and Corporationsat in council? He was not the man to utter purely idle threats. Whatthe dickens was he going to do? Something mean and dirty and underhand. I knew his ways, He was always getting the better of somebody. The wisenever let him put in a pane of glass without a specification andestimate, and if he had not been by far the most competent builder inthe town--perhaps the only one who thoroughly knew his business in allits branches--no one would have employed him. 

When I next saw Betty, it was in one of the corridors of the hospital, after a committee meeting; she stopped by my chair to pass the time ofday. Through the open doorway of a ward I perceived a well-known figurein nurse's uniform. 

"Why, " said I, "there's Phyllis Gedge. "

Betty nodded. "She has just come in as a probationer. "

"I thought her father wouldn't let her. I've heard--Heaven knowswhether it's true, but it sounds likely--that he said if men were suchfools as to get shot he didn't see why his daughter should help to mendthem. "

"He has consented now, " said Betty, "and Phyllis is delighted. "

"No doubt it's a bid for popular favour, " said I. And I told her of hisdwindling business and of my encounter with him. When I came to histhreat Betty's brows darkened. 

"I don't like that at all, " she said. 

"Why? What do you think he means?"

"Mischief. " She lowered her voice, for, it being visiting day at thehospital, people were passing up and down the corridor. "Suppose he hassome of the people here in his power?"

"Blackmail--?" I glanced up at her sharply. "What do you know about it?"

"Nothing, " she replied abruptly. Then she looked down and fingered herwedding-ring. "I only said 'suppose. '"

A Sister appeared at the door of the ward and seeing us together pausedhoveringly. 

"I rather think you're wanted, " said I. 

I left the hospital somewhat disturbed in mind. Summons to duty had cutour conversation short; but I knew that no matter how long I hadcross-questioned Betty I should have got nothing further out of her. She was a remarkably outspoken young woman. What she said she meant, and what she didn't want to say all the cripples in the British Armycould not have dragged out of her. 

I tried her again a few days later. A slight cold, aided and abetted bya dear exaggerating idiot of a tyrannical doctor, confined me to thehouse and she came flying in, expecting to find me in extremis. Whenshe saw me clothed and in my right mind and smoking a big cigar, shecalled me a fraud. 

"Look here, " said I, after a while. "About Gedge--" again her browdarkened and her lips set stiffly--"do you think he has his knife intoyoung Randall Holmes?"

I had worried about the boy. Naturally, if Gedge found the relationsbetween his daughter and Randall unsatisfactory, no one could blame himfor any outbreak of parental indignation. But he ought to break outopenly, while there was yet time--before any harm was done--not nursesome diabolical scheme of subterraneous vengeance. Betty's browcleared, and she laughed. I saw at once that I was on a wrong track. 

"Why should he have his knife into Randall? I suppose you've gotPhyllis in your mind. "

"I have. How did you guess?"

She laughed again. 

"What other reason could he have? But how did you come to hear ofRandall and Phyllis?"

"Never mind, " said I, "I did. And if Gedge is angry, I can to someextent sympathize with him. "

"But he's not. Not the least little bit in the world, " she declared, lighting a cigarette. "Gedge and Randall are as thick as thieves, andPhyllis won't have anything to do with either of them. "

"Now, my dear, " said I. "Now that you're married, become a real womanlywoman and fill my empty soul with gossip. "

"There's no gossip at all about it, " she replied serenely. "It's allsordid and romantic fact. The two men hold long discussions together atGedge's house, Gedge talking anti-patriotism and Randall talking rotwhich he calls philosophy. You can hear them, can't you? Theirmeeting-ground is the absurdity of Randall joining the army. "

"And Phyllis?"

"She is a loyal little soul and as miserable as can be. She'sdeplorably in love with Randall. She has told me so. And because she'sin love with a man whom she knows to be a slacker she's eaten up withshame. Now she won't speak to him To avoid meeting him she livesentirely at the hospital--a paying probationer. "

"That must be since the last Committee Meeting, " I said. 

"Yes. "

"And Daniel Gedge pays a guinea a week?"

"He doesn't, " said Betty. "I do. "

I accepted the information with a motion of the head. She went on aftera minute or so. "I have always been fond of the child"--there were onlythree or four years difference between them!--"and so I want to protecther. The time may come when she'll need protection. She has told methings--not now--but long ago--which frightened her. She came to me foradvice. Since then I've kept an eye on her--as far as I could. Hercoming into the hospital helps me considerably. "

"When you say 'things which frightened her, ' do you mean in connectionwith her father?"

Again the dark look in Betty's eyes. 

"Yes, " she said. "He's an evil, dangerous man. "

That was all I could get out of her. If she had meant me to know thecharacter of Gedge's turpitude, she would have told me of her ownaccord. But in our talk at the hospital she had hinted atblackmail--and blackmailers are evil, dangerous men. 

I went to see Sir Anthony about it. Beyond calling him a damnedscoundrel, a term which he applied to all pro-Germans, pacifists andhalf the Cabinet, he did not concern himself about Gedge. Young RandallHolmes's intimacy with the scoundrel seemed to him a matter of fargreater importance. He strode up and down his library, choleric andgesticulating. 

"A gentleman and a scholar to hob-nob with a traitorous beast likethat! I know that he writes for a filthy weekly paper. Somebody sent mea copy a few days ago. It's rot--but not actually poisonous like thathe must hear from Gedge. That's the reason, I suppose, he's not in theKing's uniform. I've had my eye on him for some time. That's why I'venot asked him to the house. "

I told Sir Anthony of my interview with the young man. He waxed wroth. In a country with a backbone every Randall Holmes in the land wouldhave been chucked willy-nilly into the army. But the country had spinaldisorders. It had locomotor ataxy. The result of sloth andself-indulgence. We had the Government we deserved . .. I need not quotefurther. You can imagine a fine old fox-hunting Tory gentleman, withEngland filling all the spaces of his soul, blowing off the steam ofhis indignation. 

When he had ended, "What, " said I, "is to be done?"

"I'll lay my horsewhip across the young beggar's shoulders the nexttime I meet him. "

"Capital, " said I. "If I were you I should never ride abroad except inmy mayor's gown and chain, so that you can give an official characterto the thrashing. "

He glanced swiftly at me in his bird-like fashion, his brow creasedinto a thousand tiny horizontal lines--it always took him a fraction ofa second to get clear of the literal significance of words--and then helaughed. Personal violence was out of the question. Why, the youngbeggar might summon him for assault. No; he had a better idea. He wouldput in a word at the proper quarter, so that every recruiting sergeantin the district should have orders to stop him at every opportunity. 

"I shouldn't do that, " said I. 

"Then, I don't know what the deuce I can do, " said Sir Anthony. 

As I didn't know, either, our colloquy was fruitless. Eventually SirAnthony said:

"Perhaps it's likely, after all, that Gedge may offend young Oxford'sfastidiousness. It can't be long before he discovers Gedge to benothing but a vulgar, blatant wind-bag; and then he may undergo somereaction. "

I agreed. It seemed to be the most sensible thing he had said. GiveGedge enough rope and he would hang himself. So we parted. 

I have said before that when I want to shew how independent I am ofeverybody I drive abroad in my donkey carriage. But there are timeswhen I have to be dependent on Marigold for carrying me into the housesI enter; on these helpless occasions I am driven about by Marigold in alittle two-seater car. That is how I visited Wellings Park and that ishow I set off a day or two later to call on Mrs. Boyce. 

As she took little interest in anything foreign to her own inside, shewas not to most people an exhilarating companion. She even discussedthe war in terms of her digestion. But we were old friends. Being a bitof a practical philosopher I could always derive some entertainmentfrom her serial romance of a Gastric Juice, and besides, she was theonly person in Wellingsford whom I did not shrink from boring with thesong of my own ailments. Rather than worry the Fenimores or Betty orMrs. Holmes with my aches and pains I would have hung on, like theidiot boy of Sparta with the fox, until my vitals were gnawedout--parenthetically, it has always worried me to conjecture why a boyshould steal a fox, why it should have been so valuable to the owner, and to what use he put it. In the case of all my other friends Iregarded myself as too much of an obvious nuisance, as it was, for meto work on their sympathy for infirmities that I could hide; but withMrs. Boyce it was different. The more I chanted antistrophe to herstrophe of lamentation the more was I welcome in her drawing-room. Ihad not seen her for some weeks. Perhaps I had been feeling remarkablywell with nothing in the world to complain about, and thereforeunequipped with a topic of conversation. However, hearty or not, it wastime for me to pay her a visit. So I ordered the car. 

Mrs. Boyce lived in a comfortable old house half a mile or so beyondthe other end of the town, standing in half a dozen well-wooded acres. It was a fair April afternoon, all pale sunshine and tenderness. Adream of fairy green and delicate pink and shy blue sky melting intopearl. The air smelt sweet. It was good to be in it, among the treesand the flowers and the birds. 

Others must have also felt the calls of the spring, for as we weredriving up to the house, I caught a glimpse of the lawn and of twofigures strolling in affectionate attitude. One was that of Mrs. Boyce;the other, khaki-clad and towering above her, had his arm round herwaist. The car pulled up at the front door. Before we had time to ring, a trim parlour-maid appeared. 

"Mrs. Boyce is not at home, sir. "

Marigold, who, when my convenience was in question, swept away socialconventions like cobwebs, fixed her with his one eye, and before Icould interfere, said:

"I'm afraid you're mistaken. I've just seen Major Boyce and Madam onthe lawn. "

The maid reddened and looked at me appealingly. 

"My orders were to say not at home, sir. "

"I quite understand, Mary, " said I. "Major Boyce is home on shortleave, and they don't want to be disturbed. Isn't that it?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Marigold, " said I. "Right about turn. "

Marigold, who had stopped the car, got out unwillingly and went to thestarting-handle. That I should be refused admittance to a house which Ihad deigned to honour with my presence he regarded as an intolerableinsult. He also loved to have tea, as a pampered guest, in other folks'houses. When he got home Mrs. Marigold, as like as not, would give himplain slabs of bread buttered by her economical self. I knew myMarigold. He gave a vicious and ineffectual turn or two and then stuckhis head in the bonnet. 

The situation was saved by the appearance from the garden of Mrs. Boyceherself, a handsome, erect, elegantly dressed old lady in the latesixties, pink and white like a Dresden figure and in her usualcondition of resplendent health. She held out her hand. 

"I couldn't let you go without telling you that Leonard is back. Idon't want the whole town to know. If it did, I should see nothing ofhim, his leave is so short. That's why I told Mary to say 'not athome. ' But an old friend like you--Would you like to see him?"

Marigold closed the bonnet and stood up with a grimace which passed fora happy smile. 

"I should, of course, " said I, politely. "But I quite understand. Youhave everything to say to each other. No. I won't stay"--Marigold'ssmile faded into woodenness--"I only turned in idly to see how you weregetting on. But just tell me. How is Leonard? Fit, I hope?"

"He's wonderful, " she said. 

I motioned Marigold to start the car. 

"Give him my kind regards, " said I. "No, indeed. He doesn't want to seean old crock like me. " The engine rattled. "I hope he's pleased atfinding his mother looking so bonny. "

"It's only excitement at having Leonard, " she explained earnestly. "Inreality I'm far from well. But I wouldn't tell him for worlds. "

"What's that you wouldn't tell, mother?" cried a soft, cheery voice, and Leonard, the fine flower of English soldiery, turned the corner ofthe house. 

There he stood, tall, deep-chested, clear-eyed, bronzed, his heavy chinin the air, his bull-neck not detracting from his physicalhandsomeness, but giving it a seal of enormous strength. 

"My dear fellow, " he cried, grasping my hand heartily, "how glad I amto see you. Come along in and let mother give you some tea. Nonsense!"he waved away my protest. "Marigold, stop that engine and bring in theMajor. I've got lots of things to tell you. That's right. "

He strode boyishly to the front door, which he threw open wide to admitMarigold and myself and followed us with Mrs. Boyce into thedrawing-room, talking all the while. I must confess that I was just alittle puzzled by his exuberant welcome. And, to judge by the blankexpression that flitted momentarily over her face, so was his mother. If he were so delighted by my visit, why had he not crossed the lawn atonce as soon as he saw the car? Why had he sent his mother on ahead? Iwas haunted by an exchange of words overheard in imagination:

"Confound the fellow! What has he come here for?"

"Mary will say 'not at home. '"

"But he has spotted us. Do go and get rid of him. "

"Such an old friend, dear. "

"We haven't time for old fossils. Tell him to go and bury himself. "

And (in my sensitive fancy) she had delivered the import of themessage. I had gathered that my visit was ill-timed. I was preparing tocut it short, when Leonard himself came up and whisked me against mywill to the tea-table. If my hypothesis were correct he had evidentlychanged his mind as to the desirability of getting rid, in so summary afashion, of what he may have considered to be an impertinent andmalicious little factor in Wellingsford gossip. 

At any rate, if he was playing a part, he played it very well. It wasnot in the power of man to be more cordial and gracious. He gave me avivid account of the campaign. He had been through everything, theretreat from Mons, the Battle of the Aisne, the great rush north, andthe Battle of Neuve Chapelle on the 17th of March. I listened, fascinated, to his tale, which he told with a true soldier's impersonalmodesty. 

"I was glad, " said I, after a while, "to see you twice mentioned indispatches. "

Mrs. Boyce turned on me triumphantly. "He is going to get his D. S. O. "

"By Jove!" said I. 

Leonard laughed, threw one gaitered leg over the other and held up hishands at her. 

"Oh, you feminine person!" He smiled at me. "I told my dear old motheras a dead and solemn secret. "

"But it will be gazetted in a few days, dear. "

"One can never be absolutely sure of these things until they're inblack and white. A pretty ass I'd look if there was a hitch--saythrough some fool of a copying clerk--and I didn't get it after all. It's only dear, silly understanding things like mothers that wouldunderstand. Other people wouldn't. Don't you think I'm right, Meredyth?"

Of course he was. I have known, in my time, of many disappointments. Itis not every recommendation for honours that becomes effective. Icongratulated him, however, and swore to secrecy. 

"It's all luck, " said he. "Just because a man happens to be spotted. Ifmy regiment got its deserts, every Jack man would walk about in a suitof armour made of Victoria Crosses. Give me some more tea, mother. "

"The thing I shall never understand, dear, " she said, artlessly, looking up at him, while she handed him his cup, "is when you see a lotof murderous Germans rushing at you with guns and shells and bayonets, how you are not afraid. "

He threw back his head and laughed in his debonair fashion; but Iwatched him narrowly and I saw the corners of his mouth twitch for theinfinitesimal fraction of a second. 

"Oh, sometimes we're in an awful funk, I assure you, " he replied gaily. "Ask Meredyth. "

"We may be, " said I, "but we daren't shew it--I'm speaking of officers. If an officer funks he's generally responsible for the death ofgoodness knows how many men. And if the men funk they're liable to beshot for cowardice in the face of the enemy. "

"And what happens to officers who are afraid?"

"If it's known, they get broke, " said I. 

Boyce swallowed his tea at a gulp, set down the cup, and strode to thewindow. There was a short pause. Presently he turned. 

"Physical fear is a very curious thing, " he said in a voiceunnecessarily loud. "I've seen it take hold of men of proved courageand paralyse them. It's just like an epileptic fit--beyond a man'scontrol. I've known a fellow--the most reckless, hare-brained daredevilyou can imagine--to stand petrified with fear on the bank of a river, and let a wounded comrade drown before his eyes. And he was a goodswimmer too. "

"What happened to him?" I asked. 

He met my gaze for a moment, looked away, and then met it again--itseemed defiantly. 

"What happened to him? Well--" there was the tiniest possible pause--apause that only an uneasy, suspicious repository of the abominablestory of Vilboek's Farm could have noticed--"Well, as he stood there hegot plugged--and that was the end of him. But what I--"

"Was he an officer, dear?"

"No, no, mother, a sergeant, " he answered abruptly, and in the samebreath continued. "What I was going to say is this. No one as far as Iknow has ever bothered to work out the psychology of fear. Especiallythe sudden thing that hits a man's heart and makes him standstock-still like a living corpse--unable to move a muscle--all hiswillpower out of gear--just as a motor is out of gear. I've seen a lotof it. Those men oughtn't to be called cowards. It's as much a fit, say, as epilepsy. Allowances ought to made for them. "

It was a warm day, the windows were closed, my valetudinarian hostesshaving a horror of draughts, and a cheery fire was blazing up thechimney. Boyce took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. 

"Dear old mother, " said he, "you keep this room like an oven. "

"It is you who have got so excited talking, dear, " said Mrs. Boyce. "I'm sure it can't be good for your heart. It is just the same with me. I remember I had to speak quite severely to Mary a week--no, to-day'sTuesday--ten days ago, and I had dreadful palpitations afterwards andbroke out into a profuse perspiration and had to send for Doctor Miles. "

"Now, that's funny, " said I. "When I'm excited about anything I growquite cold. "

Boyce lit a cigarette and laughed. "I don't see where the excitement inthe present case comes in. Mother started an interesting hare, and Ifollowed it up. Anyhow--" he threw himself on the sofa, blew a kiss tohis mother in the most charming way in the world, and smiled onme--"anyhow, to see you two in this dearest bit of dear old England islike a dream. And I'm not going to think of the waking up. I want allthe cushions and the lavender and the neat maid's caps and aprons--Isaid to Mary this morning when she drew my curtains: 'Stay just thereand let me look at you so that I can realise I'm at home and not in mylittle grey trench in West Flanders'--she got red and no doubt thoughtme a lunatic and felt inclined to squawk--but she stayed and lookedjolly pretty and refreshing--only for a minute or two, after which Idismissed her--yes, my dears, I want everything that the old lifemeans, the white table linen, the spring flowers, the scent of the airwhich has never known the taint of death, and all that this beautifulmother of England, with her knitting needles, stands for. I want tohave a debauch of sweet and beautiful things. "

"As far as I can give them you shall have them. My dear--" she droppedher knitting in her lap and looked over at him tragically--"I quiteforgot to ask. Did Mary put bath-salts, as I ordered, into your baththis morning?"

Leonard threw away his cigarette and slapped his leg. 

"By George!" he cried. "That explains it. I was wondering where theDickens that smell of ammonia came from. "

"If you use it every day it makes your skin so nice and soft, " remarkedMrs. Boyce. 

He laughed, and made the obvious jest on the use of bath-salts in thetrenches. 

"I wonder, mother, whether you have any idea of what trenches anddug-outs look like. "

He told her, very picturesquely, and went on to a general sketch oflife at the front. He entertained me with interesting talk for the restof my visit. I have already said that he was a man of great personalcharm. 

He accompanied me to the car and saw me comfortably tucked in. 

"You won't give me away, will you?" he said, shaking hands. 

"How?" I asked. 

"By telling any one I'm here. "

I promised and drove off. Marigold, full of the tea that is given to aguest, strove cheerfully to engage me in conversation. I hate to snubMarigold, excellent and devoted fellow, so I let him talk; but my mindwas occupied with worrying problems. 

CHAPTER VI

Leonard Boyce had received me on sufferance. I had come upon him whilehe was imprudently exposing himself to view. There had been no way outof it. But he made it clear that he desired no other Wellingsfordian toinvade his privacy. Secretly he had come to see his mother and secretlyhe intended to go. I remembered that before he went to the front he hadnot come home, but his mother had met him in London. He had asked mefor no local news. He had inquired after the welfare of none of his oldfriends. Never an allusion to poor Oswald Fenimore's gallant death--heused to run in and out of Wellings Park as if it were his own house. What had he against the place which for so many years had been his home?

With regard to Betty Fairfax, he had loved and ridden away, it is true, leaving her disconsolate. But though everyone knew of the engagement, no one had suspected the defection. Betty was a young woman who couldkeep her own counsel and baffle any curiosity-monger or purveyor ofgossip in the country. So when she married Captain Connor, a littlegasp went round the neighbourhood, which for the first time rememberedLeonard Boyce. There were some who blamed her for callous treatment ofBoyce, away and forgotten at the front. The majority, however, took thematter calmly, as we have had to take far more amazing socialconvulsions. The fact remained that Betty was married, and there was noreason whatever, on the score of the old engagement, for Boyce tomanifest such exaggerated shyness with regard to Wellingsford society. 

If it had been any other man than Boyce, I should not have worriedabout the matter at all. Save that I was deeply attached to Betty, whathad her discarded lover's attitude to do with me? But Boyce was Boyce, the man of the damnable story of Vilboek's Farm. And he, of his ownaccord, had revived in my mind that story in all its intensity. Achance foolish question, such as thousands of gentle, sheltered womenhave put to their suddenly, uncomprehended, suddenly deified sons andhusbands, had obviously disturbed his nervous equilibrium. That littlereflex twitch at the corner of his lips--I have seen it often in theold times. I should like to have had him stripped to the waist so thatI could have seen his heart--the infallible test. At moments of mightymoral strain men can keep steady eyes and nostrils and mouth andspeech; but they cannot control that tell-tale diaphragm of flesh overthe heart. I have known it to cause the death of many a Kaffir spy. .. . But, at any rate, there was the twitch of the lips . .. I deliberatelythrew weight into the scale of Mrs. Boyce's foolish question. If he hadnot lost his balance, why should he have launched into an almostpassionate defence of the physical coward?

My memory went back to the narrative of the poor devil in the Cape Townhospital. Boyce's description of the general phenomenon was a deadlycorroboration of Somers's account of the individual case. They had usedthe same word--"paralysed. " Boyce had made a fierce and definiteapologia for the very act of which Somers had accused him. He put itdown to the sudden epilepsy of fear for which a man was irresponsible. Somers's story had never seemed so convincing--the first part of it, atleast--the part relating to the paralysis of terror. But the secondpart--the account of the diabolical ingenuity by means of which Boycerehabilitated himself--instead of blowing his brains out like agentleman--still hammered at the gates of my credulity. 

Well--granted the whole thing was true--why revive it after fifteenyears' dead silence, and all of a sudden, just on account of an idlequestion? Even in South Africa, his "mention" had proved his courage. Now, with the D. S. O. A mere matter of gazetting, it was establishedbeyond dispute. 

On the other hand, if the Vilboek story, more especially the secondpart, was true, what reparation could he make in the eyes of honourablemen?--in his own eyes, if he himself had succeeded to the status of anhonourable man? Would not any decent soldier smite him across the faceinstead of grasping him by the hand? I was profoundly worried. 

Moreover Betty, level-headed Betty, had called him a devil. Why?

If the second part of Somers's story were true, he had acted like adevil. There is no other word for it. Now, what concrete diabolicalfacts did Betty know? Or had her instinctive feminine insight piercedthrough the man's outer charm and merely perceived horns, tail, andcloven hoof cast like a shadow over his soul?

How was I to know?

She came to dine with me the next evening: a dear way she had of cominguninvited, and God knows how a lonely cripple valued it. She was inuniform, being too busy to change, and looked remarkably pretty. Shebrought with her a cheery letter from her husband, received thatmorning, and read me such bits as the profane might hear, her eyesbrightening as she glanced over the sections that she skipped. Beyonddoubt her marriage had brought her pleasure and pride. The pride shewould have felt to some extent, I think, if she had married a grampus;for when a woman has a husband at the front she feels that she istaking her part in the campaign and exposing herself vicariously tohardship and shrapnel; and in the eyes of the world she gains thereby alittle in stature, a thing dear to every right-minded woman. ButBetty's husband was not a grampus, but a very fine fellow, a mate to bewholly proud of: and he loved her devotedly and expressed his lovebeautifully loverwise, as her tell-tale face informed me. Gratefullyand sturdily she had set herself out to be happy. She wassucceeding. .. . Lord bless you! Millions of women who have married, notthe wretch they loved, but the other man, have lived happy ever after. No: I had no fear for Betty now. I could not see that she had any fearfor herself. 

After dinner she sat on the floor by my side and smoked cigarettes ingreat content. She had done a hard day's work at the hospital; herhusband had done a hard day's work--probably was still doing it--inFlanders. Both deserved well of their country and their consciences. She was giving a poor lonely paralytic, who had given his legs yearsago to the aforesaid country, a delightful evening. . .. No, I'm quitesure such a patronising thought never entered my Betty's head. Afterall, my upper half is sound, and I can talk sense or nonsense withanybody. What have one's legs to do with a pleasant after-dinnerconversation? Years ago I swore a great oath that I would see themdamned before they got in the way of my intelligence. 

We were getting on famously. We had put both war and Wellingsfordbehind us, and talked of books. I found to my dismay that this fair andfearless high product of modernity had far less acquaintance withMatthew Arnold than with the Evangelist of the same praenomen. She hadnever heard of "The Forsaken Merman, " one of the most haunting romanticpoems in the English language. I pointed to a bookcase and bade herfetch the volume. She brought it and settled down again by my chair, and, as a punishment of ignorance, and for the good of her soul, Ibegan to read aloud. She is an impressionable young person and yet oneof remarkable candour. If she had not been held by the sea-music of thepoem, she would not have kept her deep, steady brown eyes fixed on me. I have no hesitation in repeating that we were getting on famously andenjoying ourselves immensely. I got nearly to the end:

". .. Here came a mortal, But faithless was she, And alone dwell foreverThe Kings of the sea. But, children at midnight--"

The door opened wide. Topping his long stiff body, Marigold's uglyone-eyed head appeared, and, as if he was tremendously proud ofhimself, he announced:

"Major Boyce. "

Boyce strode quickly past him and, suddenly aware of Betty by my side, stopped short, like a private suddenly summoned to attention. Marigold, unconscious of the blackest curses that had ever fallen upon him duringhis long and blundering life, made a perfect and self-satisfied exit. Betty sprang to her feet, held her tall figure very erect, and facedthe untimely visitor, her cheeks flushing deep red. For an appreciabletime, say, thirty seconds, Boyce stood stock still, looking at her fromunder heavy contracted brows. Then he recovered himself, smiled, andadvanced to her with outstretched hand, But, on his movement, she hadbeen quick to turn and bend down in order to pick up the book that hadfallen from my fingers on the further side of my chair. So, swiftly hewheeled to me with his handshake. It was very deft manoeuvring on bothsides. 

"The faithful Marigold didn't tell me that you weren't alone, Meredyth, " he said in his cordial, charming way. "Otherwise I shouldn'thave intruded. But my dear old mother had an attack of something andwent to bed immediately after dinner, and I thought I'd come round andhave a smoke and a drink in your company. "

Betty, who had occupied herself by replacing Matthew Arnold's poems inthe bookcase, caught up the box of cigars that lay on the brass traytable by my side, and offered it to him. 

"Here is the smoke, " she said. 

And when, after a swift, covert glance at her, he had selected a cigar, she went to the bell-push by the mantelpiece. 

"The drinks will be here in a minute. "

In order to do something to save this absurd situation, I drew from mywaistcoat pocket a little cigar-cutter attached to my watch-chain, andclipped the end of his cigar. I also lit a match from my box and handedit up to him. When he had finished with the match he threw it into thefireplace and turned to Betty. 

"My congratulations are a bit late, but I hope I may offer them. "

She said, "Thank you. " Waved a hand. "Won't you sit down?"

"Wasn't it rather sudden?" he asked. 

"Everything in war time is sudden--except the action of the BritishGovernment. Your own appearance to-night is sudden. "

He laughed at her jest and explained, much as he had done to me, hisreasons for wishing to keep his visit to Wellingsford a secret. Meanwhile Marigold had brought in decanters and syphons. Betty attendedto Boyce's needs with a provoking air of nonchalance. If a notoriousGerman imbrued in the blood of babes had chanced to be in her hospital, she would have given him his medicine with just the same air. Althoughno one could have specified a lack of courtesy towards a guest--for inmy house she played hostess--there was an indefinable touch of coldcontumely in her attitude. Whether he felt the hostility as acutely asI did, I cannot say; but he carried it off with a swaggering grace. Hebowed to her over his glass. 

"Here's to the fortunate and gallant fellow over there. "

I saw her knuckles whiten as, with an inclination of the head, sheacknowledged the toast. 

"By the way, " said he, "what's his regiment? My good mother told me hisname. Captain Connor, isn't it? But for the rest she is vague. She'sthe vaguest old dear in the world. I found out to-day that she thoughtthere was a long row of cannons, hundreds of them, all in a line, infront of the English Army, and a long row in front of the German Army, and, when there was a battle, that they all blazed away. So when Iasked her whether your husband was in the Life Guards or the ArmyService Corps, she said cheerfully that it was either one or the otherbut she wasn't quite sure. So do give me some reliable information. "

"My husband is in the 10th Wessex Fusiliers, a Territorial battalion, "she replied coldly. 

"I hope some day to have the pleasure of making his acquaintance. "

"Stranger things have happened, " said Betty. She glanced at the clockand rose abruptly. "It's time I was getting back to the hospital. "

Boyce rose too. "How are you going?" he asked. 

"I'm walking. "

He advanced a step towards her. "Won't you let me run you round in thecar?"

"I prefer to walk. "

Her tone was final. She took affectionate leave of me and went to thedoor, which Boyce held open. 

"Good-night, " she said, without proffering her hand. 

He followed her out into the hall. 

"Betty, " he said in a low voice, "won't you ever forgive me?"

"I have no feelings towards you either of forgiveness or resentment, "she replied. 

They did not mean to be overheard, but my hearing is unusually acute, and I could not help catching their conversation. 

"I know I seem to have behaved badly to you. "

"You have behaved worse to others, " said Betty. "I don't wonder at yourshrinking from showing your face here. " Then, louder, for my benefit. "Good-night, Major Boyce. I really can walk up to the hospital bymyself. "

Evidently she walked away and Boyce after her, for I heard him say:

"You shan't go till you've told me what you mean. "

What she replied I don't know. To judge by the slam of the front doorit must have been something defiant. Presently he entered debonair, with a smile on his lips. 

"I'm afraid I've left you in a draught, " he said, shutting the door. "Icouldn't resist having a word with her and wishing her happiness andthe rest of it. We were engaged once upon a time. "

"I know, " said I. 

"I hope you don't think I did wrong in releasing her from theengagement. I don't consider a man has a right to go on activeservice--especially on such service as the present war--and keep a girlbound at home. Still less has he a right to marry her. What happens inso many cases? A fortnight's married life. The man goes to the front. Then ping! or whizz-bang! and that's the end of him, and so the girl isleft. "

"On the other hand, " said I, "you must remember that the girl may holdvery strong opinions and take pings and whizz-bangs very deliberatelyinto account. "

Boyce helped himself to another whisky and soda. "It's a matter for theindividual conscience. I decided one way. Connor obviously decidedanother, and, like a lucky fellow, found Betty of his way of thinking. Perhaps I have old-fashioned notions. " He took a long pull at hisdrink. "Well, it can't be helped, " he said with a smile. "The otherfellow has won, and I must take it gracefully. . .. By George! wasn'tshe looking stunning to-night--in that kit? . .. I hope you didn't mindmy bursting in on you--"

"Of course not, " said I, politely. 

He drained his glass. "The fact is, " said he, "this war is anerve-racking business. I never dreamed I was so jumpy until I camehome. I hate being by myself. I've kept my poor devoted mother up tillone o'clock in the morning. To-night she struck, small blame to her;but, after five minutes on my lones, I felt as if I should go off myhead. So I routed out the car and came along. But of course I didn'texpect to see Betty. The sight of Betty in the flesh as a married womannearly bowled me over. May I help myself again?" He poured out a verymuch stiffer drink than before, and poured half of it down his throat. "It's not a joyous thing to see the woman one has been crazy over thewife of another fellow. "

"I suppose it isn't, " said I. 

Of course I might have made some subtle and cunning remark, suavely puta leading question which would have led him on, in his unbalanced mood, to confidential revelations. But the man was a distinguished soldierand my guest. To what he chose to tell me voluntarily I could listen. Icould do no more. He did not reply to my last unimportant remark, butlay back in his armchair watching the blue spirals of smoke from theend of his cigar. There was a fairly long silence. 

I was worried by the talk I had overheard through the open door. "Youhave behaved worse to others. I don't wonder at your shrinking fromshowing your face here. " Betty had, weeks ago, called him a devil. Shehad treated him to-night in a manner which, if not justified, wasabominable. I was forced to the conclusion that Betty was fully awareof some discreditable chapter in the man's life which had nothing to dowith the affair at Vilboek's Farm, which, indeed, had to do withanother woman and this humdrum little town of Wellingsford. Otherwisewhy did she taunt him with hiding from the light of Wellingsfordian day?

Now, please don't think me little-minded. Or, if you do think so, please remember the conditions under which I have lived for so manyyears and grant me your kind indulgence for a confession I have tomake. Besides being worried, I felt annoyed. Wellingsford was my littleworld. I knew everybody in it. I had grown to regard myself as therepository of all its gossip. The fraction of it that I retailed was amatter of calculated discretion. I made a little hobby--it was afoible, a vanity, what you will--of my omniscience. I knew months aheadthe dates of the arrivals of young Wellingsfordians in this world ofpain and plenitude. I knew of maidens who were wronged and youths whowere jilted; of wives who led their husbands a deuce of a dance, and ofwives who kept their husbands out of the bankruptcy court. When youngTrexham, the son of the Lord Lieutenant of the county, married a minorlight of musical comedy at a registrar's office, I was the first personin the place to be told; and I flatter myself that I was instrumentalin inducing a pig-headed old idiot to receive an exceedingly charmingdaughter-in-law. I loved to look upon Wellingsford as an open book. Canyou blame me for my resentment at coming across, so to speak, a coupleof pages glued together? The only logical inference from Betty's remarkwas that Boyce had behaved abominably and even notoriously to a womanin Wellingsford. To do him justice, I declare I had never heard hisname associated with any woman or girl in the place save Betty herself. I felt that, in some crooked fashion, or the other, I had been done outof my rights. 

And there, placidly smoking his cigar and watching the wreaths of bluesmoke with the air of an idle seraph contemplating a wisp of cirrus inHeaven's firmament, sat the man who could have given me the word of theenigma. 

He broke the silence by saying:

"Have you ever seriously considered the real problems of the Balkans?"

Now what on earth had the Balkans to do with the thoughts that musthave been rolling at the back of the man's mind? I was bothdisappointed and relieved. I expected him to resume the personal talk, and I dreaded lest he should entrust me with embarrassing confidences. After three strong whiskies and sodas a man is apt to relax hold of hisdiscretion. .. . Anyhow, he jerked me back to my position of host. I madesome sort of polite reply. He smiled. 

"You, my dear Meredyth, like the rest of the country, are half asleep. In a few months' time you'll get the awakening of your life. "

He began to discourse on the diplomatic situation. Months afterwards Iremembered what he had said that night and how accurate had been hisforecast. He talked brilliantly for over an hour, during which, keenlyinterested in his arguments, I lost the puzzle of the man in admirationof the fine soldier and clear and daring thinker. It was only when hehad gone that I began to worry again. 

And before I went to sleep I had fresh cause for anxious speculation. 

"Marigold, " said I, when he came in as usual to carry me to bed, "didn't I tell you that Major Boyce particularly wanted no one to knowthat he was in the town?"

"Yes, sir, " said Marigold. "I've told nobody. "

"And yet you showed him in without informing him that Mrs. Connor washere. Really you ought to have had more tact. "

Marigold received his reprimand with the stolidity of the old soldier. I have known men who have been informed that they would becourt-martialled and most certainly shot, make the same reply. 

"Very good, sir, " said he. 

I softened. I was not Marigold's commanding officer, but his verygrateful friend. "You see, " said I, "they were engaged before Mrs. Connor married--I needn't tell you that; it was common knowledge--andso their sudden meeting was awkward. "

"Mrs. Marigold has already explained, sir, " said he. 

I chuckled inwardly all the way to my bedroom. 

"All the same, sir, " said he, aiding me in my toilet, which he did withstiff military precision, "I don't think the Major is as incognighto"(the spelling is phonetic) "as he would like. Prettilove was shaving methis morning and told me the Major was here. As I considered it myduty, I told him he was a liar, and he was so upset that he nicked myAdam's apple and I was that covered with blood that I accused him oftrying to cut my throat, and I went out and finished shaving myself athome, which is unsatisfactory when you only have a thumb on your righthand to work the razor. "

I laughed, picturing the scene. Prettilove is an inoffensive littlerabbit of a man. Marigold might sit for the model of a war-scarredmercenary of the middle ages, and when he called a man a liar he did itwith accentuaton and vehemence. No wonder Prettilove jumped. 

"And then again this evening, sir, " continued Marigold, slipping meinto my pyjama jacket, "as I was starting the Major's car, who shouldbe waiting there for him but Mr. Gedge. "

"Gedge?" I cried. 

"Yes, sir. Waiting by the side of the car. 'Can I have a word with you, Major Boyce?' says he. 'No, you can't, ' says the Major. 'I think it'sadvisable, ' says he. 'Those repairs are very pressing. ' 'All right, 'says the Major, 'jump in. ' Then he says: 'That'll do, Marigold. Good-night. ' And he drives off with Mr. Gedge. Well, if Mr. Gedge andPrettilove know he's here, then everyone knows it. "

"Was Gedge inside the drive?" I asked. The drive was a smallsemicircular sort of affair, between gate and gate. 

"He was standing by the car waiting, " said Marigold. "Now, sir. " Helifted me with his usual cast-iron tenderness into bed and pulled thecoverings over me. "It's a funny time to talk about house repairs ateleven o'clock, at night, " he remarked. 

"Nothing is funny in war-time, " said I. 

"Either nothing or everything, " said Marigold. He fussed methodicallyabout the room, picked up an armful of clothes, and paused by the door, his hand on the switch. 

"Anything more, sir?"

"Nothing, thank you, Marigold. "

"Good-night, sir. "

The room was in darkness. Marigold shut the door. I was alone. 

What the deuce was the meaning of this waylaying of Boyce by DanielGedge?

CHAPTER VII

"Major Boyce has gone, sir, " said Marigold, the next morning, as I wastapping my breakfast egg. 

"Gone?" I echoed. Boyce had made no reference the night before to sospeedy a departure. 

"By the 8. 30 train, sir. "

Every train known by a scheduled time at Wellingsford goes to London. There may be other trains proceeding from the station in the oppositedirection but nobody heeds them. Boyce had taken train to London. Iasked my omniscient sergeant:

"How did you find that out?"

It appeared it was the driver of the Railway Delivery Van. I smiled atBoyce's ostrich-like faith in the invisibility of his hinder bulk. Whatcould occur in Wellingsford without it being known at once to vanmenand postmen and barbers and servants and masters and mistresses? Howcould a man hope to conceal his goings and comings and secret actions?He might just as well expect to take a secluded noontide bath in thefountain in Piccadilly Circus. 

"Perhaps that's why the matter of those repairs was so pressing, sir, "said Marigold. 

"No doubt of it, " said I. 

Marigold hung about, his finger-tips pushing towards me mustard andapples and tulips and everything that one does not eat with egg. But itwas no use. I had no desire to pursue the conversation. I continued mybreakfast stolidly and read the newspaper propped up against thecoffee-pot. So many circumstances connected with Boyce's visit were ofa nature that precluded confidential discussion with Marigold, --thatprecluded, indeed, confidential discussion with anyone else. Thesuddenness of his departure I learned that afternoon from Mrs. Boyce, who sent me by hand a miserable letter characteristically rambling. From it I gathered certain facts. Leonard had come into her bedroom atseven o'clock, awakening her from the first half-hour's sleep she hadenjoyed all night, with the news that he had been unexpectedly summonedback. When she came to think of it, she couldn't imagine how he got thenews, for the post did not arrive till eight o'clock, and Mary said notelegram had been delivered and there had been no call on thetelephone. But she supposed the War Office had secret ways ofcommunicating with officers which it would not be well to make known. The whole of this war, with its killing off of the sons of the bestfamilies in the land, and the sleeping in the mud with one's boots on, to say nothing of not being able to change for dinner, and the way inwhich they knew when to shoot and when not to shoot, was all somysterious that she had long ago given up hope of understanding any ofits details. All she could do was to pray God that her dear boy shouldbe spared. At any rate, she knew the duty of an English mother when thecountry was in danger; so she had sent him away with a brave face andher blessing, as she had done before. But, although English motherscould show themselves Spartans--(she spelt it "Spartians, " dear lady, but no matter)--yet they were women and had to sit at home and weep. Inthe meanwhile, her palpitations had come on dreadfully bad, and so hadher neuritis, and she had suffered dreadfully after eating some fish atdinner which she was sure Pennideath, the fishmonger--she always feltthat man was an anarchist in disguise--had bought out of the condemnedstock at Billingsgate, and none of the doctor's medicines were of theslightest good to her, and she was heartbroken at having to part sosuddenly from Leonard, and would I spare half an hour to comfort an oldwoman who had sent her only son to die for his country and was ready, when it pleased God, if not sooner, to die in the same sacred cause?

So of course I went. The old lady, propped on pillows in an overheatedroom, gave me tea and poured into my ear all the anguish of her simpleheart. In an abstracted, anxious way, she ate a couple of crumpets anda wedge of cake with almond icing, and was comforted. 

We continued our discussion of the war--or rather Leonard, for with herLeonard seemed to be the war. She made some remark deliciously inept--Iwish I could remember it. I made a sly rejoinder. She sat bolt uprightand a flush came into her Dresden-china cheek and her old eyes flashed. 

"You may think I'm a silly old woman, Duncan. I dare say I am. I can'ttake in things as I used to do when I was young. But if Leonard shouldbe killed in the war--I think of it night and day--what I should liketo do would be to drive to the Market Square of Wellingsford and wave aUnion Jack round and round and fall down dead. "

I made some sort of sympathetic gesture. 

"And I certainly should, " she added. 

"My dear friend, " said I, "if I could move from this confounded chair, I would kiss your brave hands. "

And how many brave hands of English mothers, white and delicate, coarseand toil-worn, do not demand the wondering, heart-full homage of us all?

And hundreds of thousands of them don't know why we are fighting. Hundreds of thousands of them have never read a newspaper in theirlives. I doubt whether they would understand one if they tried, I doubtwhether all could read one in the literal sense of the word. We havehad--we have still--the most expensive and rottenest system of primaryeducation in the world, the worst that squabbling sectarians candevise. Arab children squatting round the courtyard of a Mosque andswaying backwards and forwards as they get by heart meaningless bits ofthe Koran, are not sent out into life more inadequately armed withelementary educational weapons than are English children. Our state ofeducation has nominally been systematised for forty-five years, and yetnow in our hospitals we have splendid young fellows in their earlytwenties who can neither read nor write. I have talked with them. Ihave read to them. I have written letters for them. Clean-cut, decent, brave, honourable Englishmen--not gutter-bred Hooligans dragged fromthe abyss by the recruiting sergeant, but men who have thrown up goodemployment because something noble inside them responded to the GreatCall. And to the eternal disgrace of governments in this disastrouslypolitician-ridden land such men have not been taught to read and write. It is of no use anyone saying to me that it is not so. I know of my owncertain intimate knowledge that it is so. 

Even among those who technically have "the Three R's, " I have metscores of men in our Wellingsford Hospital who, bedridden for months, would give all they possess to be able to enjoy a novel--say a volumeof W. W. Jacobs, the writer who above all others has conferred theprecious boon of laughter on our wounded--but to whom the intellectualstrain of following the significance of consecutive words is far toogreat. Thousands and thousands of men have lain in our hospitalsdeprived, by the criminal insanity of party politicians, of theinfinite consolation of books. 

Christ, whom all these politicians sanctimoniously pretend to make sucha fuss of, once said that a house divided against itself cannot stand. And yet we regard this internecine conflict between our preciouspolitical parties as a sacred institution. By Allah, we are a funnypeople!

Of course your officials at the Board of Education--that beautifultimber-headed, timber-hearted, timber-souled structure--could come downon me with an avalanche of statistics. "Look at our results, " they cry. I look. There are certain brains that even our educational systemcannot benumb. A few clever ones, at the cost of enormously expensivemachinery, are sent to the universities, where they learn how to teachothers the important things whereby they achieved their own unimportantsuccess. The shining lights are those whom we turn out as syndicalistleaders and other kinds of anti-patriotic demagogues. We systematicallydeny them the wine of thought, but give them the dregs. But in the pastwe did not care; they were vastly clever people, a credit to ournational system. It gave them chances which they took. We were devilishproud of them. 

On the other hand, the vast mass are sent away with the intellectualequipment of a public school-boy of twelve, and, as I have declared, alarge remnant have not been taught even how to read and write. Thestorm of political controversy on educational matters has centred roundsuch questions as whether the story of Joseph and his Brethren and theParable of the Prodigal Son should be taught to little Baptists by aChurch of England teacher, and what proportion of rates paid by Churchof England ratepayers should go to giving little Baptists a Baptisticaltraining. If there was a Christ who could come down among us, with whatscorching sarcasm would he not shrivel up the Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites, who in His Name have prevented the People from learning howto read and write. 

Look through Hansard. There never has been a Debate in the House ofCommons devoted to the question of Education itself. If the War canteach us any lessons, as a nation--and sometimes I doubt whether itwill--it ought at least to teach us the essential vicious rottenness ofour present educational system. 

This tirade may seem a far cry from Mrs. Boyce and her sister mothers. It is not. I started by saying that there are hundreds of thousands ofBritish mothers, with sons in the Army, who have never read a line ofprint dealing with the war, who have the haziest notion of what it isall about. All they know is that we are fighting Germans, who for someincomprehensible reason have declared themselves to be our enemies;that the Germans, by hearsay accounts, are dreadful people who stickbabies on bayonets and drop bombs on women and children. They reallyknow little more. But that is enough. They know that it is the part ofa man to fight for his country. They would not have their sons becalled cowards. They themselves have the blind, instinctive, andtherefore sacred love of country, which is named patriotism--and theysend forth their sons to fight. 

I stand up to kiss the white and delicate hand of the gentlewoman whosends her boy to the war, for its owner knows as well as I do (or oughtto) all that is involved in this colossal struggle. But to thetoil-worn, coarse-handed mother I go on bended knees; nothingintellectual comes within the range of her ideas. Her boy is fightingfor England. She would be ashamed if he were not. Were she a man shewould fight too. He has gone "with a good 'eart"--the stereotypedphrase with which every English private soldier, tongue-tied, hides theexpression of his unconquerable soul. How many times have I not heardit from wounded men healed of their wounds? I have never heard anythingelse. "The man who says he WANTS to go back is a liar. But if they sendme, I'll go WITH A GOOD 'EART"--The phrase which ought to beimmortalized on every grave in Flanders and France and Gallipoli andMesopotamia. 

 17735 P'V'TE THOMAS ATKINS 1ST GOD'S OWN REG'T HE DIED WITH A GOOD 'EART

So, you see, I looked at this rather silly malade imaginaire of an oldlady with whom I was taking tea, and suddenly conceived for her a vastrespect--even veneration. I say "rather silly. " I had many a timequalified the adjective much more forcibly. I took her to have theintellectual endowment of a hen. But then she flashed out suddenlybefore me an elderly Jeanne d'Arc. That to me Leonard Boyce was suspectdid not enter at all into the question. To her--and that was all thatmattered--he was Sir Galahad, Lancelot, King Arthur, Bayard, St. George, Hector, Lysander, Miltiades, all rolled into one. The passionof her life was spent on him. To do him justice, he had never failed todisplay to her the most tender affection. In her eyes he wasperfection. His death would mean the wiping out of everything betweenEarth and Heaven. And yet, paramount in her envisagement of such atragedy was the idea of a public proclamation of the cause of Englandin which he died. 

In this war the women of England--the women of Great Britain andIreland--the women of the far-flung regions of the British Empire, havetheir part. 

Now and then mild business matters call me up to London. On theseoccasions Marigold gets himself up in a kind of yachting kit which heimagines will differentiate him from the ordinary chauffeur and at thesame time proclaim the dignity of the Meredyth-Marigold establishment. He loves to swagger up the steps of my Service Club and announce myarrival to the Hall Porter, who already, warned by telephone of myadvent, has my little wicker-work tricycle chair in readiness. I thinkhe feels, dear fellow, that he and I are keeping our end up; that, although there are only bits of us left, we are there by inalienableright as part and parcel of the British Army--none of your Territorialsor Kitcheners, but the old original British Army whose prestige andhonour were those of his own straight soul. The Hall Porter is anex-Sergeant-Major, and he and Marigold are old acquaintances, and themeeting of the two warriors is acknowledged by a wink and a militaryjerk of the head. I think it is Marigold that impresses Bunworthy witha respect for me, for that august functionary never fails to descendthe steps and cross the pavement to my modest little two-seater; an actof graciousness which (so I am given to understand by my friends) hewill only perform in the case of Royalty Itself. A mere Field-marshalhas to mount the steps unattended like any subaltern. 

These red-letter days when I drive through the familiar (and nowexciting) hubbub of London, I love (strange taste!) every motoromnibus, every pretty woman, every sandwich-man, every fine youngfellow in khaki, every car-load of men in blue hospital uniform. I lovethe smell of London, the cinematographic picture of London, the thrillof London. To understand what I mean you have only got to get rid ofyour legs and keep your heart and nerves and memories, and live in alittle country town. 

Yes, my visits to London are red-letter days. To get there with anyenjoyment to myself involves such a fussification, and such anunauthorised claim on the services of other people, that my visits arefew and far between. 

A couple of hours in a club smoking-room--to the normal man a mereputting in of time, a vain surcease from boredom, a vacuous habit--isto me, a strange wonder and delight. After Wellingsford the place isresonant with actualities. I hear all sorts of things; mostly lies, Iknow; but what matter? When a man tells me that his cousin knows a manattached as liaison officer to the staff of General Joffre, who hasgiven out confidentially that such and such a thing is going to happenI am all ears. I feel that I am sucked into the great whirlpool of VastEvents. I don't care a bit about being disillusioned afterwards. Theexperience has done me good, made a man of me and sent me back toWellingsford as an oracle. And if you bring me a man who declares thathe does not like being an oracle, I will say to his face that he is anunblushing liar. 

All this is by way of preface to the statement that on the third of May(vide diary) I went to the club. It was just after lunch and the greatsmoking-room was full of men in khaki and men in blue and gold, with asprinkling of men, mostly elderly, in mufti; and from their gilt framesthe full-length portraits of departed men of war in gorgeous uniformslooked down superciliously on their more sadly attired descendants. Igot into a corner by the door, so as to be out of the way, for I knewby experience that should there be in the room a choleric general, hewould inevitably trip over the casually extended front wheel of mychair, greatly to the scandal of modest ears and to my own physicaldiscomfiture. 

Various seniors came up and passed the time of the day with me--one ortwo were bald-headed retired colonels of sixty, dressed in khaki, withbelts like equators on a terrestrial globe and with a captain's threestars on their sleeves. Gallant old boys, full of gout and softness, they had sunk their rank and taken whatever dull jobs, such as guardinginternment camps or railway bridges, the War Office condescendinglythought fit to give them. They listened sympathetically to mygrievances, for they had grievances of their own. When soldiers have nogrievances the Army will perish of smug content. 

"Why can't they give me a billet in the Army Pay and let me release aman sounder of wind and limb?" I asked. "What's the good of legs to aman who sits on his hunkers all day in an office and fills up Armyforms? I hate seeing you lucky fellows in uniform. "

"We're not a pretty sight, " said the most rotund, who was a wag in hisway. 

Then we discussed what we knew and what we didn't know of the Battle ofYpres, and the withdrawal of our Second Army, and shook our headsdolorously over the casualty lists, every one of which in those dayscontained the names of old comrades and of old comrades' boys. And whenthey had finished their coffee and mild cigars they went off wellcontented to their dull jobs and the room began to thin. Otheracquaintances on their way out paused for a handshake and a word, and Igathered scraps of information that had come "straight from Kitchener, "and felt wonderfully wise and cheerful. 

I had been sitting alone for a few minutes when a man rose from a farcorner, a tall soldierly figure, his arm in a sling, and came straighttowards me with that supple, easy stride that only years of confidentcommand can give. He had keen blue eyes and a pleasant bronzed facewhich I knew that I had seem somewhere before. I noticed on his sleevethe crown and star of a lieutenant-colonel. He said pleasantly:

"You're Major Meredyth, aren't you?"

"Yes, " said I. 

"You don't remember me. No reason why you should. But my name'sDacre--Reggie Dacre, brother of Johnnie Dacre in your battery. We metin Cape Town. "

I held out my hand. 

"Of course, " said I. "You took me to a hospital. Do sit down for a bit. You a member here?"

"No. I belong to the Naval and Military. Lunching with old GeneralDonovan, a sort of god-father of mine. He told me who you were. Ihaven't seen you since that day in South Africa. "

I asked for news of Johnnie, who had been lost to my ken for years. Johnnie had been in India, and was now doing splendidly with hisbattery somewhere near La Bassee. I pointed to the sling. Badly hurt?No, a bit of flesh torn by shrapnel. Bone, thank God, not touched. Itwas only horny-headed idiots like the British R. A. M. C. That wouldsend a man home for such a trifle. It was devilish hard lines to behoofed away from the regiment practically just after he had got hiscommand. However, he would be back in a week or two. He laughed. 

"Lucky to be alive at all. "

"Or not done in for ever like myself, " said I. 

"I didn't like to ask--" he said. Men would rather die than commit theindelicacy of appearing to notice my infirmity. 

"You haven't been out there?"

"No such luck, " said I. "I got this little lot about a fortnight afterI saw you. Johnnie was still on sick leave and so was out of thatscrap. "

He commiserated with me on my ill-fortune, and handed me his cigarettecase. We smoked. 

"You've been on my mind for months, " he said abruptly. 

"I?"

He nodded. "I thought I recognised you. I asked the General who youwere. He said 'Meredyth of the Gunners. ' So I knew I was right and madea bee line for you. Do you remember the story of that man in thehospital?"

"Perfectly, " said I. 

"About Boyce of the King's Watch?"

"Yes, " said I. "I saw Boyce, home on leave, about a fortnight ago. Isuppose you saw his D. S. O. Gazetted?"

"I did. And he deserves a jolly sight more, " he exclaimed heartily. "I've come to the conclusion that that fellow in the hospital--I forgetthe brute's name--"

"Somers, " said I. 

"Yes, Somers. I've come to the conclusion that he was the damn'dest, filthiest, lyingest hound that ever was pupped. "

"I'm glad to hear it, " said I. "It was a horrible story. I remembermaking your brother and yourself vow eternal secrecy. "

"You can take it from me that we haven't breathed a word to anybody. Asa matter of fact, the whole damn thing had gone out of my head foryears. Then I begin to hear of a fellow called Boyce of the Riflesdoing the most crazy magnificent things. I make enquiries and find it'sthe same Leonard Boyce of the Vilboek Farm story. We're in the sameBrigade. 

"You don't often hear of individual men out there--your mind's toojolly well concentrated on your own tiny show. But Boyce has sort ofburst out beyond his own regiment and, with just one or two others, isbeginning to be legendary. He has done the maddest things and won theV. C. Twenty times over. So that blighter Somers, accusing him ofcowardice, was a ghastly liar. And then I remembered taking you up tohear that damnable slander, and I felt that I had a share in it, as faras you were concerned, and I longed to get at you somehow and tell youabout it. I wanted to get it off my chest. And now, " said he with abreath of relief, "thank God, I've been able to do so. "

"I wish you would tell me of an incident or two, " said I. 

"He has got a life-preserver that looks like an ordinary cane--had itspecially made. It's quite famous. Men tell me that the knob is a rich, deep, polished vermilion. He'll take on any number of Boches with itsingle-handed. If there's any sign of wire-cutting, he'll not let themen fire, but will take it on himself, and creep like a Gurkha and dothe devils in. One night he got a whole listening post like that. Hedoes a lot of things a second in command hasn't any business to do, buthis men would follow him anywhere. He bears a charmed life. I couldtell you lots of things--but I see my old General's getting restive. "He rose, stretched out his hand. "At any rate, take my word for it--ifthere's a man in the British Army who doesn't know what fear is, thatman is Leonard Boyce. "

He nodded in his frank way and rejoined his old General. As I had hadenough exciting information for one visit to town, I motored back toWellingsford. 

CHAPTER VIII

My house, as I have already mentioned, is situated at the extreme endof the town on the main road, already called the Rowdon Road, which isan extension of the High Street. It stands a little way back to allowroom for a semicircular drive, at each end of which is a broad gate. The semicircle encloses a smooth-shaven lawn of which I am vastlyproud. In the spandrels by the side of the house are laburnums andlilacs and laurels. From gate to gate stretch iron railings, planted ina low stone parapet and unencumbered with vegetation, so that the viewfrom road to lawn and from lawn to road is unrestricted. Thus I cantake up my position on my lawn near the railings and greet allpassers-by. 

It was a lovely May morning. My laburnums and lilacs were in flower. Onthe other side of the way the hedge of white-thorn screening thegrounds of a large preparatory school was in flower also, anddeliciously scented the air. I sat in my accustomed spot, a table withwriting materials, tobacco, and books by my side, and a mass ofnewspapers at my feet. There was going to be a coalition Government. Great statesmen were going to forget that there was such a thing asparty politics, except in the distribution of minor offices, when theclaims of good and faithful jackals on either side would have to beconsidered. And my heart grew sick within me, and I longed for a Man toarise who, with a snap of his strong fingers, would snuff out theLittle Parish-Pump Folk who have misruled England this many a year withtheir limited vision and sordid aspirations, and would take the great, unshakable, triumphant command of a mighty Empire passionately yearningto do his bidding. .. I could read no more newspapers. They disgustedme. One faction seemed doggedly opposed to any proposition for theamelioration of the present disastrous state of affairs. The salvationof wrecked political theories loomed far more important in theirdarkened minds than the salvation, by hook or crook, of the BritishEmpire. The other faction, more patriotic in theory, cried aloudstinking fish, and by scurrilous over-statement defeated their ownends. In the general ignoble screech the pronouncements of the one ortwo dignified and thoughtful London newspapers passed unheeded. .. . 

I drew what comfort I could from the sight of the continually passingtroops; a platoon off to musketry training; a battalion, brown anddusty, on a route march with full equipment, whistling "Tipperary";sections of an Army Service train cursing good-humouredly at theirmules; a battery of artillery thundering along at a clean, rhythmicaltrot which, considering what they were like in their slovenly joggingand bumping three months ago, afforded me prodigious pleasure. On thepassing of these last-mentioned I felt inclined to clap my hands andgenerally proclaim my appreciation. Indeed, I did arrest a fresh-facedsubaltern bringing up the rear of the battery who, having acquaintancewith me, saluted, and I shouted:

"They're magnificent!"

He reared up his horse and flushed with pleasure. 

"We've done our best, sir, " said he. "We had news last week that weshould be sent out quite soon, and that has bucked them up enormously. "

He saluted again and rode off, and my heart went with him. What a joyit would be to clatter down a road once again with the guns!

And other people passed. Townsfolk who gave me a kindly "Morning, Major!" and went on, and others who paused awhile and gave me thegossip of the day. And presently young Randall Holmes went by on amotor bicycle. He caught sight of me, disappeared, and then suddenlyreappeared, wheeling his machine. He rested it by the kerb of thesidewalk and approached the railings. He was within a yard of me. 

"Would you let me speak to you for half a minute, Major?"

"Certainly, " said I. "Come in. "

He swung through the gate and crossed the lawn. 

"You said very hard things to me some time ago. "

"I did, " said I, "and I don't think they were undeserved. "

"Up to a certain point I agree with you, " he replied. 

He looked extraordinarily robust and athletic in his canvas kit. Whyshould he be tearing about aimlessly on a motor bicycle this Maymorning when he ought to be in France?

"I wish you agreed with me all along the line, " said I. 

He found a little iron garden seat and sat down by my side. 

"I don't want to enter into controversial questions, " he said. 

Confound him! He might have been fifty instead of four-and-twenty. Controversial questions! His assured young Oxford voice irritated me. 

"What do you want to enter into?" I asked. 

"A question of honour, " he answered calmly. "I have been wanting tospeak to you, but I didn't like to. Passing you by, just now, I made asudden resolution. You have thought badly of me on account of myattitude towards Phyllis Gedge. I want to tell you that you were quiteright. My attitude was illogical and absurd. "

"You have discovered, " said I, "that she is not the inspiration youthought she was, and like an honest man have decided to let her alone. "

"On the contrary, " said he. "I'd give the eyes out of my head to marryher. "

"Why?"

He met my gaze very frankly. "For the simple reason, Major Meredyth, that I love her. "

All this natural, matter-of-fact simplicity coming from so artificial aproduct of Balliol as Randall Holmes, was a bit upsetting. After apause, I said:

"If that is so, why don't you marry her?"

"She'll have nothing to do with me. "

"Have you asked her?"

"I have, in writing. There's no mistake about it. I'm in earnest. "

"I'm exceedingly glad to hear it, " said I. 

And I was. An honest lover I can understand, and a Don Juan I canunderstand. But the tepid philanderer has always made my toes tingle. And I was glad, too, to hear that little Phyllis Gedge had so muchdignity and commonsense. Not many small builders' daughters would havesent packing a brilliant young gentleman like Randall Holmes, especially if they happened to be in love with him. As I did notparticularly wish to be the confidant of this love-lorn shepherd, Isaid nothing more. Randall lit a cigarette. 

"I hope I'm not boring you, " he said. 

"Not a bit. "

"Well--what complicates the matter is that her father's the mostinfernal swine unhung. " I started, remembering what Betty had told me. 

"I thought, " said I, "that you were fast friends. "

"Who told you so?" he asked. 

"All the birds of Wellingsford. "

"I did go to see him now and then, " he admitted. "I thought he was muchmaligned. A man with sincere opinions, even though they're wrong, isdeserving of some respect, especially when the expression of theminvolves considerable courage and sacrifice. I wanted to get to thebottom of his point of view. "

"If you used such a metaphor in the Albemarle, " I interrupted, "I'mafraid you would be sacrificed by your friends. "

He had the grace to laugh. "You know what I mean. "

"And did you get to the bottom of it?"

"I think so. "

"And what did you find?"

"Crass ignorance and malevolent hatred of everyone better born, bettereducated, better off, better dressed, better spoken than himself. "

"Still, " said I, "a human being can have those disabilities and yet notdeserve to be qualified as the most infernal swine unhung. "

"That's a different matter, " said he, unbuttoning his canvas jacket, for the morning was warm. "I can talk patiently to a fool--to be ableto do so is an elementary equipment for a life among men and women--"Why the deuce, thought I, wasn't he expending this precious acquirementon a platoon of agricultural recruits? The officer who suffers suchgladly has his name inscribed on the Golden Legend (unfortunatelyunpublished) of the British Army--"but when it comes, " he went on, "tolow-down lying knavery, then I'm done. I don't know how to tackle it. All I can do is to get out of the knave's way. I've found Gedge to be abeast, and I'm very honourably in love with Gedge's daughter, and I'veasked her to marry me. I attach some value, Major, to your opinion ofme, and I want you, to know these two facts. "

I again expressed my gratification at learning his honourableintentions towards Phyllis, and I commended his discovery of Gedge'sfundamental turpitude. I cannot say that I was cordial. At this period, the unmilitary youth of England were not affectionately coddled bytheir friends. Still, I was curious to see whether Gedge's depravityextended beyond a purely political scope. I questioned my young visitor. 

"Oh, it's nothing to do with abstract opinions, " said he, thinning awaythe butt-end of his cigarette. "And nothing to do with treason, oranything of that kind. He has got hold of a horrible story--told me allabout it when he was foully drunk--that in itself would have made mebreak with him, for I loathe drunken men--and gloats over the fact thathe is holding it over somebody's head. Oh, a ghastly story!"

I bent my brows on him. "Anything to do with South Africa?"

"South Africa--? No. Why?"

The puzzled look on his face showed that I was entirely on the wrongtrack. I was disappointed at the faultiness of my acumen. You see, Iargued thus: Gedge goes off on a mysterious jaunt with Boyce. Boyceretreats precipitately to London. Gedge in his cups tells a horriblescandal with a suggestion of blackmail to Randall Holmes. What elsecould he have divulged save the Vilboek Farm affair? My nimble wit hadled me a Jack o' Lantern dance to nowhere. 

"Why South Africa?" he repeated. 

I replied with Macchiavellian astuteness, so as to put him on a falsescent: "A stupid slander about illicit diamond buying in connectionwith a man, now dead, who used to live here some years ago. "

"Oh, no, " said Randall, with a superior smile "Nothing of that sort. "

"Well, what is it?" I asked. 

He helped himself to another cigarette. "That, " said he, "I can't tellyou. In the first place I gave my word of honour as to secrecy beforehe told me, and, in the next, even if I hadn't given my word, I wouldnot be a party to such a slander by repeating it to any living man. " Hebent forward and looked me straight in the eyes. "Even to you, Major, who have been a second father to me. "

"A man, " said I, "has a priceless possession that he should alwayskeep--his own counsel. "

"I've only told you as much as I have done, " said Randall, "because Iwant to make clear to you my position with regard both to Phyllis andher father. "

"May I ask, " said I, "what is Phyllis's attitude towards her father?" Iknew well enough from Betty; but I wanted to see how much Randall knewabout it. 

"She is so much out of sympathy with his opinions that she has gone tolive at the hospital. "

"Perhaps she thinks you share those opinions, and for that reason won'tmarry you?"

"That may have something to do with it, although I have done my best toconvince her that I hold diametrically opposite views, But you can'texpect a woman to reason. "

"The unexpected sometimes happens, " I remarked. "And then comescatastrophe; in this case not to the woman. " I cannot say that my tonewas sympathetic. I had cause for interest in his artless tale, but itwas cold and dispassionate. "Tell me, " I continued, "when did youdiscover the diabolical nature of the man Gedge?"

"Last night. "

"And when did you ask Phyllis to marry you?"

"A week ago. "

"What's going to happen now?" I asked. 

"I'm hanged if I know, " said he, gloomily. 

I was in no mood to offer the young man any advice. The poor littlewretch at the hospital--so Betty had told me--was crying her eyes outfor him; but it was not for his soul's good that he should know it. 

"In heroic days, " said I, "a hopeless lover always found a sovereignremedy against an obdurate mistress. "

He rose and buttoned up his canvas jacket. 

"I know what you mean, " he said. "And I didn't come to discuss it--ifyou'll excuse my apparent rudeness in saying so. "

"Then things are as they were between us. "

"Not quite, I hope, " he replied in a dignified way. "When last youspoke to me about Phyllis Gedge, I really didn't know my own mind. I amnot a cad and the thought of--of anything wrong never entered my head. On the other hand, marriage seemed out of the question. "

"I remember, " said I, "you talked some blithering rot about her being asymbol. "

"I am quite willing to confess I was a fool, " he admitted gracefully. "And I merited your strictures. "

His reversion to artificiality annoyed me. I'm far from being of anangelic disposition. 

"My dear boy, " I cried. "Do, for God's sake, talk human English, andnot the New Oxford Dictionary. "

He flushed angrily, snapped an impatient finger and thumb, and marchedaway to the gravel path. I sang out sharply:

"Randall!"

He turned. I cried:

"Come here at once. "

He came with sullen reluctance. Afterwards I was rather tickled atrealizing that the lame old war-dog had so much authority left. If hehad gone defiantly off, I should have felt rather a fool. 

"My dear boy, " I said, "I didn't mean to insult you. But can't a cleverfellow like you understand that all the pretty frills and preciousnessof a year ago are as dead as last year's Brussels sprouts? We're upagainst elemental things and can only get at them with elemental ideasexpressed in elemental language. "

"I'd have you to know, " said Randall, "that I spoke classical English. "

"Quite so, " said I. "But the men of to-day speak Saxon English, CockneyEnglish, slang English, any damned sort of English that is virile andspontaneous. As I say, you're a clever fellow. Can't you see my point?Speech is an index of mental attitude. I bet you what you like PhyllisGedge would see it at once. Just imagine a subaltern at the front aftera bad quarter of an hour with his Colonel--'I've merited yourstrictures, sir!' If there was a bomb handy, the Colonel would catch itup and slay him on the spot. "

"But I don't happen to be at the front, Major, " said Randall. 

"Then you damned well ought to be, " said I, in sudden wrath. 

I couldn't help it. He asked for it. He got it. 

He went away, mounted his motor bicycle, and rode off. 

I was sorry. The boy evidently was in a chastened mood. If I hadhandled him gently and diplomatically, I might have done something withhim. I suppose I'm an irritable, nasty-tempered beast. It is easy tolay the blame on my helpless legs. It isn't my legs. I've conquered mydamned legs. It isn't my legs. Its ME. 

I was ashamed of myself. And when, later, Marigold enquired whether thedoors were still shut against Mr. Holmes, I asked him what the blazeshe meant by not minding his own business. And Marigold said: "Verygood, sir. "

CHAPTER IX

For a week or two the sluggish stream of Wellingsfordian life flowed onundisturbed. The chief incident was a recruiting meeting held on theCommon. Sir Anthony Fenimore in his civic capacity, a staff-officerwith red tabs, a wounded soldier, an elderly, eloquent gentleman fromrecruiting headquarters in London, and one or two nondescripts, including myself, were on the platform. A company of a CountyTerritorial Battalion and the O. T. C. Of the Godbury Grammar School gavea semblance of military display. The Town Band, in a sort of Hungarianuniform, discoursed martial music. Old men and maidens, mothers andchildren, and contented young fellows in khaki belonging to all kindsof arms, formed a most respectable crowd. The flower of Wellingsfordianyouth was noticeably absent. They were having too excellent a time tobe drawn into the temptation of a recruiting meeting, in spite of theband and the fine afternoon and the promiscuity of attractive damsels. They were making unheard-of money at the circumjacent factories; theirmothers were waxing fat on billeting-money. They never had so muchmoney to spend on moving-picture-palaces and cheap jewellery for theirinamoratas in their lives. As our beautiful Educational system had mostscrupulously excluded from their school curriculum any reference topatriotism, any rudimentary conception of England as their sacredheritage, and as they had been afforded no opportunity since they leftschool of thinking of anything save their material welfare and grossermaterial appetites, the vague talk of peril to the British Empire leftthem unmoved. They were quite content to let others go and fight. Theyhad their own comfortable theories about it. Some fellows liked thatsort of thing. They themselves didn't. In ordinary times, it amusedthat kind of fellow to belong to a Harriers Club, and clad in shortsand zephyrs, go on Sundays for twenty-mile runs. It didn't amuse them. A cigarette, a girl, and a stile formed their ideal of Sundayenjoyment. They had no quarrel with the harrier fellow or the soldierfellow for following his bent. They were most broad-minded. But theyflattered themselves that they were fellows of a superior and moreintelligent breed. They were making money and living warm, the onlyideal of existence of which they had ever heard, and what did anythingelse matter?

If a man has never been taught that he has a country, how the deuce doyou expect him to love her--still less to defend her with his blood?Our more than damnable governments for the last thirty years have doneeverything in their power to crush in English hearts the nationalspirit of England. God knows I have no quarrel with Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. I speak in no disparagement of them. Quite the reverse. Inthis war they have given freely of their blood. I only speak as anEnglishman of England, the great Mother of the Empire. Scot, Irishman, Welshman, Canadian, Australian are filled with the pride of theirnationality. It is part of their being. Wisely they have been trainedto it from infancy. England, who is far bigger, far more powerful thanthe whole lot of them put together--it's a statistical fact--hasdeliberately sunk herself in her own esteem, in her own pride. Only onegreat man has stood for England, as England, the great Mother, for thelast thirty years. And that man is Rudyard Kipling. And the Little Folkin authority in England have spent their souls in rendering nugatoryhis inspired message. 

This criminal self-effacement of England is at the root of the peril ofthe British Empire during this war. 

I told you at the beginning that I did not know how to write a story. You must forgive me for being led away into divagations which seem tobe irrelevant to the dramatic sequence. But when I remember that theresult of all the pomp and circumstance of that meeting was sevenrecruits, of whom three were rejected as being physically unfit, my penruns away with my discretion, and my conjecturing as to artisticfitness. 

Yes, the Major spoke. Sir Anthony is a peppery little person and theaudience enjoyed the cayenne piquancy of his remarks. The red-tabbedLieutenant-Colonel spoke. He was a bit dull. The elderly orator fromLondon roused enthusiastic cheers. The wounded sergeant, on crutches, displaying a foot like a bandaged mop, brought tears into the eyes ofmany women and evoked hoarse cheers from the old men. I spoke from myinfernal chair, and I think I was quite a success with the good fellowsin khaki. But the only men we wanted to appeal to had studiouslyrefrained from being present. The whole affair was a fiasco. 

When we got home, Marigold, who had stood behind my chair during theproceedings, said to me:

"I think I know personally about thirty slackers in this town, sir, andI'm more than a match for any three of them put together. Suppose I wasto go the rounds, so to speak, and say to each of them, 'You youngblighter, if you don't come with me and enlist, I 'll knock hell out ofyou!'--and, if he didn't come, I did knock hell out of him--whatexactly would happen, sir?"

"You would be summoned, " said I, "for thirty separate cases of assaultand battery. Reckoning the penalty at six months each, you would haveto go to prison for fifteen years. "

Marigold's one eye grew pensive and sad. 

"And they call this, " said he, "a free country!"

I began this chapter by remarking that for a week or two after mysecond interview with Randall Holmes, nothing particular happened. Thenone afternoon came Sir Anthony Fenimore to see me, and with a view toobtaining either my advice or my sympathy, reopened the story of hisdaughter Althea found drowned in the canal eleven months before. 

What he considered a most disconcerting light had just been cast on thetragedy by Maria Beccles. This lady was Lady Fenimore's sister. Adeadly feud, entirely of Miss Beccles' initiating and nourishing, hadexisted between them for years. They had been neither on speaking noron writing terms. Miss Beccles, ten years Lady Fenimore's senior, was, from all I had heard, a most disagreeable and ill-conditioned person, as different from my charming friend Edith Fenimore as the ugly oldsisters were from Cinderella. Although she belonged to a good old Southof England family, she had joined, for reasons known only to herself, the old Free Kirk of Scotland, found a congenial Calvinistic centre inGalloway, and after insulting her English relations and friends in themost unconscionable way, cut herself adrift from them for ever. "Mad asa hatter, " Sir Anthony used to say, and, never having met the lady, Iagreed with him. She loathed her sister, she detested Anthony, and sheappeared to be coldly indifferent to the fact of the existence of hernephew Oswald. But for Althea, and for Althea alone, she entertained acurious, indulgent affection, and every now and then Althea went tospend a week or so in Galloway, where she contrived to obtainconsiderable amusement. Aunt Maria did both herself and her visitorsvery well, said Althea, who had an appreciative eye for the materialblessings of life. Althea walked over the moors and fished and tookAunt Maria's cars out for exercise and, except whistle on the Sabbath, seemed to do exactly what she liked. 

Now, in January 1914, Althea announced to her parents that Aunt Mariahad summoned her for a week to Galloway. Sir Anthony stuffed herhandbag with five-pound notes, and at an early hour of the morning senther up in the car to London in charge of the chauffeur. The chauffeurreturned saying that he had bought Miss Althea's ticket at Euston andseen her start off comfortably on her journey. A letter or two had beenreceived by the Fenimores from Galloway, and letters they had writtento Galloway had been acknowledged by Althea. She returned toWellingsford in due course, with bonny cheeks and wind-swept eyes, andtold us all funny little stories about Aunt Maria. No one thoughtanything more about it until one fine afternoon in May, 1915, whenMaria Beccles walked unexpectedly into the drawing-room of WellingsPark, while Sir Anthony and Lady Fenimore were at tea. 

"My dear Edith, " she said to her astounded hostess, who had not seenher for fifteen years. "In this orgy of hatred and strife that is goingon in the world, it seems ridiculous to go on hating and fighting one'sown family. We must combine against the Germans and hate them. Let usbe friends. "

"Mad as Crazy Jane, " said Sir Anthony, telling me the story. But I, whohad never heard Aunt Maria's side of the dispute, thought it veryhigh-spirited of the old lady to come and hold out the olive-branch inso uncompromising a fashion. 

Lady Fenimore then said that she had never wished to quarrel withMaria, and Sir Anthony declared that her patriotic sentiments did hercredit, and that he was proud to receive her under his roof, and in afew minutes Maria was drinking tea and discussing the war in the mostcontented way in the world. 

"I didn't write to you on the occasion of the death of your twochildren because you knew I didn't like you, " said this outspoken lady. "I hate hypocrisy. Also I thought that tribulation might chasten you inthe eyes of the Lord. I've discussed it with our Minister, a poor body, but a courageous man. He told me I was unchristian. Now, what with allthis universal massacre going on and my unregenerate longing, old womanas I am, to wade knee-deep in German blood, I don't know what the devilI am. "

The more Anthony told me of Aunt Maria, the more I liked her. 

"Can't I come round and make her acquaintance?" I cried. "She's thesort of knotty, solid human thing that I should love. No wonder Altheawas fond of her. "

"This happened a week ago. She only stayed a night, " replied SirAnthony. "I wish to God we had never seen her or heard of her. "

And then the good, heart-wrung little man, who had been beating aboutthe bush for half an hour, came straight to the point. 

"You remember Althea's visit to Scotland in January last year?"

"Perfectly, " said I. 

He rose from his chair and looked at me in wrinkled anguish. 

"She never went there, " he said. 

That was what he had come to tell me. A natural reference to the lastvisit of Althea to her aunt had established the stupefying fact. 

"Althea's last visit was in October, 1913, " said Miss Beccles. 

"But we have letters from your house to prove she was with you inJanuary, " said Sir Anthony. 

Most methodical and correspondence-docketing of men, he went to hislibrary and returned with a couple of letters. 

The old lady looked them through grimly. 

"Pretty vague. No details. Read 'em again, Anthony. "

When he had done so, she said: "Well?"

Lady Fenimore objected: "But Althea did stay with you. She must havestayed with you. "

"All right, Edith, " said Maria, sitting bolt upright. "Call me a liar, and have done with it. I've come here at considerable dislocation ofmyself and my principles, to bury the hatchet for the sake of unityagainst the enemy, and this is how I'm treated. I can only go back toScotland at once. "

Sir Anthony succeeded in pacifying her. The letters were evidence thatEdith and himself believed that Althea was in Galloway at the time. Maria's denial had come upon them like a thunderclap, bewildering, stunning. If Althea was not in Galloway, where was she?

Maria Beccles did not reply for some time to the question. Then shetook the pins out of her hat and threw it on a chair, thus symbolisingthe renunciation of her intention of returning forthwith to Scotland. 

"Yes, Maria, " said Lady Fenimore, with fear in her dark eyes, "we don'tdoubt your word--but, as Anthony has said, if she wasn't with you, where was she?"

"How do I know?"

Maria Beccles pointed a lean finger--she was a dark and shrivelled, gipsy-like creature. "You might as well ask the canal in which shedrowned herself. "

"But, my God, Anthony!" I cried, when he had got thus far, "What didyou think? What did you say?"

I realised that the old lady had her social disqualifications. Plain-dealing is undoubtedly a virtue. But there are several virtueswhich the better class of angel keeps chained up in a dog-kennel. Ofcourse she was acute. A mind trained in the acrobatics of CalvinisticTheology is, within a narrow compass, surprisingly agile. It jumped atone bound from the missing week in Althea's life into the black waterof the canal. It was incapable, however, of appreciating the awfulhorror in the minds of the beholders. 

"I don't know what I said, " replied Sir Anthony, walking restlesslyabout my library. "We were struck all of a heap. As you know, we neverhad reason to think that the poor dear child's death was anything butan accident. We were not narrow-minded old idiots. She was a dear goodgirl. In a modern way she claimed her little independence. We let herhave it. We trusted her. We took it for granted--you know it, Duncan, as well as I do--that, a hot night in June--not able to sleep--she hadstuck on a hat and wandered about the grounds, as she had often donebefore, and a spirit of childish adventure had tempted her, that night, to walk round the back of the town and--and--well, until in the dark, she stepped off the tow-path by the lock gates, into nothing--and foundthe canal. It was an accident, " he continued, with a hand on myshoulder, looking down on me in my chair. "The inquest proved that. Iaccepted it, as you know, as a visitation of God. Edith and I sorrowedfor her like cowards. It took the war to bring us to our senses. But, now, this damned old woman comes and upsets the whole thing. "

"But, " said I, "after all, it was only a bow at a venture on the partof the old lady. "

"I wish it were, " said he, and he handed me a letter which Maria hadwritten to him the day after her return to Scotland. 

The letter contained a pretty piece of information. She had summarilydischarged Elspeth Macrae, her confidential maid of five-and-twentyyears' standing. Elspeth Macrae, on her own confession, had, out oflove for Althea, performed the time-honoured jugglery withcorrespondence. She had posted in Galloway letters which she hadreceived, under cover, from Althea, and had forwarded letters that hadarrived addressed to Althea to an accommodation address in Carlisle. Sohave sentimental serving-maids done since the world began. 

"What do you make of it?" asked Sir Anthony. 

What else could I make of it but the one sorry theory? What womanemploys all this subterfuge in order to obtain a weeks liberty for anyother purpose than the one elementary purpose of young humanity?

We read the inevitable conclusion in each other's eyes. 

"Who is the man, Duncan?"

"I suppose you have searched her desk and things?"

"Last year. Everything most carefully. It was awful--but we had to. Nota scrap of paper that wasn't innocence itself. "

"It can't be anyone here, " said I. "You know what the place is. Theslightest spark sends gossip aflame like the fumes of petrol. "

He sat down by my side and rubbed his close-cropped grey head. 

"It couldn't have been young Holmes?"

The little man had a brave directness that sometimes disconcerted me. Iknew the ghastly stab that every word cost him. 

"She used to make mock of Randall, " said I. "Don't you remember sheused to call him 'the gilded poet'? Once she said he was the mostlady-like young man of her acquaintance. I don't admire our youngfriend, but I think you're on the wrong track, Anthony. "

"I don't see it, " said he. "That sort of flippancy goes for nothing. Women use it as a sort of quickset hedge of protection. " He bentforward and tapped me on my senseless knee. "Young Holmes always usedto be in and out of the house. They had known each other fromchildhood. He had a distinguished Oxford career. When he won theNewdigate, she came running to me with the news, as pleased as Punch. Igave him a dinner in honour of it, if you remember. "

"I remember, " said I. 

I did not remind him that he had made a speech which sent cold shiversdown the spine of our young Apollo; that, in a fine rhetoricalflourish--dear old fox-hunting ignoramus--he declared that the winnerof the Newdigate carried the bays of the Laureate in his knapsack; thatRandall, white-lipped with horror, murmured to Betty Fairfax, hisneighbour at the table: "My God! The Poet-Laureate's unhallowed grave!I must burn the knapsack and take to a hod!" It was too tragical aconversation for light allusion. 

"The poor dear child--Edith and I have sized it up--was all over himthat evening. "

"What more youthfully natural, " said I, "than that she should carry offthe hero of the occasion--her childhood's playfellow?"

"All sorts of apparently insignificant details, Duncan, takentogether--especially if they fit in--very often make up a whole casefor prosecution. "

"You're a Chairman of Quarter Sessions, " I admitted, "and so you oughtto know. "

"I know this, " said he, "that Holmes only spent part of that Christmasvacation with his mother, and went off somewhere or the other early inJanuary. " I cudgelled back my memory into confirmation of hisstatement. To remember trivial incidents before the war takes a lot ofcudgelling. Yes. I distinctly recollected the young man's telling methat Oxford being an intellectual hothouse and Wellingsford anintellectual Arabia Petrea, he was compelled, for the sake of hismental health, to find a period of repose in the intellectual Nature ofLondon. I mentioned this to Sir Anthony. 

"Yet, " I said, "I don't think he had anything to do with it. "

"Why?"

"It would have been far too much moral exertion--"

"You call it moral?" Sir Anthony burst out angrily. 

I pacified him with an analysis, from my point of view, of Randall'scharacter. Centripetal forces were too strong for the young man. Idissertated on his amours with Phyllis Gedge. 

"No, my dear old friend, " said I, in conclusion, "I don't think it wasRandall Holmes. "

Sir Anthony rose and shook his fist in my face. As I knew he meant meno bodily harm, I did not blench. 

"Who was it, then?"

"Althea, " said I, "often used to stay in town with your sister. LadyGreatorex has a wide circle of acquaintances. Do you know anything ofthe men Althea used to meet at her house?"

"Of course I don't, " replied Sir Anthony. Then he sat down again with agesture of despair. "After all, what does it matter? Perhaps it's aswell I don't know who the man was, for if I did, I'd kill him!"

He set his teeth and glowered at nothing and smote his left palm withhis right fist, and there was a long silence. Presently he repeated:

"I'd kill him!"

We fell to discussing the whole matter over again. Why, I asked, shouldwe assume that the poor child was led astray by a villain? Might therenot have been a romantic marriage which, for some reason we could notguess, she desired to keep secret for a tune? Had she not been brightand happy from January to June? And that night of tragedy. .. What morelikely than that she had gone forth to keep tryst with her husband andaccidentally met her death? "He arrives, " said I, "waits for her. Shenever comes. He goes away. The next day he learns from local gossip orfrom newspapers what has happened. He thinks it best to keep silent andlet her fair name be untouched. .. What have you to say against thattheory?"

"Possible, " he replied. "Anything conceivable within the limits ofphysical possibility is possible. But it isn't probable. I have anintuitive feeling that there was villainy about--and if ever I get holdof that man--God help him!"

So there was nothing more to be said. 

CHAPTER X

I haven't that universal sympathy which is the most irritatingattribute of saints and other pacifists. When, for instance, anyone ofthe fraternity arguing from the Sermon on the Mount tells me that Iought to love Germans, either I admit the obligation and declare that, as I am a miserable sinner, I have no compunction in breaking it, or, if he is a very sanctimonious saint, I remind him that, such creaturesas modern Germans not having been invented on or about the year A. D. 30, the rule about loving your enemies could not possibly apply. Atleast I imagine I do one of these two things (sometimes, indeed, Idream gloatfully over acts of physical violence) when I read thepronouncements of such a person; for I have to my great good fortunenever met him in the flesh. If there are any saintly pacifists inWellingsford, they keep sedulously out of my way, and they certainly donot haunt my Service Club. And these are the only two places in which Ihave my being. Even Gedge doesn't talk of loving Germans. He just lumpsall the belligerents together in one conglomerate hatred, for upsettinghis comfortable social scheme. 

As I say, I lack the universal sympathy of the saint. I can't likepeople I don't like. Some people I love very deeply; others, being of akindly disposition, I tolerate; others again I simply detest. NowWellingsford, like every little country town in England, is drab withelderly gentlewomen. As I am a funny old tabby myself, I have to mixwith them. If I refuse invitations to take tea with them, they invitethemselves to tea with me. "The poor Major, " they say, "is so lonely. "And they bait their little hooks and angle for gossip of which I amsupposed--Heaven knows why--to be a sort of stocked pond. They don'tcarry home much of a catch, I assure you. .. . Well, of some of them I amquite fond. Mrs. Boyce, for all her shortcomings, is an old crony forwhom I entertain a sincere affection. Towards Betty's aunt, MissFairfax, a harmless lady with a passion for ecclesiastical embroidery, I maintain an attitude of benevolent neutrality. But Mrs. Holmes, Randall's mother, and her sisters, the daughters of an eminentpublicist who seems to have reared his eminence on bones of talk flungat him by Carlisle, George Eliot, Lewes, Monckton Milnes, and is now, doubtless, recording their toe-prints on the banks of Acheron, I nevercould and never can abide. My angel of a wife saw good in them, and sheloved the tiny Randall, of whom I too was fond; so, for her sake, Ialways treated them with courtesy and kindness. Also for Randall'sfather's sake. He was a bluff, honest, stock-broking Briton who fanciedpigeons and bred greyhounds for coursing, and cared less for literatureand art than does the equally honest Mrs. Marigold in my kitchen. Buthis wife and her sisters led what they called the intellectual life. They regarded it as a heritage from their pompous ass of a father. Ofcourse they were not eighteen-sixty, or even eighteen-eighty. Theyprided themselves on developing the hereditary tradition of culture toits extreme modern expression. They were of the semi-intellectual typeof idiot--and, if it destroys it, the great war will have somejustification--which professes to find in the dull analysis of the drabadultery and suicide of a German or Scandinavian rabbit-picker asupreme expression of human existence. All their talk was of Hauptmannand Sudermann (they dropped them patriotically, I must say, asoutrageous fellows, on the outbreak of war), Strindberg, Dostoievsky--though I found they had never read either "Crime andPunishment" or "The Brothers Karamazoff"--Tolstoi, whom they didn'tunderstand; and in art--God save the mark!--the Cubist school. That ishow my poor young friend, Randall, was trained to get the worst of thefrothy scum of intelligent Oxford. But even he sometimes winced at thepretentiousness of his mother and his aunts. He was a clever fellow andhis knowledge was based on sound foundations. I need not say that theladies were rather feared than loved in Wellingsford. 

All this to explain why it was that when Marigold woke me from anafternoon nap with the information that Mrs. Holmes desired to see me, I scowled on him. 

"Why didn't you say I was dead?"

"I told Mrs. Holmes you were asleep, sir, and she said: 'Will you be sokind as to wake him?' So what could I do, sir?"

I have never met with an idiot so helpless in the presence of a woman. He would have defended my slumbers before a charge of cavalry; but oneelderly lady shoo'd him aside like a chicken. 

Mrs. Holmes was shewn in, a tall, dark, thin, nervous woman wearingpince-nez and an austere sad-coloured garment. 

She apologised for disturbing me. 

"But, " she said, sitting down on the couch, "I am in such great troubleand I could think of no one but you to advise me. "

"What's the matter?" I asked. 

"It's Randall. He left the house the day before yesterday, withouttelling any of us good-bye, and he hasn't written, and I don't knowwhat on earth has become of him. "

"Did he take any luggage?"

"Just a small suit-case. He even packed it himself, a thing he hasnever done at home in his life before. "

This was news. The proceedings were unlike Randall, who in his goingsand comings loved the domestic brass-band. To leave his home withoutvaledictory music and vanish into the unknown, betokened some unusualperturbation of mind. 

I asked whether she knew of any reason for such perturbation. 

"He was greatly upset, " she replied, "by the stoppage of The AlbemarleReview for which he did such fine work. "

I strove politely to hide my inability to condole and wagged my headsadly:

"I'm afraid there was no room for it in a be-bombed and be-shrapnelledworld. "

"I suppose the still small voice of reason would not be heard amid thedin, " she sighed. "And no other papers--except the impossibleones--would print Randall's poems and articles. "

More news. This time excellent news. A publicist denied publicity is asuseful as a German Field Marshal on a desert island. I asked what TheAlbemarle died of. 

"Practically all the staff deserted what Randall called the Cause anddribbled away into the army, " she replied mournfully. 

As to what this precious Cause meant I did not enquire, having no wishto enter into an argument with the good lady which might have becomeexacerbated. Besides, she would only have parroted Randall. I had neveryet detected her in the expression of an original idea. 

"Perhaps he has dribbled away too?" I suggested grimly. She was silent. I bent forward. "Wouldn't you like him to dribble into the great flood?"

She lifted her lean shoulders despairingly. 

"He's the only son of a widow. Even in France and Germany they're notexpected to fight. But if he were different I would let him gogladly--I'm not selfish and unpatriotic, Major, " she said with anunaccustomed little catch in her throat--and for the very first time Ifound in her something sympathetic--"but, " she continued, "it seems sofoolish to sacrifice all his intellectual brilliance to such cruditiesas fighting, when it might be employed so much more advantageouslyelsewhere. "

"But, good God, my dear lady!" I cried. "Where are your wits? Where'syour education? Where's your intelligent understanding of the dailypapers? Where's your commonsense?"--I'm afraid I was brutally rude. "Can't you give a minute's thought to the situation? If there's oneinstitution on earth that's shrieking aloud for intellectualbrilliance, it's the British Army! Do you think it's a refuge forfools? Do you think any born imbecile is good enough to outwit theGerman Headquarters Staff? Do you think the lives of hundreds of hismen--and perhaps the fate of thousands--can be entrusted to anybrainless ass? An officer can't have too much brains. We're clamouringfor brains. It's the healthy, brilliant-brained men like Randall thatthe Army's yelling for--simply yelling for, " I repeated, bringing myhand down on the arm of my chair. 

Two little red spots showed on each side of her thin face. 

"I've never looked at it in that light before, " she admitted. 

"Of course I agree with you, " I said diplomatically, "that Randallwould be more or less wasted as a private soldier. The heroic stuff ofwhich Thomas Atkins is made is, thank God, illimitable. But intellectis rare--especially in the ranks of God's own chosen, the Britishofficer. And Randall is of the kind we want as officers. As for acommission, he could get one any day. I could get one for him myself. Istill have a few friends. He's a good-looking chap and would carry offa uniform. Wouldn't you be proud to see him?"

A tear rolled down her cheek. I patted myself on the back for an artfulfellow. But I had underrated her wit. To my chagrin she did not fallinto my trap. 

"It's the uncertainty that's killing me, " she said. And then she burstout disconcertingly: "Do you think he has gone off with that dreadfullittle Gedge girl?"

Phyllis! I was a myriad miles from Phyllis. I was talking about realthings. The mother, however, from her point of view, was talking ofreal things also. But how did she come to know about her son's amours?I thought it useless to enquire. Randall must have advertised hispassion pretty widely. I replied:

"It's extremely improbable. In the first place Phyllis Gedge isn'tdreadful, but a remarkably sweet and modest young woman, and in thesecond place she won't have anything to do with him. "

"That's nonsense, " she said, bridling. 

"Why?"

"Because--"

A gesture and a smile completed the sentence. That a common youngperson should decline to have dealings with her paragon was incredible. 

"I can find out in a minute, " I smiled, "whether she is still inWellingsford. "

I wheeled myself to the telephone on my writing-table and rang up Bettyat the hospital. 

"Do you know where Phyllis Gedge is?"

Betty's voice came. "Yes. She's here. I've just left her to come tospeak to you. Why do you want to know?"

"Never mind so long as she is safe and sound. There's no likelihood ofher running away or eloping?"

Betty's laughter rang over the wires. "What lunacy are you talking? Youmight as well ask me whether I'm going to elope with you. "

"I don't think you're respectful, Betty, " I replied. "Good-bye. "

I rang off and reported Betty's side of the conversation to my visitor. 

"On that score, " said I, "you can make your mind quite easy. "

"But where can the boy have gone?" she cried. 

"Into the world somewhere to learn wisdom, " I said, and in order toshow that I did not speak ironically, I wheeled myself to her side andtouched her hand. "I think his swift brain has realised at last thatall his smart knowledge hasn't brought him a little bit of wisdom wortha cent. I shouldn't worry. He's working out his salvation somehow, although he may not know it. "

"Do you really think so?"

"I do, " said I. "And if he finds that the path of wisdom leads to theGerman trenches--will you be glad or sorry?"

She grappled with the question in silence for a moment or two. Then shebroke down and, to my dismay, began to cry. 

"Do you suppose there's a woman in England that, in her heart ofhearts, doesn't want her men folk to fight?"

I only allow the earlier part of this chapter to stand in order to showhow a man quite well-meaning, although a trifle irascible, may bewanting in Christian charity and ordinary understanding; and of howmany tangled knots of human motive, impulse, and emotion this war is asolvent. You see, she defended her son to the last, adopting his ownspecious line of argument; but at the last came the breaking-point. .. . 

The rest of our interview was of no great matter. I did my best toreassure and comfort her; and when I next saw Marigold, I said affably:

"You did quite well to wake me. "

"I thought I was acting rightly, sir. Mr. Randall having bolted, so tospeak, it seemed only natural that Mrs. Holmes should come to see you. "

"You knew that Mr. Randall had bolted and you never told me?"

I glared indignantly. Marigold stiffened himself--the degree ofstiffness beyond his ordinary inflexibility of attitude could only havebeen ascertained by a vernier, but that degree imparted an appreciabledignity to his demeanour. 

"I beg pardon, sir, but lately I've noticed that my little bits oflocal news haven't seemed to be welcome. "

"Marigold, " said I, "don't be an ass. "

"Very good, sir. "

"My mind, " said I, "is in an awful muddle about all sorts of thingsthat are going on in this town. So I should esteem it a favour if youwould tell me at once any odds and ends of gossip you may pick up. Theymay possibly be important. "

"And if I have any inferences to draw from what I hear, " said hegravely, fixing me with his clear eye, "may I take the liberty ofacquainting you with them?"

"Certainly. "

"Very good, sir, " said Marigold. 

Now what was Marigold going to draw inferences about? That was anotherpuzzle. I felt myself being drawn into a fog-filled labyrinth ofintrigue in which already groping were most of the people I knew. Whatwith the mysterious relations between Betty and Boyce and Gedge, whatwith young Dacre's full exoneration of Boyce, what with young Randall'ssplit with Gedge and his impeccable attitude towards Phyllis, thingswere complicated enough; Sir Anthony's revelations regarding poorAlthea and his dark surmises concerning Randall complicated them stillmore; and now comes Mrs. Holmes to tell me of Randall's mysteriousdisappearance. 

"A plague on the whole lot!" I exclaimed wrathfully. 

I dined that evening with the Fenimores. My dear Betty was there too, the only other guest, looking very proud and radiant. A letter thatmorning from Willie Connor informed her that the regiment, by holding atrench against an overwhelming German attack, had achieved gloriousrenown. The Brigadier-General had specially congratulated the Colonel, and the Colonel had specially complimented Willie on the magnificentwork of his company. Of course there was a heavy price incasualties--poor young Etherington, whom we all knew, for instance, blown to atoms--but Willie, thank God! was safe. 

"I wonder what would happen to me, if Willie were to get the V. C. Ithink I should go mad with pride!" she exclaimed with flushed cheeks, forgetful of poor young Etherington, a laughter-loving boy of twenty, who had been blown to atoms. It is strange how apparently callous thisuniversal carnage has made the noblest and the tenderest of men andwomen. We cling passionately to the lives of those near and dear to us. But as to those near and dear to others, who are killed--well--we paythem the passing tribute not even of a tear, but only of a sign. Theydied gloriously for their country. What can we say more? If we--wesurvivors, not only invalids and women and other stay-at-homes, butalso comrades on the field--were riven to our souls by the piteoustragedy of splendid youth destroyed in its flower, we could not standthe strain, we should weep hysterically, we should be broken folk. Buta merciful Providence steps in and steels our hearts. The loyal heartsare there beating truly; and in order that they should beat truly andstoutly, they are given this God-sent armour. 

So, when we raised our glasses and drank gladly to the success ofWillie Connor the living, and put from our thoughts Frank Etheringtonthe dead, you must not account it to us as lack of human pity. You mustbe lenient in your judgment of those who are thrown into the furnace ofa great war. 

Lady Fenimore smiled on Betty. "We should all be proud, my dear, ifCaptain Connor won the Victoria Cross. But you mustn't set your hearton it. That would be foolish. Hundreds of thousands of men deserve theV. C. Ten times a day, and they can't all be rewarded. "

Betty laughed gaily at good Lady Fenimore's somewhat didactic reproof. "You know I'm not an absolute idiot. Fancy the poor dear coming homeall over bandages and sticking-plaster. 'Where's your V. C?' 'I haven'tgot it. ' 'Then go back at once and get it or I shan't love you. ' Poordarling!" Suddenly the laughter in her eyes quickened into somethingvery bright and beautiful. "There's not a woman in England prouder ofher husband than I am. No V. C. Could possibly reward him for what hehas done. But I want it for myself. I'd like my babies to cut theirteeth on it. "

When I went out to the Boer War, the most wonderful woman on earth saidto me on parting:

"Wherever you are, dear, remember that I am always with you in spiritand soul and heart and almost in body. "

And God knows she was. And when I returned a helpless cripple shegathered me in her brave arms on the open quay at Southampton, andafter a moment or two of foolishness, she said:

"Do you know, when I die, what you'll find engraven on my heart?"

"No, " said I. 

"Your D. S. O. Ribbon. "

So when Betty talked about her babies and the little bronze cross, myeyes grew moist and I felt ridiculously sentimental. 

Not a word, of course, was spoken before Betty of the new light, or thenew darkness, whichsoever you will, that had been cast on the tragedyof Althea. I could not do otherwise than agree with the direct-spokenold lady who had at once correlated the adventure in Carlisle with theplunge into the Wellingsford Canal. And so did Sir Anthony. They werevery brave, however, the little man and Edith, in their dinner-talkwith Betty. But I saw that the past fortnight had aged them both by ayear or more. They had been stabbed in their honour, their trust, andtheir faith. It was a secret terror that stalked at their side by dayand lay stark at their side by night. It was only when the ladies hadleft us that Sir Anthony referred to the subject. 

"I suppose you know that young Randall Holmes has bolted. "

"So his mother informed me to-day. "

He pricked his ears. "Does she know where he has gone to?"

"No, " said I. 

"What did I tell you?" said Sir Anthony. 

I held up my glass of port to the light and looked through it. 

"A lot of damfoolishness, my dear old friend, " said I. 

He grew angry. A man doesn't like to be coldly called a damfool at hisown table. He rose on his spurs, in his little red bantam way. Was Itoo much of an idiot to see the connection? As soon as the Carlislebusiness became known, this young scoundrel flies the country. Couldn'tI see an inch before my blind nose? Forbearing to question thisremarkable figure of speech, I asked him how so confidential a mattercould have become known. 

"Everything gets known in this infernal little town, " he retorted. 

"That's where you're mistaken, " said I. "Half everything getsknown--the unimportant half. The rest is supplied by malicious orprejudiced invention. "

We discussed the question after the futile way of men until we wentinto the drawing-room, where Betty played and sang to us until it wastime to go home. 

Marigold was about to lift me into the two-seater when Betty, who hadbeen lurking in her car a little way off, ran forward. 

"Would it bore you if I came in for a quarter of an hour?"

"Bore me, my dear?" said I. "Of course not. "

So a short while afterwards we were comfortably established in mylibrary. 

"You rang me up to-day about Phyllis Gedge. "

"I did, " said I. 

She lit a cigarette and seated herself on the fender-stool. She has anunconscious knack of getting into easy, loose-limbed attitudes. I saidadmiringly:

"Do you know you're a remarkably well-favoured young person?"

And as soon as I said it, I realised what a tremendous factor Betty wasin my circumscribed life. What could I do without her sweet intimacy?If Willie Connor's Territorial regiment, like so many others, had beenordered out to India, and she had gone with him, how blank would be thedays and weeks and months! I thanked God for granting me hergraciousness. 

She smiled and blew me a kiss. "That's very gratifying to know, " shesaid. "But it has nothing to do with Phyllis. "

"Well, what about Phyllis?"

"I'll tell you, " she replied. 

And she told me. Her story was not of world-shaking moment, but itinterested me. I have since learned its substantial correctness and amable to add some supplementary details. 

You see, things were like this. .. . In order to start I must go backsome years. .. . I have always had a warm corner in my heart for littlePhyllis Gedge, ever since she was a blue-eyed child. My wife had agreat deal to do with it. She was a woman of dauntless courage andclear vision into the heart of things. I find many a reflection of herin Betty. Perhaps that is why I love Betty so dearly. 

Some strange, sweet fool feminine of gentle birth and deplorableupbringing fell in love with a vehemently socialistic young artisan bythe name of Gedge and married him. Her casual but proud-minded familywiped her off the proud family slate. She brought Phyllis into theworld and five years afterwards found herself be-Gedged out ofexistence. They were struggling people in those days, and before herdeath my wife used to employ her, when she could, for household sewingand whatnot. And tiny Phyllis, in a childless home, became a petteddarling. When my great loneliness came upon me, it was a solace to havethe little dainty prattling thing to spend an occasional hour in mycompany. Gedge, an excellent workman, set up as a contractor. He tookmy modest home under his charge. A leaky tap, a broken pane, a new setof bookshelves, a faulty drainpipe--all were matters for Gedge. Iabhorred his politics but I admired his work, and I continued, withMrs. Marigold's motherly aid, to make much of Phyllis. 

Gedge, for queer motives of his own, sent her to as good a school as hecould afford, as a matter of fact an excellent school, one where shemet girls of a superior social class and learned educated speech andgraceful manners. Her holidays, poor child, were somewhat dreary, forher father, an anti-social creature, had scarce a friend in the town. Save for here and there an invitation to tea from Betty or myself, shedid not cross the threshold of a house in Wellingsford. But to myhouse, all through her schooldays and afterwards, Phyllis came, and onsuch occasions Mrs. Marigold prepared teas of the organic lusciousnessdear to the heart of a healthy girl. 

Now, here comes the point of all this palaver. Young Master Randallused also to come to my house. Now and then by chance they met there. They were good boy and girl friends. 

I want to make it absolutely clear that her acquaintance with Randallwas not any vulgar picking-up-in-the-street affair. 

When she left school, her father made her his book-keeper, secretary, confidential clerk. Anybody turning into the office to summon Gedge torepair a roof or a burst boiler had a preliminary interview withPhyllis. Young Randall, taking over the business of the upkeep of hismother's house, gradually acquired the habit of such preliminaryinterviews. The whole imbroglio was very simple, very natural. They hadfirst met at my own rich cake and jam-puff bespread tea-table. WhenRandall went into the office to speak, presumably, about a defectivedraught in the kitchen range, and really about things quite different, the ethics of the matter depended entirely on Randall's point of view. Their meetings had been contrived by no unmaidenly subterfuge on thepart of Phyllis. She knew him to be above her in social station. Shekept him off as long as she could. But que voulez-vous? Randall was avery good-looking, brilliant, and fascinating fellow; Phyllis was adear little human girl. And it is the human way of such girls to fallin love with such fascinating, brilliant fellows. I not only hold abrief for Phyllis, but I am the judge, too, and having heard all theevidence, I deliver a verdict overwhelmingly in her favour. Given thecircumstances as I have stated them, she was bound to fall in love withRandall, and in doing so committed not the little tiniest speck of apeccadillo. 

My first intimation of tender relations between them came from my sightof them in February in Wellings Park. Since then, of course, I havemuch which I will tell you as best I may. 

So now for Betty's story, confirmed and supplemented by what I havelearned later. But before plunging into the matter, I must say thatwhen Betty had ended I took up my little parable and told her of allthat Randall had told me concerning his repudiation of Gedge. And Bettylistened with a curiously stony face and said nothing. 

When Betty puts on that face of granite I am quite unhappy. That is whyI have always hated the statues of Egypt. There is something beneaththeir cold faces that you can't get at. 

CHAPTER XI

Gedge bitterly upbraided his daughter, both for her desertion of hisbusiness and her criminal folly in abandoning it so as to help mend theshattered bodies of fools and knaves who, by joining the forces ofmilitarism, had betrayed the Sacred Cause of the InternationalSolidarity of Labour. His first ground for complaint was scarcelytenable; with his dwindling business the post of clerk had dwindledinto a sinecure. To sit all day at the receipt of imaginary custom isnot a part fitted for a sane and healthy young human being. Still, fromGedge's point of view her defection was a grievance; but that she couldthrow in her lot openly with the powers of darkness was nothing lessthan an outrage. 

I suppose, in a kind of crabbed way, the crabbed fellow was fond ofPhyllis. She was pretty. She had dainty tricks of dress. She flitted, an agreeable vision, about his house. He liked to hear her play thepiano, not because he had any ear for music, but because it tickled hisvanity to reflect that he, the agricultural labourer's son andapprentice to a village carpenter, was the possessor both of a BroadwayGrand and of a daughter who, entirely through his efforts, had learnedto play on it. Like most of his political type, he wallowed in his ownpeculiar snobbery. But of anything like companionship between fatherand daughter there had existed very little. While railing, wherever hefound ears into which to rail, against the vicious luxury and sordidshallowness of the upper middle classes, his instinctive desire toshine above his poorer associates had sent Phyllis to an upper middleclass school. Now Gedge had a certain amount of bookish and politicalintelligence. Phyllis inheriting the intellectual equipment of hersentimental fool of a mother, had none, Oh! she had a vast fund ofordinary commonsense. Of that I can assure you. A bit of hard brainfibre from her father had counteracted any over-sentimental folly inthe maternal heritage. And she came back from school a very ladylikelittle person. If pressed, she could reel off all kinds of artificialscraps of knowledge, like a dear little parrot. But she had never heardof Karl Marx and didn't want to hear. She had a vague notion thatInternational Socialism was a movement in favour of throwing bombs atmonarchs and of seizing the wealth of the rich in order to divide itamong the poor--and she regarded it as abominable. When her father gaveher Fabian Society tracts to read, he might just as well, for all herunderstanding of the argument, set her down to a Treatise on theInfinitesimal Calculus. Her brain stood blank before such abstractdisquisitions. She loved easily comprehended poetry and novels thatmade her laugh or cry and set her mind dancing round the glowingpossibilities of life; all disastrous stuff abhorred by theInternational Socialist, to whom the essential problems of existenceare of no interest whatever. So, after a few futile attempts to darkenher mind, Gedge put her down as a mere fool woman, and ceased to botherhis head about her intellectual development. That came to him quitenaturally. There is no Turk more contemptuous of his womankind'spolitical ideas than the Gedges of our enlightened England. But onother counts she was a distinct asset. He regarded her with immensepride, as a more ornamental adjunct to his house than any other countybuilder and contractor could display, and, recognising that she waspossessed of some low feminine cunning in the way of adding up figuresand writing letters, made use of her in his office as general clericalfactotum. 

When the war broke out, he discovered, to his horror, that Phyllisactually had political ideas--unshakable, obstinate ideas opposed tohis own--and that he had been nourishing in his bosom a viperouspatriot. Phyllis, for her part, realised with equal horror thepractical significance of her father's windy theories. When Randall, who had stolen her heart, took to visiting the house, in order, as faras she could make out, to talk treason with her father, the strain ofthe situation grew more than she could bear. She fled to Betty foradvice. Betty promptly stepped in and whisked her off to the hospital. 

It was on the morning on which Randall interviewed me in the garden, the morning after he had broken with Gedge that Phyllis, having alittle off-time, went home. She found her father in the office makingout a few bills. He thrust forward his long chin and aggressive beardand scowled at her. 

"Oh, it's you, is it? Come at last where your duty calls you, eh?"

"I always come when I can, father, " she replied. 

She bent down and kissed his cheek. He caught her roughly round thewaist and, leaning back in his chair, looked up at her sourly. 

"How long are you going on defying me like this?"

She tried to disengage herself, but his arm was too strong. "Oh, father, " she said, rather wearily, "don't let us go over this oldargument again. "

"But suppose I find some new argument? Suppose I send you packingaltogether, refuse to contribute further to your support. What then?"

She started at the threat but replied valiantly: "I should have to earnmy own living. "

"How are you going to do it?"

"There are heaps of ways. "

He laughed. "There ain't; as you'd soon find out. They don't even payyou for being scullery-maid to a lot of common soldiers. "

She protested against that view of her avocation. In the perfectlyappointed Wellingsford Hospital she had no scullery work. She was aprobationer, in training as a nurse. He still gripped her. 

"The particular kind of tomfoolery you are up to doesn't matter. Weneedn't quarrel. I've another proposition to put before you--much moreto your fancy, I think. You like this Mr. Randall Holmes, don't you?"

She shivered a little and flushed deep red. Her father had nevertouched on the matter before. She said, straining away:

"I don't want to talk about Mr. Holmes. "

"But I do. Come, my dear. In this life there must be always a certainamount of give and take. I'm not the man to drive a one-sided bargain. I'll make you a fair offer--as between father and daughter. I'll wipeout all that's past. In leaving me like this, when misfortune has comeupon me, you've been guilty of unfilial conduct--no one can deny it ButI'll overlook everything, forgive you fully and take you to my heartagain and leave you free to do whatever you like without interferingwith your opinions, if you'll promise me one thing--"

"I know what you're going to say. " She twisted round on him swiftly. "I'll promise at once. I'll never marry Mr. Holmes. I've already told himI won't marry him. "

Surprise relaxed his grip. She took swift advantage and sheered away tothe other side of the table. He rose and brought down his hand with athump. 

"You refused him? Why, you silly little baggage, my condition is thatyou should marry him. You're sweet on him aren't you?"

"I detest him, " cried Phyllis. "Why should I marry him?"

Her eyes, young and pure, divined some sordid horror behind eyes craftyand ignoble. Once before she had had such a fleeting, uncomprehendedvision into the murky depths of the man's soul. This was some time ago. In the routine of her secretarial duties she had, one morning, openedand read a letter, not marked "Private" or "Personal, " whose tenor shecould scarcely understand. When she handed it to her father, he smiled, vouchsafed a specious explanation, and looked at her in just the samecrafty and ignoble fashion, and she shrank away frightened. The matterkept her awake for a couple of nights. Then, for sheer easing of herheart, she went to her adored Betty Fairfax, her Lady Patroness andMother Confessor, who, being wise and strong, and possessing the powerof making her kind eyes unfathomable, laughed, bade her believe herfather's explanation, and sent her away comforted. The incident passedout of her mind. But now memory smote her, as she shrank from herfather's gaze and the insincere smile on his thin lips. 

"For one thing, " he replied after a pause, pulling his straggly beard, "your poor dear mother was a lady, and if she had lived she would havewanted you to marry a gentleman. It's for her sake I've given you aneducation that fits you to consort with gentlefolk--just for hersake--don't make any mistake about it, for I've always hated the breed. If I've violated my principles in order to meet her wishes, I think youought to meet them too. You wouldn't like to marry a small tradesman ora working man, would you?"

"I'm not going to marry anybody, " cried Phyllis. She was only a pinkand white, very ordinary little girl. I have no idealisations orillusions concerning Phyllis. But she had a little fine steel ofcharacter running through her. It flashed on Gedge. 

"I don't want to marry anybody, " she declared. "But I'd sooner marry abricklayer who was fighting for his country than a fine gentleman likeMr. Holmes who wasn't. I'd sooner die, " she cried passionately. 

"Then go and die and be damned to you!" snarled Gedge, planting himselfnoisily in his chair. "I've no use for khaki-struck drivelling idiots. I've no use for patriots. Bah! Damn patriots! The upper classes are outfor all they can get, and they befool the poor imbecile working manwith all their highfalutin phrases to get it for them at the cost ofhis blood. I've no use for them, I tell you. And I've no use either forundutiful daughters. I've no use for young women who blow hot and cold. Haven't I seen you with the fellow? Do you think I'm a blind dodderer?Do you think I haven't kept an eye on you? Haven't I seen you blowingas hot as you please? And now because he refuses to be a blinking idiotand have his guts blown out in this war of fools and knaves andcapitalists, you blast him like a three-farthing iceberg. "

Everything in her that was tender, maidenly, English, shrank lacerated. But the steel held her. She put both her hands on the table and bentover towards him. 

"But, father, except that he's a gentleman, you haven't told me why youwant me to marry Mr. Holmes. "

He fidgeted with his fingers. "Haven't you a spark of affection for meleft?"

She said dutifully, "Yes, father. "

"I want you to marry him. I've set my heart on it. It has been the onebright hope in my life for months. Can't you marry him because you loveme?"

"One generally marries because one loves the man one's going to marry, "said Phyllis. 

"But you do love him, " cried Gedge. "Either you're just a wanton littlehussy or you must care for the fellow. "

"I don't. I hate him. And I don't want to have anything more to do withhim. " The tears came. "He's a pro-German and I won't have anything todo with pro-Germans. "

She fled precipitately from the office into the street and made a blindcourse to the hospital; feeling, in dumb misery, that she had committedthe unforgivable sin of casting off her father and, at the same time, that she had made stalwart proclamation of her faith. If ever a good, loyal little heart was torn into piteous shreds, that little heart wasPhyllis's. 

In the bare X-ray room of the hospital, which happened to be vacant, Betty sat on the one straight-backed wooden chair, while a weepingdamsel on the uncarpeted floor sobbed in her lap and confessed her sinsand sought absolution. 

Of course Gedge was a fool. If I, or any wise, diplomatic, tactfulperson like myself, had found it necessary to tackle a young woman onthe subject of a matrimonial alliance, we should have gone about thebusiness in quite a different way. But what could you expect from ananarchical Turk like Gedge?

Phyllis, not knowing whether she were outcast and disinherited or not, found, of course, a champion in Betty, who, in her spacious manner, guaranteed her freedom from pecuniary worries for the rest of her life. But Phyllis was none the less profoundly unhappy, and it took a wholeconvoy of wounded to restore her to cheerfulness. You can't attend to apoor brave devil grinning with pain, while a surgeon pokes a six-inchprobe down a sinus in search of bits of bone or shrapnel, and beacutely conscious of your own two-penny-half-penny little miseries. Many a heartache, in this wise, has been cured in the Houses of Pain. 

Now, nothing much would have happened, I suppose, if Phyllis, drivenfrom the hospital by superior decree that she should take fresh air andexercise, had not been walking some days afterwards across the commonby the canal. Bordering the latter, Wellingsford has an avenue ofsecular chestnuts of which it is inordinately proud. Dispersed here andthere are wooden benches sanctified by generations of lovers. Carventhereon are the presentments, often interlaced, of hearts that havelong since ceased to beat; lonely hearts transfixed by arrows, which inall probability survived the wound and inspired the owner to theparentage of a dozen children; initials once, individually, the recordof many a romance, but now, collectively, merely an alphabet run mad. 

Phyllis entered the avenue, practically deserted at midday, and rested, a pathetically lonely little grey-uniformed figure on one of thebenches. On the common, some distance behind her, stretched the linesof an Army Service train, with mules and waggons, and here and there atent. In front of her, beyond the row of trees, was the towing-path; anold horse in charge of a boy jogged by, pulling something of which onlya moving stove pipe like a periscope was visible above the bank. Overhead the chestnuts rioted in broad leaf and pink and white blossom, showing starry bits of blue sky and admitting arrow shafts of springsunshine. A dirty white mongrel dog belonging to the barge came up toher, sniffed, and made friends; then, at last obeying a series ofwhistles from the boy, looked at her apologetically and trotted off. Her gaze followed him wistfully, for he was a very human dear dog, andwith a sympathetic understanding of all her difficulties in his deeptopaz eyes. After that she had as companions a couple of butterfliesand a bumble-bee and a perky, portly robin who hopped within an inch ofher feet and looked up at her sideways out of his hard little eye (sodifferent from the dog's) with the expression of one who would say:"The most beauteous and delectable worm I have ever encountered. If Iwere a bit bigger, say the size of the roc of the Arabian Nights, whata dainty morsel you would make! In the meantime can't you shedsomething of yourself for my entertainment like others, though grosser, of your species?" She laughed at the cold impudence of the creature, just as she had smiled at the butterflies and the bumble-bee. Shesurrendered herself to the light happiness of the moment. It was goodto escape for an hour from the rigid lines of beds and the palesuffering faces and the eternal faint odour of disinfectants, into allthis greenery and the fellowship of birds and beasts unconscious ofwar. She remembered that once, in the pocket of her cloak, there hadbeen a biscuit or two. Very slowly and carefully, her mind fixed on therobin, she fished for crumbs and very carefully and gently she fed theimpudent, stomach-centred fellow. She had attracted him to the end ofthe seat, when, whizz and clatter, came a motor cycle down the avenue, and off in a terrible scare flew the robin; the idyll of tree and beastand birds suffered instant disruption and Randall Holmes, in his canvassuit, stood before her. 

He said:

"Good morning, Phyllis. "

She said, with cold politeness: "Good morning. " But she asked thespring morning in dumb piteousness, "Oh, why has he come? Why has hecome to spoil it all?"

He sat down by her side. "This is the luckiest chance I've everhad--finding you here, " he said. "You've had all my letters, haven'tyou?"

"Yes, " she answered, "and I've torn them all up. "

"Why?"

"Because I didn't want them, " she flashed on him: "I've destroyed themwithout reading them. "

He flushed angrily. Apart from the personal affront, the fact that theliterary products of a poet, precious and, in this case, sincere, should have been destroyed, unread, was an anti-social outrage. 

"If it didn't please a woman to believe in God, " he said, "and God camein Person and stood in front of her, she would run out of the room andcall upon somebody to come and shoot Him for a burglar, just to proveshe was right. "

Phyllis was shocked. Her feminine mind pounced on the gross literalnessof his rhetorical figure. 

"I've never heard anything more blasphemous and horrible, " sheexclaimed, moving to her end of the bench. "Putting yourself in theposition of the Almighty! Oh!" she flung out her hand. "Don't speak tome. "

In spite of the atheistical Gedge, Phyllis believed in God and JesusChrist and the Ten Commandments. She also believed in a host of othersimple things, such as Goodness and Truth, Virtue and Patriotism. Thearguments and theories and glosses that her father and Randall woveabout them appeared to her candid mind as meaningless arabesques. Shecould not see how all the complications concerning the elementarycanons of faith and conduct could arise. She appreciated Randall'sintellectual gifts; his power of weaving magical words into rhymefascinated her; she was childlike in her wonder at his command of theprinted page; when he revealed to her the beauty of things, as therogue had a pretty knack of doing, her nature thrilled responsive. Hegave her a thousand glimpses into a new world, and she loved him forit. But when he talked lightly of sacred matters, such as God and Duty, he ran daggers into her heart. She almost hated him. 

He had to expend much eloquence and persuasion to induce her to listento him. He had no wish to break any of the Commandments, especially theThird. He professed penitence. But didn't she see that her treatment ofhim was driving him into a desperate unbelief in God and man? When awoman accepted a man's love she accepted many responsibilities. 

Phyllis stonily denied acceptance. 

"I've refused it. You've asked me to marry you and I told you Iwouldn't. And I won't. "

"You're mixing up two things, " he said, with a smile. "Love andmarriage. Many people love and don't marry, just as many marry anddon't love. Now once you did tell me that you loved me, and so youaccepted my love. There's no getting out of it. I've given youeverything I've got, and you can't throw it away. The question is--whatare you going to do with it? What are you going to do with me?"

His sophistries frightened her; but she cut through them. 

"Isn't it rather a question of what you're going to do with yourself?"

"If you give me up I don't care a hang what becomes of me. " He camevery near and his voice was dangerously soft. "Phyllis dear, I do loveyou with all my heart. Why won't you marry me?"

But a hateful scene rushed to her memory. She drew herself up. 

"Why are my father and you persecuting me to marry you?"

"Your father?" he interrupted, in astonishment. "When?"

She named the day, Wednesday of last week. In desperation she told himwhat had happened. The poor child was fighting for her soul againstgreat odds. 

"It's a conspiracy to get me round to your way of thinking. You want meto be a pro-German like yourselves, and I won't be a pro-German, and Ithink it wicked even to talk to pro-Germans!"

She rose, all sobs, fluster, and heroism, and walked away. He strode astep or two and stood in front of her with his hands on her shoulders. 

"I've never spoken to your father in that way about you. Never. Not aword has passed my lips about my caring for you. On my word of honour. On Tuesday night I left your father's house never to go there again. Itold him so. "

She writhed out of his grasp and spread the palms of her hands againsthim. "Please don't, " she said, and seeing that she stood her ground, hemade no further attempt to touch her. The austerity of her grey nurse'suniform gave a touch of pathos to her childish, blue-eyed comelinessand her pretty attitude of defiance. 

"I suppose, " she said, "he was too pro-German even for you. "

He looked at her for a long time disconcertingly: so disconcertinglyand with so much pain and mysterious hesitation in his eyes as to seteven Phyllis's simple mind a-wondering and to make her emphasize it, inher report of the matter to Betty, as extraordinary and frightening. Itseemed, so she explained, in her innocent way, that he had discoveredsomething horrible about her father which he shrank from telling her. But if they had quarrelled so bitterly, why had her father the verynext day urged her to marry him? The answer came in a ghastly flash. She recoiled as though in the presence of defilement. If she marriedRandall, his lips would be closed against her father. That is what herfather had meant. The vague, disquieting suspicions of years that hemight not have the same standards of uprightness as other men, attainedan awful certainty. She remembered the incident of the private letterand the look in her father's eyes. .. . Finally she revolted. Her soulgrew sick. She took no heed of Randall's protest. She only saw that shewas to be the cloak to cover up something unclean between them. At amoment like this no woman pretends to have a sense of justice. Randallhad equal share with her father in an unknown baseness. She hated himas he stood there so strong and handsome. And she hated herself forhaving loved him. 

At last he said with a smile:

"Yes, That's just it. "

"What?"

She had forgotten the purport of her last remark. 

"He was a bit too--well, not too pro-German--but too anti-English forme. You have got hold of the wrong end of the stick all the time, Phyllis dear. I'm no more pro-German than you are. Perhaps I see thingsmore clearly than you do. I've been trained to an intellectual view ofhuman phenomena. "

Her little pink and white face hardened until it looked almost ugly. The unpercipient young man continued:

"And so I take my stand on a position that you must accept on trust. Iam English to the backbone. You can't possibly dream that I'm not. Come, dear, let me try to explain. "

His arm curved as if to encircle her waist. She sprang away. 

"Don't touch me. I couldn't bear it. There's something about you Ican't understand. "

In her attitude, too, he found a touch of the incomprehensible. Hesaid, however, with a sneer:

"If I were swaggering about in a cheap uniform, you'd find mesimplicity itself. "

She caught at his opening, desperately. 

"Yes. At any rate I'd find a man. A man who wasn't afraid to fight forhis country. "

"Afraid!"

"Yes, " she cried, and her blue eyes blazed. "Afraid. That's why I can'tmarry you. I'd rather die than marry you. I've never told you. Ithought you'd guess. I'm an English girl and I can't marry a coward--acoward--a coward--a coward. "

Her voice ended on a foolish high note, for Randall, very white, hadseized her by the wrist. 

"You little fool, " he cried. "You'll live to repent what you've said. "

He released her, mounted his motor bicycle, and rode away. Phylliswatched him disappear up the avenue; then she walked rather blindlyback to the bench and sat down among the ruins of a black andabominable world. After a while the friendly robin, seeing her sostill, perched first on the back of the bench and then hopped on theseat by her side, and cocking his head, looked at her enquiringly outof his little hard eye, as though he would say:

"My dear child, what are you making all this fuss about? Isn't it earlyJune? Isn't the sun shining? Aren't the chestnuts in flower? Don't yousee that bank of dark blue cloud over there which means a nicesoftening rain in the night and a jolly good breakfast of worms in themorning? What's wrong with this exquisitely perfect universe?"

And Phyllis--on her own confession--with an angry gesture sent himscattering up among the cool broad leaves and cried:

"Get away, you hateful little beast!"

And having no use for robins and trees and spring and sunshine and suchlike intolerable ironies, a white little wisp of a nurse left them allto their complacent riot and went back to the hospital. 

CHAPTER XII

A few days after this, Mrs. Holmes sent me under cover a telegram whichshe had received from her son. It was dispatched from Aberdeen and ran:"Perfectly well. Don't worry about me. Love. Randall. " And that was allI heard of him for some considerable time. What he was doing inAberdeen, a city remote from his sphere of intellectual, political, andsocial activities, Heaven and himself alone knew. I must confess that Icared very little. He was alive, he was well, and his mother had nocause for anxiety. Phyllis had definitely sent him packing. There wasno reason for me to allow speculation concerning him to keep me awakeof nights. 

I had plenty to think about besides Randall. They made me HonoraryTreasurer of the local Volunteer Training Corps which had just beenformed. The members not in uniform wore a red brassard with "G. R. " inblack. The facetious all over the country called them "GorgeousWrecks. " I must confess that on their first few parades they did notlook very military. Their composite paunchiness, beardedness, scragginess, spectacledness, impressed me unfavourably when, from myHosea-carriage, I first beheld them. Marigold, who was one of the firstto join and to leap into the grey uniform, tried to swagger about as aninstructor. But as the little infantry drill he had ever learned hadall been changed since the Boer War, I gathered an unholy joy fromseeing him hang like a little child on the lips of the officialSergeant Instructor of the corps. In the evenings he and I mugged upthe text-books together; and with the aid of the books I put himthrough all the new physical exercises. I was a privileged person. Icould take my own malicious pleasure out of Marigold's enforcedhumility, but I would be hanged if anybody else should. SergeantMarigold should instruct those volunteers as he once instructed therecruits of his own battery. So I worked with him like a nigger untilthere was nothing in the various drills of a modern platoon that hedidn't know, and nothing that he could not do with the mathematicalprecision of his splendid old training. 

One night during the thick of it Betty came in. I waved her into acorner of the library out of the way, and she smoked cigarettes andlooked on at the performance. Now I come to think of it, we must haveafforded an interesting spectacle. There was the gaunt, one-eyed, preposterously wigged image clad in undervest and shrunken yellowflannel trousers which must have dated from his gym-instructor days inthe nineties, violently darting down on his heels, springing up, kicking out his legs, shooting out his arms, like an inspiredmarionette, all at the words of command shouted in fervent earnest by ashrivelled up little cripple in a wheel-chair. 

When it was over--the weather was warm--he passed a curved forefingerover his dripping forehead, cut himself short in an instinctive actionand politely dried his hand on the seat of his trousers. Then his oneeye gleamed homage at Betty and he drew himself up to attention. 

"Do you mind, sir, if I send in Ellen with the drinks?"

I nodded. "You'll do very well with a drink yourself, Marigold. "

"It's thirsty work and weather, sir. "

He made a queer movement of his hand--it would have been idiotic of himto salute--but he had just been dismissed from military drill, so hishand went up to the level of his breast and--right about turn--hemarched out of the room. Betty rose from her corner and threw herselfin her usual impetuous way on the ground by my chair. 

"Do you know, " she cried, "you two dear old things were too funny forwords. "

But as I saw that her eyes were foolishly moist, I was not as offendedas I might have been by her perception of the ludicrous. 

When I said that I had plenty to think about besides Randall, I meantto string off a list. My prolixity over the Volunteer Training Corpscame upon me unawares. I wanted to show you that my time was fairlywell occupied. I was Chairman of our town Belgian Relief Committee. Iwas a member of our County Territorial Association and took over a gooddeal of special work connected with one of our battalions that wascovering itself with glory and little mounds topped with white crossesat the front. If you think I lived a Tom-tabby, tea-party sort of life, you are quite mistaken, if the War Office could have its way, it wouldhave lashed me in red tape, gagged me with Regulations, andsealing-waxed me up in my bed-room. And there are thousands of us whohave shaken our fists under the nose of the War Office and shouted, "All your blighting, Man-with-the-Mudrake officialdom shan't prevent usfrom serving our country. " And it hasn't! The very Government itself, in spite of its monumental efforts, has not been able to shackle usinto inertia or drug us into apathy. Such non-combatant francs-tireursin England have done a power of good work. 

And then, of course, there was the hospital which, in one way oranother, took up a good deal of my time. 

I was reposing in the front garden one late afternoon in mid-June, after a well-filled day, when a car pulled up at the gate, in whichwere Betty (at the wheel) and a wounded soldier, in khaki, his capperched on top of a bandaged head. I don't know whether it is usual foryoung women in nurse's uniform to career about the country drivingwounded men in motor cars, but Betty did it. She cared very little forthe usual. She came in, leaving the man in the car, and crossed thelawn, flushed and bright-eyed, a refreshing picture for a tired man. 

"We're in a fix up at the hospital, " she announced as soon as she wasin reasonable speaking distance, "and I want you to get us out of it. "

Sitting on the grass, she told me the difficulty. A wounded soldier, discharged from some distant hospital, and home now on sick furloughbefore rejoining his depot, had been brought into the hospital with abroken head. The modern improvements on vinegar and brown paper havingbeen applied, the man was now ready to leave. I interrupted with theobvious question. Why couldn't he go to his own home? It appeared thatthe prospect terrified him. On his arrival, at midday, after eightmonths' absence in France, he found that his wife had sold or pawnedpractically everything in the place, and that the lady herself was inthe violent phase of intoxication. His natural remonstrances not beingreceived with due meekness, a quarrel arose from which the lady emergedvictorious. She laid her poor husband out with a poker. They could notkeep him in hospital. He shied at an immediate renewal of conjugallife. He had no relations or intimate friends in Wellingsford. Wherewas the poor devil to go?

"I thought I might bring him along here and let the Marigolds lookafter him for a week or two. "

"Indeed, " said I. "I admire your airy ways. "

"I know you do, " she replied, "and that's why I've brought him. "

"Is that the fellow?"

She laughed. "You're right first time. How did you guess?" Shescrambled to her feet. "I'll fetch him in. "

She fetched him in, a haggard, broad-shouldered man with a back like asloping plank of wood. He wore corporal's stripes. He saluted and stoodat rigid attention. 

"This is Tufton, " said Betty. 

I despatched her in search of Marigold. To Tufton I said, regarding himwith what, without vanity, I may term an expert eye:

"You're an old soldier. "

"Yes, sir. "

"Guards?"

His eyes brightened. "Yes, sir. Seven years in the Grenadiers. Then twoyears out. Rejoined on outbreak of war, sir. "

I rubbed my hands together in satisfaction. "I'm an old soldier too, "said I. 

"So Sister told me, sir. "

A delicate shade in the man's tone and manner caught at my heart. Perhaps it was the remotest fraction of a glance at my rug-coveredlegs, the pleased recognition of my recognition, . .. Perhaps some queerfreemasonry of the old Army. 

"You seem to be in trouble, boy, " said I. "Tell me all about it andI'll do what I can to help you. "

So he told his story. After his discharge from the Army he had lookedabout for a job and found one at the mills in Wellingsford, where hehad met the woman, a mill-hand, older than himself, whom he hadmarried. She had been a bit extravagant and fond of her glass, but whenhe left her to rejoin the regiment, he had had no anxieties. She didnot write often, not being very well educated and finding difficult thecomposition of letters. A machine gun bullet had gone through hischest, just missing his lung. He had been two months in hospital. Hehad written to her announcing his arrival. She had not met him at thestation. He had tramped home with his kit-bag on his back--and thecracked head was his reception. He supposed she had had a lot of easymoney and had given way to temptation--and

"And what's a man to do, sir?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Corporal, " said I. "It's damned hard lines onyou. But, at any rate, you can look upon this as your home for as longas you like to stay. "

"Thank you kindly, sir, " said he. 

I turned and beckoned to Betty and Marigold, who had been hovering outof earshot by the house door. They approached. 

"I want to have a word with Marigold, " I said. 

Tufton saluted and went off with Betty. Sergeant Marigold stood stiffas a ramrod on the spot which Tufton had occupied. 

"I suppose Mrs. Connor, " said I, "has told you all about this poorchap?"

"Yes, sir, " said Marigold. 

"We must put him up comfortably. That's quite simple. The only thingthat worries me is this--supposing his wife comes around here raisingCain--?"

Marigold held me with his one glittering eye--an eye glittering withthe pride of the gunner and the pride (more chastened) of the husband. 

"You can leave all that, sir, to Mrs. Marigold. If she isn't more thana match for any Grenadier Guardsman's wife, then I haven't been marriedto her for the last twenty years. "

Nothing more was to be said. Marigold marched the man off, leaving mealone with Betty. 

"I'm going to get in before Mrs. Marigold, " she remarked, with a smile. "I'm off now to interview Madam Tufton and bring back her husband'skit. "

In some ways it is a pity Betty isn't a man. She would make a splendidsoldier. I don't think such a thing as fear, physical, moral, orspiritual, lurks in any recess of Betty's nature. Not every young womanwould brave, without trepidation, a virago who had cracked ahard-bitten warrior's head with a poker. 

"Marigold and I will come with you, " I said. 

She protested. It was nonsense. Suppose Mrs. Tufton went for Marigoldand spoiled his beauty? No. It was too dangerous. No place for men. Weargued. At last I blew the police-whistle which I wear on the end of mywatch-chain. Marigold came hurrying out of the house. 

"Mrs. Connor is going to take us for a run, " said I. 

"Very good, sir. "

"Your blood be on your own heads, " said Betty. 

We talked a while of what had happened. Vague stories of thedemoralization of wives left alone with a far greater weekly incomethan they had ever handled before had reached our ears. We had readthem in the newspapers. But till now we had never come across anexample. The woman in question belonged to a bad type. Various dregsfrom large cities drift into the mills around little country towns andare the despair of Mayors, curates, and other local authorities. Wegenteel folk regarded them as a plague-spot in the midst of us. 

I remember the scandal when the troops first came in August, 1914, toWellingsford--a scandal put a summary end to, after a fortnight'sgrinning amazement at our country morals, by the troops themselves. Tufton had married into an undesirable community. 

"We're wasting time, " said Betty. 

So Marigold put me into the back of the car and mounted into the frontseat by Betty, and we started. 

Flowery End was the poetic name of the mean little row of red-brickhouses inhabited exclusively by Mrs. Tufton and her colleagues at themills. To get to it you turn off the High Street by the Post Office, turn to the right down Avonmore Avenue, and then to the left. There youfind Flowery End, and, fifty yards further on, the main road to Godburycrosses it at right angles. Betty, who lived on the Godbury Road, wasquite familiar with Flowery End. Mid-June did its best to justify thename. Here and there, in the tiny patches of front garden, a tenanttried to help mid-June by cultivating wall-flowers and geraniums andsnapdragon and a rose or two; but the majority cared as much for thebeauty of mid-June as for the cleanliness of their children, --anunsightly brood, with any slovenly rags about their bodies, and thecircular crust of last week's treacle on their cheeks. In hisabominable speeches before the war Gedge used to point out thesechildren to unsympathetic Wellingsfordians as the Infant Martyrs of anAccursed Capitalism. 

Betty pulled up the car at Number Seven. Marigold sprang out, helpedher down, and would have walked up the narrow flagged path to knock atthe door. But she declined his aid, and he stood sentry by the gapwhere the wicket gate of the garden should have been. I saw the dooropen on Betty's summons, and a brawny, tousled, red-faced womanappear--a most horrible and forbidding female, although bearing tracesof a once blowsy beauty. As in most cottages hereabouts, you enteredstraight from garden-plot into the principal livingroom. On each sideof the two figures I obtained a glimpse of stark emptiness. 

Betty said: "Are you Mrs. Tufton? I've come to talk to you about yourhusband. Let me come in. "

The attack was so debonair, so unquestioning, that the woman withdrew apace or two and Betty, following up her advantage, entered and shut thedoor behind her. I could not have done what Betty did if I had had asmany legs as a centipede. Marigold turned to me anxiously. 

"You do think she's safe, sir?"

I nodded. "Anyway, stand by. "

The neighbours came out of adjoining houses; slatternly women withbabies, more unwashed children, an elderly, vacant male or two--theyoung men and maidens had not yet been released from the mills. As faras I could gather, there was amused discussion among the gossipsconcerning the salient features of Sergeant Marigold's physicalappearance. I heard one lady bid another to look at his wicked old eye, and receive the humorous rejoinder: "Which one?" I should have liked toburn them as witches; but Marigold stood his ground, imperturbable. 

Presently the door opened, and Betty came sailing down the path with ared spot on each cheek, followed by Mrs. Tufton, vociferous. 

"Sergeant Marigold, " cried Betty. "Will you kindly go into that houseand fetch out Corporal Tufton's kit-bag?"

"Very good, madam, " said Marigold. 

"Sergeant or no sergeant, " cried Mrs. Tufton, squaring her elbows andbarring his way, "nobody's coming into my house to touch any of myhusband's property. .. . " Really what she said I cannot record. TheBritish Tommy I know upside-down, inside-out. I could talk to you abouthim for the week together. The ordinary soldier's wife, good, straight, heroic soul, I know as well and and profoundly admire as I do theordinary wife of a brother-officer, and I could tell you what shethinks and feels in her own language. But the class whence Mrs. Tuftonproceeded is out of my social ken. She was stale-drunk; she had, doubtless, a vile headache; probably she felt twinges of remorse andapprehension of possible police interference. As a counter-irritant tothis, she had worked herself into an astounding temper. She would giveup none of her husband's belongings. She would have the law on them ifthey tried. Bad enough it was for her husband to come home after ayear's desertion, leaving her penniless, and the moment he set eyes onher begin to knock her about; but for sergeants suffering under ablight and characterless females masquerading as hospital nurses tocome and ride rough-shod over an honest working woman was pastendurance. Thus I paraphrase my memory of the lady's torrential speech. "Lay your hand on me, " she cried, "and I'll summons you for assault. "

As Marigold could not pass her without laying hands on her, and as thelaying of hands on her, no matter how lightly, would indubitably haveconstituted an assault in the eyes of the law, Marigold stifflyconfronted her and tried to argue. 

The neighbours listened in sardonic amusement. Betty stood by, with thespots burning on her cheek, clenching her slender capable fingers, furious at defeat. I was condemned to sit in the car a few yards off, an anxious spectator. In a moment's lull of the argument, Bettyinterposed:

"Every woman here knows what you have done. You ought to be ashamed ofyourself. "

"And you ought to be ashamed of yourself, " Mrs. Tuftonretorted--"taking an honest woman's husband away from her. "

It was time to interfere. I called out:

"Betty, let us get back. I'll fix the man up with everything he wants. "

At the moment of her turning to me a telegraph boy hopped from hisbicycle on the off-side of the ear and touched his cap. 

"I've a telegram for Mrs. Connor, sir. I recognised the car and I thinkthat's the lady. So instead of going on to the house--"

I cut him short. Yes. That was Mrs. Connor of Telford Lodge. He dodgedround the car and, entering the garden path, handed the orange-colouredenvelope to Betty. She took it from him absent-mindedly, her heart andsoul engaged in the battle with Mrs. Tufton. The boy stood patient fora second or two. 

"Any answer, ma'am?"

She turned so that I could see her face in profile, and impatientlyopened the envelope and glanced at the message. Then she stiffened, seeming in a curious way to become many inches taller, and grew deadlywhite. The paper dropped from her hand. Marigold picked it up. 

The diversion of the telegraph boy had checked Mrs. Tufton's eloquenceand compelled the idle interest of the neighbours. I cried out from thecar:

"What's the matter?"

But I don't think Betty heard me. She recovered herself, took thetelegram from Marigold, and showed it to the woman. 

"Read it, " said Betty, in a strange, hard voice. "This is to tell methat my husband was killed yesterday in France. Go on your knees andthank God that you have a brave husband still alive and pray that youmay be worthy of him. "

She went into the house and in a moment reappeared like a ghost ofsteel, carrying the disputed canvas kit-bag over her shoulder. Thewoman stared open-mouthed and said nothing. Marigold came forward torelieve Betty of her burden, but she waved him imperiously away, passedhim and, opening the car-door, threw the bag at my feet. Not one of therough crowd moved a foot or uttered a sound, save a baby in arms twodoors off, who cut the silence with a sickly wail and was immediatelyhushed by its mother. Betty turned to the attendant Marigold. 

"You can drive me home. "

She sat by my side. Marigold took the wheel in front and drove on. Shesought for my hand, held it in an iron grip, and said not a word. Itwas but a five minutes' run at the pace to which Marigold, time-wornmaster of crises of life and death, put the car. Betty held herselfrigid, staring straight in front of her, and striving in vain to stiflehorrible little sounds that would break through her tightly closed lips. 

When we pulled up at her door she said queerly: "Forgive me. I'm adamned little coward. "

And she bolted from the car into the house. 

CHAPTER XIII

Thus over the sequestered vale of Wellingsford, far away from the soundof shells, even off the track of marauding Zeppelins, rode the fieryplanet. Mars. There is not a homestead in Great Britain that in oneform or another has not caught a reflection of its blood-red ray. Nomatter how we may seek distraction in work or amusement, the angry glowis ever before our eyes, colouring our vision, colouring our thoughts, colouring our emotions for good or for ill. We cannot escape it. Ourpersonal destinies are inextricably interwoven with the fate directingthe death grapple of the thousand miles or so of battle line, andarbitrating on the doom of colossal battleships. 

Our local newspaper prints week by week its ever-lengthening Roll ofHonour. The shells that burst and slew these brave fellows spread theirdevastation into our little sheltered town; in a thundering crashtearing off from the very trunk of life here a friend, there a son, there a father, there a husband. And I repeat, at the risk of wearisomeinsistence, that our sheltered homeland shares the calm, awful fatalismof the battlefield; we have to share it because every rood of ourcountry is, spiritually, as much a battlefield as the narrow, blood-sodden wastes of Flanders and France. 

Willie Connor, fine brave gentleman, was dead. My beloved Betty was awidow. No Victoria Cross for Betty. Even if there had been one, nochildren to be bred from birth on its glorious legend. The German shellleft Betty stripped and maimed. With her passionate generosity she hadgiven her all; even as his all had been nobly given by her husband. Andthen all of both had been swept ruthlessly away down the gory draughtof sacrifice. 

Poor Betty! "I'm a damned little coward, " she said, as she bolted intothe house. The brave, foolish words rang in my ears all that night. Inthe early morning I wondered what I should do. A commonplace message, written or telephoned, would be inept. I shrank from touching her, although I knew she would feel my touch to be gentle. You have seen, Ihope, that Betty was dearer to me than anyone else in the world, and Iknew that, apart from the stirring emotions in her own young life, Betty held me in the closest affection. When she needed me, she wouldfly the signal. Of that I felt assured. Still. .. 

While I was in this state of perplexity, Marigold came in to rouse meand get me ready for the day. 

"I've taken the liberty, sir, " said he, "to telephone to Telford Lodgeto enquire after Mrs. Connor. The maid said she had Mrs. Connor'sinstructions to reply that she was quite well. "

The good, admirable fellow! I thanked him. While I was shaving, he saidin his usual wooden way:

"Begging your pardon, sir, I thought you might like to send Mrs. Connora few flowers, so I took upon myself to cut some roses, first thingthis morning, with the dew on them. "

Of course I cut myself and the blood flowed profusely. 

"Why the dickens do you spring things like that on people while they'reshaving?" I cried. 

"Very sorry, sir, " said he, solicitous with sponge and towel. 

"All the same, Marigold, " said I, "you've solved a puzzle that has keptme awake since early dawn. We'll go out as soon as I'm dressed andwe'll send her every rose in the garden. "

I have an acre or so of garden behind the house of which I have not yetspoken, save incidentally--for it was there that just a year ago poorAlthea Fenimore ate her giant strawberries on the last afternoon of heryoung life; and a cross-grained old misanthropist, called Timbs, attends to it and lavishes on the flowers the love which, owing, Isuspect, to blighted early affection, he denies to mankind. I am veryfond of my garden and am especially interested in my roses. Do you knowan exquisitely pink rose--the only true pink--named Mrs. GeorgeNorwood? . .. I bring myself up with a jerk. I am not writing a book onroses. When the war is over perhaps I shall devote my old age totelling you what I feel and know and think about them. .. . 

I had a battle with Timbs. Timbs was about sixty. He had shaggy, bushyeyebrows over hard little eyes, a shaggy grey beard, and a long, clean-shaven, obstinate upper lip. Stick him in an ill-fitting frockcoat and an antiquated silk hat, and he would be the stage model of aScottish Elder. As a matter of fact he was Hampshire born and a devoutRoman Catholic. But he was as crabbed an old wretch as you can please. He flatly refused to execute my order. I dismissed him on the spot. Hecountered with the statement that he was an old man who had served mefaithfully for many years. I bade him go on serving me faithfully andnot be a damned fool. The roses were to be cut. If he didn't cut them, Marigold would. 

"He's been a-cutting them already, " he growled. "Before I came. "

Timbs loathed Marigold--why, I could never discover--and Marigold hadthe lowest opinion of Timbs. It was an offence for Marigold todesecrate the garden by his mere footsteps; to touch a plant or aflower constituted a damnable outrage. On the other side, Timbs couldnot approach my person for the purpose of rendering me any necessaryphysical assistance, without incurring Marigold's violent resentment. 

"He'll go on cutting them, " said I, "unless you start in at once. "

He began. I sent off Marigold in search of a wheelbarrow. Then, havingTimbs to myself, I summoned him to my side. 

"Do you hold with a man sacrificing his life for his country?"

He looked at me for a moment or two, in his dour, crabbed way. 

"I've got a couple of sons in France, trying their best to do it, " hereplied. 

That was the first I had ever heard of it. I had always regarded him asa gnarled old bachelor without human ties. Where he had kept the sonsand the necessary mother I had not the remotest notion. 

"You're proud of them?"

"I am. "

"And if one was killed, would you grudge his grave a few roses? For thesake of him wouldn't you sacrifice a world of roses?"

His manner changed. "I don't understand, sir. Is anybody killed?"

"Didn't I say that all these roses were for Mrs. Connor?"

He dropped his secateur. "Good God, sir! Is it Captain Connor?"

The block-headed idiot of a Marigold had not told him! Marigold is avery fine fellow, but occasionally he manifests human frailties thatare truly abominable. 

"We are going to sacrifice all our roses, Timbs, " said I, "for the sakeof a very gallant Englishman. It's about all we can do. "

Of course I ought to have entered upon all this explanation when Ifirst came on the scene; but I took it for granted that Timbs knew ofthe tragedy. 

"Need we cut those blooms of the Rayon d'Or?" asked Timbs, alluding tocertain roses under conical paper shades which he had been breathlesslytending for our local flower show. "We'll cut them first, " said I. 

Looking back through the correcting prism of time, I fancy thisslaughter of the innocents may have been foolishly sentimental. But Ihad a great desire to lay all that I could by way of tribute ofconsolation at Betty's feet, and this little sacrifice of all my rosesseemed as symbolical an expression of my feelings as anything that myunimaginative brain could devise. 

During the forenoon I superintended the packing of the baskets of rosesin Pawling the florist's cart, which I was successful in engaging forthe occasion, --neither wheelbarrow nor donkey carriage nor two-seater, the only vehicles at my disposal, being adequate; and when I saw itstart for its destination, I wheeled myself, by way of discipline, through my bereaved garden. It looked mighty desolate. But though allthe blooms had gone, there were a myriad buds which next week wouldburst into happy flower. And the sacrifice seemed trivial, almostironical; for in Betty's heart there were no buds left. 

After lunch I went to the hospital for the weekly committee meeting. Tomy amazement the first person I met in the corridor was Betty--Betty, white as wax, with black rings round unnaturally shining eyes. Shewaited for me to wheel myself up to her. I said severely:

"What on earth are you doing here? Go home to bed at once. "

She put her hand on the back of my chair and bent down. 

"I'm better here. And so are the dear roses. Come and see them. "

I followed her into one of the military wards on the ground floor, andthe place was a feast of roses. I had no idea so many could have comefrom my little garden. And the ward upstairs, she told me, wassimilarly beflowered. By the side of each man's bed stood bowl or vase, and the tables and the window sills were bright with blooms. It was theward for serious cases--men with faces livid from gas-poisoning, menwith the accursed trench nephritis, men with faces swathed in bandageshiding God knows what distortions, men with cradles over thembetokening mangled limbs, men recovering from operations, chiefly thepicking of bits of shrapnel and splinters of bone from shattered armsand legs; men with pale faces, patient eyes, and with cheery smilesround their lips when we passed by. A gramophone at the end of the roomwas grinding out a sentimental tune to which all were listening withrapt enjoyment. I asked one man, among others, how he was faring. Hewas getting on fine. With the death-rattle in his throat the woundedBritish soldier invariably tells you that he is getting on fine. 

"And ain't these roses lovely? Makes the place look like a garden. Andthat music--seems appropriate, don't it, sir?"

I asked what the gramophone was playing. He looked respectfully shocked. 

"Why, it's 'The Rosary, ' sir. "

After we had left him, Betty said:

"That's the third time they've asked for it to-day. They've got mixedup with the name, you see. They're beautiful children, aren't they?"

I should have called them sentimental idiots, but Betty saw muchclearer than I did. She accompanied me back to the corridor and to theCommittee Room door. I was a quarter of an hour late. 

"I've kept the precious Rayon d'Ors for myself, " she said. "How couldyou have the heart to cut them?"

"I would have cut out my heart itself, for the matter of that, " said I, "if it would have done any good. "

She smiled in a forlorn kind of way. 

"Don't do that, for I shall want it inside you more than ever now. Tellme, how is Tufton?"

"Tufton--?"

"Yes--Tufton. "

I must confess that my mind being so full of Betty, I had cleanforgotten Tufton. But Betty remembered. 

I smiled. "He's getting on fine, " said I. I reached out my hand andheld her cold, slim fingers. "Promise me one thing, my dear. "

"All right, " she said. 

"Don't overdo things. There's a limit to the power of bearing strain. As soon as you feel you're likely to go FUT, throw it all up and comeand see me and let us lay our heads together. "

"I despise people who go FUT, " said Betty. 

"I don't, " said I. 

We nodded a mutual farewell. She opened the Committee Room door for meand walked down the corridor with a swinging step, as though she wouldshow me how fully she had made herself mistress of circumstance. 

Some evenings later she came in, as usual, unheralded, and establishedherself by my chair. 

The scents of midsummer came in through the open windows, and there wasa great full moon staring in at us from a cloudless sky. Letters fromthe War Office, from brother-officers, from the Colonel, from theBrigadier General himself, had broken her down. She gave me the lettersto read. Everyone loved him, admired him, trusted him. "As brave as alion, " wrote one. "Perhaps the most brilliant company officer in mybrigade, " wrote the General. And his death--the tragic common story. Atrench; a high-explosive shell; the fate of young Etherington; and nopossible little wooden cross to mark his grave. 

And Betty, on the floor by my side, gave way. 

The proud will bent. She surrendered herself to a paroxysm of sorrow. 

She was not in a fit state to return to the hospital, where, I learned, she shared a bedroom with Phyllis Gedge. I shrank from sending her hometo the tactless comforting of her aunts. They were excellent, God-fearing ladies, but they had never understood Betty. All her lifethey had worried her with genteel admonitions. They had regarded hermarriage with disfavour, as an act of foolhardiness--I even think theylooked on her attitude as unmaidenly; and now in her frozen widowhoodthey fretted her past endurance. On the night when the news came theysent for the vicar of their parish--not my good friend who christenedHosea--a very worthy, very serious, very evangelistically religiousfellow, to administer spiritual consolation. If Betty had sat devoutlyunder him on Sundays, there might have been some reason in the summons. But Betty, holding her own religious views, had only once been insidethe church--on the occasion of her wedding--and had but the most formalacquaintance with the good man. .. . No, I could not send Betty home, unexpectedly, to have her wounds mauled about by unskilful fingers. Nothing remained but to telephone to the hospital and put her in Mrs. Marigold's charge for the night. So broken was my dear Betty, that sheallowed herself to be carried off without a word. .. . Once before, yearsago, she had behaved with the same piteous docility; and that was when, a short-frocked hoiden, she had fallen from an apple tree and badlyhurt herself, and Marigold had carried her into the house and Mrs. Marigold had put her to bed. .. . 

In the morning I found her calm and sedate at the breakfast table. 

"You've been and gone and done for both of us, Majy dear, " sheremarked, pouring out tea. 

"What do you mean?"

"Our reputations. What a scandal in Wellingsford!"

She looked me clearly in the eyes and smiled, and her hand did notshake as she held my cup. And by these signs I knew that she had takenherself again in grip and forbade reference to the agony through whichshe had passed. 

Quickly she turned the conversation to the Tuftons. What had happened?I told her meagrely. She insisted on fuller details. So, flogged byher, I related what I had gleaned from Marigold's wooden reports. Healways conveyed personal information as though he were giving evidenceagainst a defaulter. I had to start all over again. Apparently this hadhappened: Mrs. Tufton had arrayed herself, not in sackcloth and ashes, for that was apparently her normal attire, but in an equivalent, as faras a symbol of humility was concerned; namely, in decent raiment, andhad sought her husband's forgiveness. There had been a touching scenein the scullery which Mrs. Marigold had given up to them for the sakeof privacy, in which the lady had made tearful promises of reform andthe corporal had magnanimously passed the sponge over the terriblereckoning on her slate. Would he then go home to his penitent wife? Butthe gallant fellow, with the sturdy common-sense for which the Britishsoldier is renowned, contrasted the clover in which he was living herewith the aridness of Flowery End, and declined to budge. High sentimentwas one thing, snug lying was another. Next time he came back, if shehad re-established the home in its former comfort, he didn't say as howhe wouldn't--

"But, " she cried--and this bit I didn't tell Betty--"the next time youmay come home dead!"

"Then, " replied Tufton, "let me see what a nice respectable coffin, with brass handles and lots of slap-up brass nails and a brass plate, you can get ready for me. "

Since the first interview, I informed Betty, there had been othersdaily--most decorous. They were excellent friends. Neither seemed toperceive anything absurd in the situation. Even Marigold looked on itas a matter of course. 

"I have an idea, " said Betty. "You know we want some help in theservant staff of the hospital?"

I did. The matron had informed the Committee, who had empowered her toact. 

"Why not let me tackle Mrs. Tufton while she is in this beautifullychastened and devotional mood? In this way we can get her out of themills, out of Flowery End, fill her up with noble and patrioticemotions instead of whisky, and when Tufton returns, present her to himas a model wife, sanctified by suffering and ennobled by theconsciousness of duty done. It would be splendid!"

For the first time since the black day there came a gleam of fun intoBetty's eyes and a touch of colour into her cheeks. 

"It would indeed, " said I. "The only question is whether Tufton wouldreally like this Red Cross Saint you'll have provided for him. "

"In case he does not, " said Betty, "you can provide him with a refugeas you are doing now. "

She rose from the table, announcing her intention of going straight tothe hospital. I realised with a pang that breakfast was over; that Ihad enjoyed a delectable meal; that, by some sort of dainty miracle, she had bemused me into eating and drinking twice my ordinary ration;that she had inveigled me into talking--a thing I have never doneduring breakfast for years--it is as much as Marigold's ugly head isworth to address a remark to me during the unsympathetic duty--why, ifmy poached egg regards me with too aggressive a pinkiness, I want toslap it--and into talking about those confounded Tuftons with a gustoonly provoked by a glass or two of impeccable port after a good dinner. One would have thought, considering the anguished scene of the nightbefore, that it would have been one of the most miserably impossibletete-a-tete breakfasts in the whole range of such notoriously ghastlymeals. But here was Betty, serene and smiling, as though she had beenaccustomed to breakfast with me every morning of her life, off to thehospital, with a hard little idea in her humorous head concerning Mrs. Tufton's conversion. 

The only sign she gave of last night's storm was when, by way ofgood-bye, she bent down and kissed my cheek. 

"You know, " she said, "I love you too much to thank you. "

And she went off with her brave little head in the air. 

In the afternoon I went to Wellings Park. Sir Anthony was away, butLady Fenimore was in. She showed me a letter she had received fromBetty in reply to her letter of condolence:

"My dears, "It is good to realise one has such rocks to lean on. You long to helpand comfort me. Well, I'll tell you how to do it. You just forget. Leave it to me to do all the remembering. 

"Yours, Betty. "

CHAPTER XIV

On the first of July there was forwarded to me from the club a letterin an unknown handwriting. I had to turn to the signature to discoverthe identity of my correspondent. It was Reggie Dacre, Colonel Dacre, whom I had met in London a couple of months before. As it tells its ownlittle story, I transcribe it. 

"Dear Major Meredyth:

"I should like to confirm by the following anecdote, which is going theround of the Brigade, what I recently told you about our friend Boyce. I shouldn't worry you, but I feel that if one has cast an unjustifiableslur on a brother-officer's honour--and I can't tell you how the thinghas lain on my conscience--one shouldn't leave a stone unturned torehabilitate him, even in the eyes of one person. 

"There has been a good deal of scrapping around Ypres lately--thatgiven away by the communiques; but for reasons which both the Censorand yourself will appreciate, I can't be more explicit as to locality. Enough to say that somewhere in this region--or sector, as we call itnowadays--there was a certain bit of ground that had been taken andretaken over and over again. B. 's Regiment was in this fighting, and atone particular time we were holding a German front trench section. Ashort distance further on the enemy held a little farm building, forming a sort of redoubt. They sniped all day long. They also had amachine gun. I can't give you accurate details, for I can only tell youwhat I've heard; but the essentials are true. Well, we got thatfarmhouse. We got it single-handed. Boyce put up the most amazing bluffthat has ever happened in this war. He crawls out by himself, withoutanybody knowing--it was a pitch-black night--gets through the barbedwire, heaven knows how, up to the house; lays a sentry out with hislife-preserver; gives a few commands to an imaginary company; andsummons the occupants--two officers and fifteen men--to surrender. Thinking they are surrounded, they obey like lambs, come out unarmed, with their hands up, officers and all, and are comfortably marched offin the dark, as prisoners into our trenches. They say that when theGerman officers discovered how they had been done, they foamed so hardthat we had to use empty sandbags as strait waistcoats. 

"Now, it's picturesque, of course, and being picturesque, it has flownfrom mouth to mouth. But it's true. Verb. Sap. 

"Hoping some time or other to see you again, "Yours sincerely, "R. DACRE, "Lt. Col. "

I quote this letter here for the sake of chronological sequence. Itgave me a curious bit of news. No man could have performed such a featwithout a cold brain, soundly beating heart, and nerves of steel. Itwas not an act of red-hot heroism. It was done in cold blood, adeliberate gamble with death on a thousand to one chance. It wasstaggeringly brave. 

I told the story to Mrs. Boyce. Her comment was characteristic:

"But surely they would have to surrender if called upon by a BritishOfficer. "

To the Day of Judgment I don't think she will understand what Leonarddid. Leonard himself, coming home slightly wounded two or three weeksafterwards, pooh-poohed the story as one of no account and only furtherconfused the dear lady's ill-conceived notions. 

In the meanwhile life at Wellingsford flowed uneventfully. Now andagain a regiment or a brigade, having finished its training, disappeared in a night, and the next day fresh troops arrived to fillits place. And this great, silent movement of men went on all over thecountry. Sometimes our hearts sank. A reserve Howitzer TerritorialBrigade turned up in Wellings Park with dummy wooden guns. The officerstold us that they had been expecting proper guns daily for the past twomonths. Marigold shook a sad head. But all things, even six-inchhowitzers, come to him who waits. 

Little more was heard of Randall Holmes. He corresponded with hismother through a firm of London solicitors, and his address and hisdoings remained a mystery. He was alive, he professed robust health, and in reply to Mrs. Holmes's frantically expressed hope that he wasadopting no course that might discredit his father's name, he twittedher with intellectual volte-face to the views of Philistia, but at thesame time assured her that he was doing nothing which the mostself-righteous bourgeois would consider discreditable. 

"But it IS discreditable for him to go away like this and not let hisown mother know where he is, " cried the poor woman. 

And of course I agreed with her. I find it best always to agree withmothers; also with wives. 

After her own lapse from what Mrs. Boyce would have called"Spartianism, " Betty kept up her brave face. When Willie Connor's kitcame home she told me tearlessly about the heartrending consignment. Now and then she spoke of him--with a proud look in her eyes. She wasone of the women of England who had the privilege of being the wife ofa hero. In this world one must pay for everything worth having. Herwidowhood was the price. All the tears of a lifetime could not bringhim back. All the storms of fate could not destroy the glory of thosefew wonderful months. He was laughing, so she heard, when he met hisdeath. So would she, in honour of him, go on laughing till she met hers. 

"And that silly little fool, Phyllis, is still crying her eyes out overRandall, " she said. "Don't I think she was wrong in sending him away?If she had married him she might have influenced him, made him get acommission in the army. I've threatened to beat her if she talks suchnonsense. Why can't people take a line and stick to it?"

"This isn't a world of Bettys, my dear, " said I. 

"Rubbish! The outrageous Mrs. Tufton's doing it. "

Apparently she was. She followed Betty about as the lamb followed Mary. Tufton, after a week or two at Wellington Barracks, had been givensergeant's stripes and sent off with a draft to the front. Betty'sdramatic announcement of her widowhood seemed to have put the fear ofdeath into the woman's soul. As soon as her husband landed in Franceshe went scrupulously through the closely printed casualty lists ofnon-commissioned officers and men in The Daily Mail, in awful dreadlest she should see her husband's name. Betty vainly assured her that, in the first place, she would hear from the War Office weeks beforeanything could appear in the papers, and that, in the second, his namewould occur under the heading "Grenadier Guards, " and not under "RoyalField Artillery, " "Royal Engineers, " "Duke of Cornwall's LightInfantry, " "R. A. M. C. , " or Australian and Canadian contingents. Mrs. Tufton went through the lot from start to finish. Once, indeed, shecame across the name, in big print, and made a bee-line through thewards for Betty--an offence for which the Matron nearly threw her, there and then, into the street. It was that of the gallant Colonel ofa New Zealand Regiment at Gallipoli. Betty had to point to the briefbiographical note to prove to the distracted woman that the lateColonel Tufton of New Zealand could not be identical with SergeantTufton of the Grenadiers. She regarded Mrs. Tufton as a brand she hadplucked from the burning and took a great deal of trouble with her. Onthe other hand, I imagine Mrs. Tufton looked upon herself as a veryimportant person, a sergeant's wife, and the confidential intimate of aleading sister at the Wellingsford Hospital. In fact, Marigoldmentioned her notorious vanity. 

"What does it matter, " cried Betty, when I put this view before her, "how swelled her head may be, so long as it isn't swollen with drink?"

And I could find no adequate reply. 

Towards the end of the month comes Boyce to Wellingsford, this time notsecretly; for the day after his arrival he drove his mother through thetown and incidentally called on me. A neglected bullet graze on theneck had turned septic. An ugly temperature had sent him to hospital. The authorities, as soon as the fever had abated and left him on thehigh road to recovery, had sent him home. A khaki bandage around hisbull-throat alone betokened anything amiss. He would be back, he said, as soon as the Medical Board at the War Office would let him. 

On this occasion, for the first time since South African days, I methim without any mistrust. What had passed between Betty and himself, Idid not know. Relations between man and woman are so subtle andcomplicated, that unless you have the full pleadings on both sides infront of you, you cannot arbitrate; and, as often as not, if youdeliver the most soul-satisfying of judgments, you are hopelesslywrong, because there are all important, elusive factors of personality, temperament, sex, and what not which all the legal acumen in the worldcould not set down in black and white. So half unconsciously I ruledout Betty from my contemplation of the man. I had been obsessed by theVilboek Farm story, and by that alone. Reggie Dacre--to say nothing ofpersonages in high command--had proved it to be a horrible lie. He hadMarshal Ney's deserved reputation--le brave des braves--and there is nomore coldly critical conferrer of such repute than the British Army inthe field. To win it a man not only has to do something heroic once ortwice--that is what he is there for--but he has to be doing it all thetime. Boyce had piled up for himself an amazing record, one thatoverwhelmed the possibility of truth in old slanders. When I grippedhim by the hand, I felt immeasurable relief at being able to do sowithout the old haunting suspicion and reservation. 

He spoke, like thousands of others of his type--the type of the fineprofessional English soldier--with diffident modesty of such personalexperiences as he deigned to recount. The anecdotes mostly had ahumorous side, and were evoked by allusion. Like all of usstay-at-homes, I cursed the censorship for leaving us so much in thedark. He laughed and cursed the censorship for the opposite reason. 

"The damned fools--I beg your pardon, Mother, but when a fool is toobig a fool even for this world, he must be damned--the damned foolsallow all sorts of things to be given away. They were nearly the deathof me and were the death of half a dozen of my men. "

And he told the story. In a deserted brewery behind the lines the vatswere fitted up as baths for men from the trenches, and the furnacesheated ovens in which horrible clothing was baked. This brewery hadbeen immune from attack until an officially sanctioned newspaperarticle specified its exact position. A few days after the articleappeared, in fact, as soon as a copy of the paper reached Germany, athunderstorm of shells broke on the brewery. Out of it poured ahelter-skelter stream of stark-naked men, who ran wherever they couldfor cover. From one point of view it was vastly comic. In the meanwhilethe building containing all their clothes, and all the spare clothingfor a brigade, was being scientifically destroyed. That was more comicstill. The bather cut off from his garments is a world-wide joke. TheGerman battery, having got the exact range, were having a systematic, Teutonic afternoon's enjoyment. But from another point of view thesituation was desperate. There were these poor fellows, hordes of them, in nature's inadequate protection against the weather, shivering in thecold, with the nearest spare rag of clothing some miles away. Boyce gotthem together, paraded them instantly under the shell fire, and ledthem at a rush into the blazing building to salve stores. Six nevercame out alive. Many were burned and wounded. But it had to be done, orthe whole crowd would have perished from exposure. Tommy is fairlytough; but he cannot live mother-naked through a March night of drivingsleet. 

"No, " said Boyce, "if you suffered daily from the low cunning ofBrother Bosch, you wouldn't cry for things to be published in thenewspapers. "

At the end of their visit I accompanied my guests to the hall. Marigoldescorted Mrs. Boyce to the car. Leonard picked up his cap and cane andturned to shake hands. I noticed that the knob of the cane was neatlycased in wash-leather. Idly I enquired the reason. He smiled grimly ashe slipped off the cover and exposed the polished deep vermilion buttof the life-preserver which Reggie Dacre had described. 

"It's a sort of fetish I feel I must carry around with me, " heexplained. "When I've got it in my hand, I don't seem to care a damnwhat I do. When I haven't, I miss it. Remember the story of Sir WalterScott's boy with the butter? Something like that, you know. But in itsbare state it's not a pretty sight for the mother. "

"It ought to have a name, " said I. "The poilu calls his bayonetRosalie. "

He looked at it darkly for a moment, before refitting the wash-leather. 

"I might call it The Reminder, " said he. "Good-bye. " And he turnedquickly and strode out of the door. 

The Reminder of what? He puzzled me. Why, in spite of all myopen-heartedness, did he still contrive to leave me with a sense of theenigmatic?

Although he showed himself openly about the town, he held himself alooffrom social intercourse with the inhabitants. He called, I know, onMrs. Holmes, and on one or two others who have no place in thischronicle. But he refused all proposals of entertainment, notably aninvitation to dinner from the Fenimores. Sir Anthony met him in thestreet, upbraided him in his genial manner for neglect of his oldfriends, and pressingly asked him to dine at Wellings Park. Just a fewold friends. The duties of a distinguished soldier, said he, did notbegin and end on the field. He must uplift the hearts of those who hadto stay at home. Sir Anthony had a nervous trick of rattling off manysentences before his interlocutor could get in a word. When he hadfinished, Boyce politely declined the invitation. 

"And with a damned chilly, stand-offish politeness, " cried Sir Anthonyfuriously, when telling me about it. "Just as if I had been Perkins, the fish-monger, asking him to meet the Prettiloves at high tea. It'sswelled head, my dear chap; that's what it is. Just swelled head. Noneof us are good enough for him and his laurels. He's going to remain themodest mossy violet of a hero blushing unseen. Oh, damn the fellow!"

I did my best to soothe my touchy and choleric friend. No soldier, saidI, likes to be made a show of. Why had he suggested a dinner party? Afew friends. Anyone in Boyce's position knew what that meant. It meantabout thirty gawking, gaping people for whom he didn't care a hang. Whyhadn't Anthony asked the Boyces to dine quietly with Edith andhimself--with me thrown in, for instance, if they wanted exoticassistance? Let me try, I said, to fix matters up. 

So the next day I called on Boyce and told him, with such tact as Ihave at command, of Sir Anthony's wounded feelings. 

"My dear Meredyth, " said he. "I can only say to you what I tried toexplain to the irascible little man. If I accepted one invitation, Ishould have to accept all invitations or give terrible offence all overthe place. I'm here a sick man and my mother's an invalid. And I merelywant to be saved from my friends and have a quiet time with the oldlady. Of course if Sir Anthony is offended, I'm only too sorry, and Ibeg you to assure him that I never intended the slightest discourtesy. The mere idea of it distresses me. "

The explanation was reasonable, the apology frank. Sir Anthony receivedthem both grumpily. He had his foibles. He set his invitations todinner in a separate category from those of the rag-tag and bobtail ofWellingsford society. So for the sake of principle he continued to damnthe fellow. 

On the other hand, for the sake of principle, reparation for injustice, I continued to like the fellow and found pleasure in his company. Forone thing, I hankered after the smoke and smell and din of the front, and Boyce succeeded more than anyone else in satisfying my appetite. While he talked, as he did freely with me alone, I got near to the grimessence of things. Also, with the aid of rough military maps, he madeactions and strategical movements of which newspaper accounts had givenme but a confused notion, as clear as if I had been a chief of staff. Often he went to considerable trouble in obtaining special information. He appeared to set himself out to win my esteem. Now a cripple is verysensitive to kindness. I could not reject his overtures. Whatinterested motive could he have in seeking out a useless hulk like me?On the first opportunity I told Betty of the new friendship, having atwinge or two of conscience lest it might appear to her disloyal. 

"But why in the world shouldn't you see him, dear?" she said, open-eyed. "He brings the breath of battle to you and gives you freshlife. You're looking ever so much better the last few days. The onlything is, " she added, turning her head away, "that I don't want to runthe risk of meeting him again. "

Naturally I took precautions against such an occurrence. Thecircumstances of their last meeting at my house lingered unpleasantlyin my mind. Perhaps, for Betty's sake, I ought to have turned a coldshoulder on Boyce. But when you have done a man a foul injustice foryears, you must make him some kind of secret reparation. So, by makinghim welcome, I did what I could. 

Now I don't know whether I ought to set down a trivial incidentmentioned in my diary under the date of the 15th August, the day beforeBoyce left Wellingsford to join his regiment in France. In writing anaccount of other people's lives it is difficult to know what to put inand what to leave out. If you bring in your own predilections orprejudices or speculations concerning them, you must convey a distortedimpression. You lie about them unconsciously. A fact is a fact, and, ifit is important, ought to be recorded. But when you are not surewhether it is a fact or not, what are you to do?

Perhaps I had better narrate what happened and tell you afterwards whyI hesitate. 

Marigold had driven me over to Godbury, where I had business connectedwith a County Territorial Association, and we were returning home. Itwas a moist, horrible, depressing August day. A slimy, sticky day. Clouds hung low over the reeking earth. The honest rain had ceased, butwet drops dribbled from the leaves of the trees and the branches andtrunks exuded moisture. The thatched roofs of cottages were dank. Infront gardens roses and hollyhocks drooped sodden. The very droves ofsteers coming from market sweated in the muggy air. The good slush ofthe once dusty road, broken to bits by military traffic, had stiffenedinto black grease. Round a bend of the road we skidded alarmingly. Marigold has a theory that in summer time a shirt next the skin is theonly wear for humans and square-tread tyres the only wear formotor-cars. With some acerbity I pointed out the futility of hisproposition. With the blandness of superior wisdom he assured me thatwe were perfectly safe. You can't knock into the head of anartilleryman who has been trained to hang on to a limber by thefriction of his trousers, that there can be any danger in the luxuriousseat of a motor-car. 

There is a good straight half mile of the Godbury Road which is knownin the locality as "The Gut. " It is sunken and very narrow, beingflanked on one side by the railway embankment, and on the other by thegrounds of Godbury Chase. A most desolate bit of road, half overhung bytrees and oozing with all the moisture of the country-side. On this dayit was the wettest, slimiest bit of road in England. We had almostreached the end of it, when it entered the head of a stray puppy dog topause in the act of crossing and sit down in the middle and hunt forfleas. To spare the abominable mongrel, Marigold made a sudden swerve. Of course the car skidded. It skidded all over the place, as if it weredrunk, and, aided by Marigold, described a series of ghastlyhalf-circles. At last he performed various convulsive feats ofjugglery, with the result that the car, which was nosing steadily forthe ditch, came to a stand-still. Then Marigold informed me inunemotional tones that the steering gear had gone. 

"It's all the fault of that there dog, " said he, twisting his head soas to glare at the little beast, who, after a yelp and a bound, hadcalmly recaptured his position and resumed his interrupted occupation. 

"It's all the fault of that there Marigold, " I retorted, "who can't seethe sense of using studded tyres on a greasy surface. What's to be donenow?"

Marigold thrust his hand beneath his wig and scratched his head. Hedidn't exactly know. He got out and stared intently at the car. If mindcould have triumphed over matter, the steering gear would have becomedisfractured. But the good Marigold's mind was not powerful enough. Hegave up the contest and looked at me and the situation. There we were, broadside on to the narrow road, and only manhandling could bring usround to a position of safety by the side. He was for trying it thereand then; but I objected, having no desire to be slithered into theditch. 

"I would just as soon, " said I, "ride a giraffe shod with rollerskates. "

He didn't even smile. He turned his one reproachful eye on me. What wasto be done? I told him. We must wait for assistance. When I had beentransferred into the vehicle of a passing Samaritan, it was time enoughfor the manhandling. 

Fate brought the Samaritan very quickly. A car coming from Godburytooted violently, then slowed down, stopped, and from it jumped LeonardBoyce. As he was to rescue me from a position of peculiar helplessness, I regarded his great khaki-clad figure as that of a ministering angel. I beamed on him. 

"Hallo! What's the matter?" he asked cheerily. 

I explained. Being merciful, I spared Marigold and threw the blame onthe dog and on the County Council for allowing the roads to get intosuch a filthy condition. 

"That's all right, " said Boyce. "We'll soon fix you up. First we'll getyou into my car. Then Marigold and I will slue this one round, and thenwe'll send him a tow. "

Marigold nodded and approached to lift me out. 

Then, what happened next, happened in the flash of a few breathlessseconds. There was the dull thud of hoofs. A scared bay thoroughbred, coming from Godbury, galloping hell for leather, with a dishevelled boyin khaki on his back. The boy had lost his stirrups; he had lost hisreins; he had lost his head. He hung half over the saddle and had adeath grip on the horse's mane. And the uncontrolled brute wasthundering down on us. There was my infernal car barring the narrowroad. I remember bracing myself to meet the shock. An end, thought I, of Duncan Meredyth. I saw Boyce leap aside like a flash and appear tostand stock-still. The next second I saw Marigold semaphore a few yardsin front of the car and then swing sickeningly at the horse's bit; andthen the whole lot of them, Marigold, horse and rider, come down in aconvulsive heap on the greasy road. To my intense relief I saw Marigoldpick himself up and go to the head of the plunging, prostrate horse. Ina moment or two he had got the beast on his feet, where he stoodquivering. It was a fine, smart piece of work on the part of the oldartilleryman. I was so intent on his danger that I forgot all aboutBoyce: but as soon as the three crashed down, I saw him run to assistthe young subaltern who had rolled himself clear. 

"By Jove, that was a narrow shave!" he cried cordially, giving him ahand. 

"It was indeed, sir, " said the young man, scraping the mud off hisface. "That's the second time the brute has done it. He shies and bucksand kicks like a regular devil. This time he shied at a steam lorry andbucked my feet out of the stirrups. Everybody in the squadron hasturned him down, and I'm the junior, I've had to take him. " He eyed theanimal resentfully. "I'd just like to get him on some grass and knockhell out of him!"

"I'm glad to see you're not hurt, " said Boyce with a smile. 

"Oh, not a bit, sir, " said the boy. He turned to Marigold. "I don'tknow how to thank you. It was a jolly plucky thing to do. You've savedmy life and that of the gentleman in the car. If we had busted into it, there would have been pie. " He came to the side of the car. "I thinkyou're Major Meredyth, sir. I must have given you an awful fright. I'mso sorry. My name is Brown. I'm in the South Scottish Horse. "

He had a courteous charm of manner in spite of his boyish desire toappear unshaken by the accident. A little bravado is an excellentthing. I laughed and held out my hand. 

"I'm glad to meet you--although our meeting might have been contrivedless precipitously. This is Sergeant Marigold, late R. F. A. , who does methe honour of looking after me. And this is Major Boyce. "

Observe the little devil of malice that made me put Marigold first. 

"Of the Rifles?"

A quick gleam of admiration showed in the boy's eyes as he saluted. Nosoldier could be stationed at Wellingsford without hearing of the heroof the neighbourhood. A great hay waggon came lumbering down the roadand pulled up, there being no room for it to pass. This put an end tosocial amenities. Brown mounted his detested charger and trotted off. Marigold transferred me to Boyce's car. Several pairs of brawny armsrighted the two-seater and Boyce and I drove off, leaving Marigoldwaiting with his usual stony patience for the promised tow. On the wayBoyce talked gaily of Marigold's gallantry, of the boy's spirit, of theidiotic way in which impossible horses were being foisted on newlyformed cavalry units. When we drew up at my front door, it occurred tome that there was no Marigold in attendance. 

"How the deuce, " said I, "am I going to get out?"

Boyce laughed. "I don't think I'll drop you. "

His great arms picked me up with ease. But while he was carrying me Iexperienced a singular physical revolt. I loathed his grip. I loathedthe enforced personal contact. Even after he had deposited me--veryskilfully and gently--in my wheel-chair in the hall, I hated thelingering sense of his touch. He owed his whisky and soda to the mostelementary instinct of hospitality. Besides, he was off the next day, back to the trenches and the hell of battle, and I had to bid himgood-bye and God-speed. But when he went, I felt glad, very glad, asthough relieved of some dreadful presence. My old distrust and dislikereturned increased a thousandfold. 

It was only when he got my frail body in his arms, which I realizedwere twice as strong as my good Marigold's, that I felt the ghastly andirrational revulsion. The only thing to which I can liken it, althoughit seems ludicrous, is what I imagine to be the instinctive recoil of awoman who feels on her body the touch of antipathetic hands. I knowthat my malady has made me a bit supersensitive. But my vanity hasprided itself on keeping up a rugged spirit in a fool of a body, so Ihated myself for giving way to morbid sensations. All the same, I feltthat if I were alone in a burning house, and there were no one butLeonard Boyce to save me, I should prefer incineration to rescue. 

And now I will tell you why I have hesitated to give a place in thischronicle to the incident of the broken-down car and the runaway horse. 

It all happened so quickly, my mind was so taken up with the suddenperil, that for the life of me I cannot swear to the part played byLeonard Boyce. I saw him leap aside, and had the fragment of animpression of him standing motionless between the radiator of his carand the tail of mine which was at right angles. The next time he thrusthimself on my consciousness was when he was lugging young Brown out ofreach of the convulsive hoofs. In the meanwhile Marigold, single-handed, had rushed into the jaws of death and stopped the horse. But as it was a matter of seconds, I had no reason for believing that, but for adventitious relative positions on the road, Boyce would nothave done the same. .. . And yet out of the corner of my eye I got aninstantaneous photograph of him standing bolt upright between the twocars, while the abominable bay brute, with distended red nostrils andwild eyes, was thundering down on us. 

On the other hand, the swift pleasure in the boy's eyes when herealised that he was in the presence of the popular hero, proved himfree of doubts such as mine. And when Marigold, having put the car inhospital, came to make his report, and lingered in order to discuss thewhole affair, he said, in wooden deprecation of my eulogy:

"If Major Boyce hadn't jumped in, sir, young Mr. Brown's head wouldhave been kicked into pumpkin-squash. "

Well, I have known from long experience that there are no moreuntrustworthy witnesses than a man's own eyes; especially in thelightning dramas of life. 

I was kept awake all night, and towards the dawn I came into thoroughagreement with Sir Anthony and I heartily damned the fellow. 

What had I to do with him that he should rob me of my sleep?

CHAPTER XV

The next morning he strode in while I was at breakfast, handsome, erect, deep-chested, the incarnation of physical strength, with a gladlight in his eyes. 

"Congratulate me, old man, " he cried, gripping my frail shoulder. "I'vethree days' extra leave. And more than that, I go out in command of theregiment. No temporary business but permanent rank. Gazetted in duecourse. Bannatyne--that's our colonel--damned good soldier!--has got astaff appointment. I take his place. I promise you the Fourth King'sRifles are going to make history. Either history or manure. History forchoice. As I say, Bannatyne's a damned good soldier, and personally asbrave as a lion, but when it comes to the regiment, he's too much onthe cautious side. The regiment's only longing to make things hum, andI'm going to let 'em do it. "

I congratulated him in politely appropriate terms and went on with mybacon and eggs. He sat on the window-seat and tapped his gaiters withhis cane life-preserver. He wore his cap. 

"I thought you'd like to know, " said he. "You've been so good to theold mother while I've been away and been so charitable, listening to myyarns, while I've been here, that I couldn't resist coming round andtelling you. "

"I suppose your mother's delighted, " said I. 

He threw back his head and laughed, as though he had never a blackthought or memory in the world. 

"Dear old mater! She has the impression that I'm going out to takecharge of the blessed campaign. So if she talks about 'my dear son'sarmy, ' don't let her down, like a good chap--for she'll think either mea fraud or you a liar. "

He rose suddenly, with a change of expression. 

"You're the only man in the world I could talk to like this about mymother. You know the sterling goodness and loyalty that lies beneathher funny little ways. "

He strode to the window which looks out on to the garden, his backturned on me. And there he stood silent for a considerable time. Ihelped myself to marmalade and poured out a second cup of tea. Therewas no call for me to speak. I had long realized that, whatever mayhave been the man's sins and weaknesses, he had a very deep and tenderlove for the Dresden china old lady that was his mother. There wasLondon of the clubs and the theatres and the restaurants and thenight-clubs, a war London full and alive, not dead as in Augusts offar-off tradition, all ready to give him talk and gaiety and the thingsthat matter to the man who escapes for a brief season from thenever-ending hell of the battlefield; ready, too, to pour flattery intohis ear, to touch his scars with the softest of its lingers. Yet hechose to stay, a recluse, in our dull little town, avoiding even thekindly folk round about, in order to devote himself to one dear butentirely uninteresting old woman. It is not that he despised London, preferring the life of the country gentleman. On the contrary, beforethe war Leonard Boyce was very much the man about town. He loved theglitter and the chatter of it. From chance words during this spell ofleave, I had divined hankering after its various fleshpots. For thesake of one old woman he made reckless and gallant sacrifice. When hewas bored to misery he came round to me. I learned later that invisiting Wellingsford he faced more than boredom. All of this you mustput to the credit side of his ledger. 

There he stood, his great broad shoulders and bull-neck silhouettedagainst the window. That broad expanse, a bit fleshy, below the base ofthe skull indicates brutality. Never before, to my eyes, had the signasserted itself with so much aggression. I had often wondered why, apart from the Vilboek Farm legend, I had always disliked anddistrusted him. Now I seemed to know. It was the neck not of a man, butof a brute. The curious repulsion of the previous evening, when he hadcarried me into the house, came over me again. From junction of arm andbody protruded six inches of the steel-covered life-preserver, thewashleather that hid its ghastly knob staring at me blankly. I hatedthe thing. The gallant English officer--and in my time I have known andloved a many of the most gallant--does not go about in private lifefondling a trophy reeking with the blood of his enemies. It is thetrait of a savage. That truculent knob and that truculent bull-neckcorrelated themselves most horribly in my mind. And again, with ashiver, I had the haunting flash of a vision of him, out of the tail ofmy eye, standing rigid and gaping between the two cars, while my ruggedold Marigold, in a businesslike, old-soldier sort of way, withoutthought of danger or death, was swaying at the head of the runawayhorse. 

Presently he turned, and his brows were set above unfathomable hardeyes. The short-cropped moustache could not hide the curious twitch ofthe lips which I had seen once before. It was obvious that these fewminutes of silence had been spent in deep thought and had resulted in adecision. A different being from the gay, successful soldier who hadcome in to announce his honours confronted me. He threw down cap andstick and passed his hand over his crisp brown hair. 

"I don't know whether you're a friend of mine or not, " he said, handson hips and gaitered legs slightly apart. "I've never been able to makeout. All through our intercourse, in spite of your courtesy andhospitality, there has been some sort of reservation on your part. "

"If that is so, " said I, diplomatically, "it is because of the defectsof my national quality. "

"That's possibly what I've felt, " said he. "But it doesn't matter adamn with regard to what I want to say. It's a question not of yourfeelings towards me, but my feelings towards you. I don't want to makepolite speeches--but you're a man whom I have every reason to honourand trust. And unlike all my other brother-officers, you have no reasonto be jealous--"

"My dear fellow, " I interrupted, "what's all this about? Why jealousy?"

"You know what a pot-hunter is in athletics? A chap that is simply outfor prizes? Well, that's what a lot of them think of me. That I'm justout to get orders and medals and distinctions and so forth. "

"That's nonsense, " said I. "I happen to know. Your reputation in thebrigade is unassailable. "

"In the way of my having done what I'm credited with, it is, " heanswered. "But all the same, they're right. "

"What do you mean?" I asked. 

"What I say. They're right. I'm out for everything I can get. Now I'mout for a V. C. I see you think it abominable. That's because you don'tunderstand. No one but I myself could understand. I feel I owe it tomyself. " He looked at me for a second or two and then broke into asardonic sort of laugh. "I suppose you think me a conceited ass, " hecontinued. "Why should Leonard Boyce be such a vastly important person?It isn't that, I assure you. "

I lit a cigarette, having waved an invitation to join me, which with anod he refused. 

"What is it, then?"

"Has it ever struck you that often a man's most merciless creditor ishimself?"

Here was a casuistical proposition thrown at my head by the last personI should have suspected of doing so. It was immensely interesting, inview of my long puzzledom. I spoke warily. 

"That depends on the man--on the nice balance of his dual nature. Onthe one side is the power to demand mercilessly; on the other, theinstinct to respond. Of course, the criminal--"

"What are you dragging in criminals for?" he said sharply. "I'm talkingabout honourable men with consciences. Criminals haven't consciences. The devil who has just been hung for murdering three women in theirbaths hadn't any dual nature, as you call it. Those murders didn'trepresent to him a mountain of debt to God which his soul was summonedto discharge. He went to his death thinking himself a most unlucky andhardly used fellow. "

His fingers went instinctively into the cigarette-box. I passed him thematches. 

"Precisely, " said I. "That was the point I was about to make. "

He puffed at his cigarette and looked rather foolish, as thoughregretting his outburst. 

"We've got away, " he said, after a pause, "from what I was meaning totell you. And I want to tell you because I mayn't have another chance. "He turned to the window-seat and picked up his life-preserver. "I'm outfor two things. One is to kill Germans--" He patted the coveredknob--and there flashed across my mind a boyhood's memory ofMartin--wasn't it Martin?--in "Hereward the Wake, " who had adeliciously blood-curdling habit of patting his revengeful axe. --"I'vedone in eighty-five with this and my revolver. That, I consider, is myduty to my country. The other is to get the V. C. That's for payment tomy creditor self. "

"In full, or on account?" said I. 

"There's only one payment in full, " he answered grimly, "and that I'vebeen offering for the past twelve months. And it's a thousand chancesto one it will be accepted before the end of this year. And that, afterall this palaver, is what I've just made up my mind to talk to youabout. "

"You mean your death?"

"Just that, " said he. "A man pot-hunting for Victoria Crosses takes athousand to one chance. " He paused abruptly and shot an eager andcuriously wavering glance at me. "Am I boring you with all this?"

"Good Heavens, no. " And then as the insistence of his great figuretowering over me had begun to fret my nerves--"Sit down, man, " said I, with an impatient gesture, "and put that sickening toy away and come tothe point. "

He tossed the cane on the window-seat and sat near me on astraight-backed chair. 

"All right, " he said. "I'll come to the point. I shan't see you again. I'm going out in command. Thank God we're in the thick of it. Roundabout Loos. It's a thousand to one I'll be killed. Life doesn't mattermuch to me, in spite of what you may think. There are only two peopleon God's earth I care for. One, of course, is my old mother. The otheris Betty Fairfax--I mean Betty Connor. I spoke to you once abouther--after I had met her here--and I gave you to understand that I hadbroken off our engagement from conscientious motives. It was an awkwardposition and I had to say something. As a matter of fact I actedabominably. But I couldn't help it. " The corners of his lips suddenlyworked in the odd little twitch. "Sometimes circumstances, especiallyif a man's own damn foolishness has contrived them, tie him hand andfoot. Sometimes physical instincts that he can't control. " He narrowedhis eyes and bent forward, looking at me intently, and he repeated thephrase slowly--"Physical instincts that he can't control-"

Was he referring to the incident of yesterday? I thought so. I alsobelieved it was the motive power of this strangely intimateconversation. 

He rose again as though restless, and once more went to the window andseemed to seek inspiration or decision from the sight of my roses. After a short while he turned and dragged up from his neck a slim chainat the end of which hung a round object in a talc case. This heunfastened and threw on the table in front of me. 

"Do you know what that is?"

"Yes, " said I. "Your identification disc. "

"Look on the other side. "

I took it up and found that the reverse contained the head cut out fromsome photograph of Betty. After I had handed back the locket, heslipped it on the chain and dropped it beneath his collar. 

"I'm not a damned fool, " said he. 

I nodded understandingly. No one would have accused him of mawkishsentiment. The woman whose portrait he wore night and day next his skinwas the woman he loved. He had no other way of proving his sinceritythan by exhibiting the token. 

"I see, " said I. "What do you propose to do?"

"I've told you. The V. C. Or--" He snapped his fingers. 

"But if it's the V. C. And a Brigade, and perhaps a Division--if it'severything else imaginable except--" I snapped my fingers inimitation--"What then?"

Again the hateful twitch of the lips, which he quickly dissimulated ina smile. 

"I'll begin to try to be a brave man. " He lit another cigarette. "Butall that, my dear Meredyth, " he continued, "is away from the point. IfI live, I'll ask you to forget this rotten palaver. But I have afeeling that I shan't come back. Something tells me that my particularform of extermination will be a head knocked into slush. I'm absolutelycertain that I shall never see you again. Oh, I'm not morbid, " he said, as I raised a protesting hand. "You're an old soldier and know whatthese premonitions are. When I came in--before I had finally made up mymind to pan out to you like this--I felt like a boy who has been madecaptain of the school. But all the same, I know I shan't see you again. So I want you to promise me two things--quite honourable and easy. "

"Of course, my dear fellow, " said I rather tartly, for I did not likethe wind-up of his sentence. It was unthinkable that an officer and agentleman should inveigle a brother-officer into a solemn promise to doanything dishonourable. "Of course. Anything you like. "

"One is to look after the old mother--"

"That goes without promising, " said I. 

"The other is to--what shall I say?--to rehabilitate my memory in theeyes of Betty Connor. She may hear all kinds of things about me--sometrue, others false--I have my enemies. She has heard things already. Ididn't know it till our last meeting here. There's no one else on God'searth can do what I want but you. Do you think I'm putting you into animpossible position?"

"I don't think so, " said I. "Go on. "

"Well--there's not much more to be said. Try to make her realise that, whatever may be my faults--my crimes, if it comes to that--I've done mydamndest out there to make reparation. By God! I have, " he cried, in asudden flash of passion. "See that she realises it. And--" he thumpedthe hidden identification disc, "tell her that she is the only womanthat has ever really mattered in the whole of my blasted life. "

He threw his half-smoked cigarette into the fire-place and walked overto the sideboard, where stood decanters and syphon. 

"May I help myself to a drink?"

"Certainly, " said I. 

He gulped down half a whisky and soda and turned on me. 

"You promise?"

"Of course, " said I. 

"She may have reasons to think the worst of me. But whatever I am thereis some good in me. I'm not altogether a worthless hound. If youpromise to make her think the best of me, I'll go away happy. I don'tcare a damn whether I die or live. That's the truth. As long as I'malive I can take care of myself. I'm not dreaming of asking you to saya word to win her favour. That would be outrageous impudence. Youclearly understand. I don't want you ever to mention my name unless I'mdead. If I feel that I've an advocate in you--advocatus diaboli, if youlike--I'll go away happy. You've got your brief. You know my life athome. You know my record. "

"My dear fellow, " said I, "I promise to do everything in my power tocarry out your wishes. But as to your record--are you quite certainthat I know it?"

You must realise that there was a curious tension in the situation, atany rate as far as it affected myself. Here was a man with whom, forreasons you know, I had studiously cultivated the most formal socialrelations, claiming my active participation in the secret motives ofhis heart. Since his first return from the front a bluff friendlinesshad been the keynote of our intercourse. Nothing more. Now he came andwithout warning enmeshed me in this intimate net of love and death. Ipromised to do his bidding--I could not do otherwise. I was in theposition of an executor according to the terms of a last will andtestament. Our comradeship in arms--those of our old Army who survivewill understand--forbade refusal. Besides, his intensity of purpose wonmy sympathy and admiration. But I loved him none the more. To mycripple's detested sensitiveness, as he stood over me, he loomed morethan ever the hulking brute. His semi-confessions and innuendoesexacerbated my feelings of distrust and repulsion. And yet, at the sametune, I could not--nor did I try to--repress an immense pity for theman; perhaps less for the man than for the soul in pain. At the back ofhis words some torment burned at red heat, remorselessly. He soughtrelief. Perhaps he sought it from me because I was as apart as a womanfrom his physical splendour, a kind of bodiless creature with just abrain and a human heart, the ghost of an old soldier, far away from thesphere of poor passions and little jealousies. 

I felt the tentacles of the man's nature blindly and convulsivelygroping after something within me that eluded them. That is the bestway in which I can describe the psychology of these strange moments. The morning sun streamed into my little oak-panelled dining-room andcaught the silver and fruit on the breakfast table and made my friezeof old Delft glow blue like the responsive western sky. With his backto the vivid window, Leonard Boyce stood cut out black like asilhouette. That he, too, felt the tension, I know; for a wasp crawledover his face, from cheek-bone, across his temples, to his hair, and hedid not notice it. 

Instinctively I said the words: "Your record. Are you quite certainthat I know it?"

With what intensity, with what significance in my eyes, I may have saidthem, I know not. I repeat that I had a subconsciousness, almostuncanny, that we were souls rather than men, talking to each other. Hesat down once more, drawing the chair to the table and resting hiselbow on it. 

"My record, " said he. "What about it?"

Again please understand that I felt I had the man's soul naked beforeme. An imponderable hand plucked away my garments of convention. 

"Some time ago, " said I, "you spoke of my attitude towards you beingmarked by a certain reserve. That is quite true. It dates back manyyears. It dates back from the South African War. From an affair atVilboek's Farm. "

Again his lips twitched; but otherwise he did not move. 

"I remember, " he answered. "My men saw me run away. I came out of itquite clean. "

I said: "I saw the man afterwards in hospital at Cape Town. His namewas Somers. He told me quite a different story. "

His face grew grey. He glanced at me for a fraction of a second. "Whatdid he tell you?" he asked quietly. 

In the fewest possible words I repeated what I have set down already inthis book. When I had ended, he said in the same toneless way:

"You have believed that all these years?"

"I have done my best not to believe it. The last twelve months havedisproved it. "

He shook his head. "They haven't. Nothing I can do in this world candisprove it. What that man said was true. "

"True?"

I drew a deep breath and stared at him hard. His eyes met mine. Theywere very sad and behind them lay great pain. Although I expressedastonishment, it proceeded rather from some reflex action than from anyrealised shock to my consciousness. I say the whole thing was uncanny. I knew, as soon as he sat down by the table, that he would confess tothe Vilboek story. And yet, at last, when he did confess and there wereno doubts lingering in my mind, I gasped and stared at him. 

"I was a bloody coward, " he said. "That's frank enough. When they rodeaway and left me, I tried to shoot myself--and I couldn't. If the manSomers hadn't returned, I think I should have waited until they sent toarrest me. But he did come back and the instinct of self-preservationwas too strong. I know my story about the men's desertion and myforcing him to back me up was vile and despicable. But I clung to lifeand it was my only chance. Afterwards, with the horror of the thinghanging over me, I didn't care so much about life. In the littlefighting that was left for me I deliberately tried to throw it away. Iask you to believe that. "

"I do, " I said. "You were mentioned in dispatches for gallantry inaction. "

He passed his hand over his eyes. Looking up, he said:

"It is strange that you of all men, my neighbour here, should haveheard of this. Not a whisper of its being known has ever reached me. How many people do you think have any idea of it?"

I told him all that I knew and concluded by showing him Reggie Dacre'sletter, which I had kept in the letter-case in my pocket. He returnedit to me without a word. Presently he broke a spell of silence. Allthis time he had sat fixed in the one attitude--only shifted once, whenMarigold entered to clear away the breakfast things and was dismissedby me with a glance and a gesture. 

"Do you remember, " he said, "a talk we had about fear, in April, thefirst time I was over? I described what I knew. The paralysis of fear. Since we are talking as I never thought to talk with a human being, Imay as well make my confession. I'm a man of strong animal passions. When I see red, I daresay I'm just a brute beast. But I'm a physicalcoward. Owing to this paralysis of fear, this ghastly inhibition ofmuscular or nervous action, I have gone through things even worse thanthat South-African business. I go about like a man under a curse. Evenout there, when I don't care a damn whether I live or die, the blastedthing gets hold of me. " He swung himself away from the table and shookhis great clenched firsts. "By the grace of God, no one yet has seemedto notice it. I suppose I have a swift brain and as soon as the thingis over I can cover it up. It's my awful terror that one day I shall befound out and everything I've gained shall be stripped away from me. "

"But what about a thing like this?" said I, tapping Colonel Dacre'sletter. 

"That's all right, " he answered grimly. "That's when I know what I'mfacing. That's deliberate pot-hunting. It's saving face as the Chinesesay. It's doing any damned thing that will put me right with myself. "

He got up and swung about the room. I envied him, I would have given athousand pounds to do the same just for a few moments. But I was stuckin my confounded chair, deprived of physical outlet. Suddenly he cameto a halt and stood once more over me. 

"Now you know what kind of a fellow I am, what do you think of me?"

It was a brutal question to fling at my head. It gave me no time toco-ordinate my ideas. What was one to make of a man avowedly subject tofits of the most despicable cowardice from the consequences of which heused any unscrupulous craftiness to extricate himself, and yet wasnotorious in his achievement of deeds of the most reckless courage? Itis a problem to which I have devoted all the months occupied in waitingthis book. How the dickens could I solve it at a minute's notice? Thesituation was too blatant, too raw, too near bedrock, too naked andunashamed, for me to take refuge in platitudinous generalities ofexcuse. The bravest of men know Fear. They know him pretty intimately. But they manage to kick him to Hades by the very reason of their beingbrave men. I had to take Leonard Boyce as I found him. And I must admitthat I found him a tragically miserable man. That is how I answered hisquestion--in so many words. 

"You're not far wrong, " said he. 

He picked up cap and stick. 

"When I get up to town I shall make my will. I've never worried aboutit before. Can I appoint you my executor?"

"Certainly, " said I. 

"I'm very grateful. I'll assure you a fireworks sort of finish, so thatyou shan't be ashamed. And--I don't ask impossibilities--I can't holdyou to your previous promise--but what about Betty Connor?"

"You may count, " said I, "on my acting like an officer and a gentleman, and, if I may say so, like a Christian. "

He said: "Thank you, Meredyth. Good-bye. " Then he stuck on his cap, brought his fingers to the peak in salute and marched to the door. 

"Boyce!" I cried sharply. 

He turned. "Yes?"

"Aren't you going to shake hands with me?"

He retraced the few steps to my chair. 

"I didn't know whether it would be--" he paused, seeking for aword--"whether it would be agreeable. "

Then I broke down. The strain had been too great for my sick man'snerves. I forgot all about the brutality of his bull-neck, for he facedme in all his gallant manhood and there was a damnable expression inhis eyes like that of a rated dog. I stretched out my hand. 

"My dear good fellow, " I cried, "what the hell are you talking about?"

CHAPTER XVI

Boyce left Wellingsford that afternoon, and for many months I heardlittle about him. His astonishing avowal had once more turnedtopsy-turvy my conception of his real nature. I had to reconstruct theman, a very complicated task. I had to reconcile in him all kinds ofopposites--the lusty brute and the sentimental lover; the physicalcoward and the baresark hero; the man with hell in his soul and thedebonair gentleman. After a vast deal of pondering, I arrived not verymuch nearer a solution of the problem. The fact remained, however, thatI found myself in far closer sympathy with him than ever before. Afterall that he had said, I should have had a heart of stone if it had notbeen stirred to profound pity. I had seen an instance both of hisspell-bound cowardice and of his almost degrading craft in extrication. That in itself repelled me. But it lost its value in the light that hehad cast on the never-ceasing torment that consumed him. At any rate hewas at death-grips with himself, strangling the devils of fear anddishonour with a hand relentlessly certain. He appeared to me a tragicfigure warring against a doom. 

At first I expected every day to receive an agonised message from Mrs. Boyce announcing his death. Then, as is the way of humans, the keennessof my apprehension grew blunted, until, at last, I took his continuedexistence as a matter of course. I wrote him a few friendly letters, towhich he replied in the same strain. And so the months went on. 

Looking over my diary I find that these months were singularlyuneventful as far as the lives of those dealt with in this chroniclewere concerned. In the depths of our souls we felt the long-drawn-outagony of the war, with its bitter humiliations, its heartrendingdisappointments. In our daily meetings one with another we cried aloudfor a great voice to awaken the little folk in Great Britain from theirselfish lethargy--the little folk in high office, in smug burgessdom, in seditious factory and shipyard. They were months of sordidbargaining between all sections of our national life, in the murk ofwhich the glow of patriotism seemed to be eclipsed. And in themeantime, the heroic millions from all corners of our far-flung Empirewere giving their lives on land and sea, gaily and gallantly, too oftenin tragic futility, for the ideals to which the damnable little folk athome were blind. The little traitorous folk who gambled for their ownhands in politics, the little traitorous folk who put the outwornshibboleths of a party before the war-cry of an Empire, the littletraitorous folk who strove with all their power to starve our navy ofships, our ships of coal, our men in the trenches of munitions, ourarmies of men, our country of honour--all these will one day bemercilessly arraigned at the bar of history. The plains of France, thesteeps of Gallipoli, the swamps of Mesopotamia, the Seven Seas willgive up their dead as witnesses. 

We spoke bitterly of all these things and thought of them with ragingimpotence; but the even tenor of our life went on. We continued to doour obscure and undistinguished work for the country. It became ahabit, part of the day's routine. We almost forgot why we were doingit. The war seemed to make little real difference in our social life. The small town was pitch black at night. Prices rose. Small economieswere practised. Labour was scarce. Fewer young men out of uniform wereseen in the streets and neighbouring roads and lanes. Groups of woundedfrom the hospital in their uniform of deep blue jean with red ties andkhaki caps gave a note of actuality to the streets. Otherwise, therewere few signs of war. Even the troops who hitherto swarmed about thetown had gradually been removed from billets to a vast camp of hutssome miles away, and appeared only sporadically about the place. Imissed them and the stimulus of their presence. They brought me intocloser touch with things. Marigold, too, pined for more occupation forhis one critical eye than was afforded by the local volunteers. He grewmorose, sick of a surfeit of newspapers. If he could have gone toFrance and got through to the firing-line, I am sure he would have duga little trench all to himself and defied the Germans on his ownaccount. 

In November Colonel Dacre was brought home gravely wounded, to ahospital for officers in London. A nurse gave me the news in a letterin which she said that he had asked to see me before an impendinghazardous operation. I went up to town and found him wrecked almostbeyond recognition. As we were the merest of acquaintances with nothingbetween us save our common link with Boyce, I feared lest he shoulddesire to tell me of some shameful discovery. But his gay greeting andthe brave smile, pathetically grotesque through the bandages in whichhis head was wrapped, reassured me. Only his eyes and mouth werevisible. 

"It's worth while being done in, " said he. "It makes one feel like aSultan. You have just to clap your hands and say 'I want this, ' andyou've got it. I've a good mind to say to this dear lady, 'Fetch theirgracious Majesties from Buckingham Palace, ' and I'm sure they'd be herein a tick. It's awfully good of you to come, Meredyth. "

I signed to Marigold, who had carried me into the ward and set me downon a chair, and to the Sister, the "dear lady" of Dacre's reference, towithdraw, and after a few sympathetic words I asked him why he had sentfor me. 

"I'm broken to bits all over, " he replied. "The doctors here say theynever saw such a blooming mess-up of flesh pretending to be alive. Andas for talking, they'd just as soon expect speech from a jellyfishsquashed by a steam-roller. If I do get through, I'll be a helplesscrock all my days. I funked it till I thought of you. I thought thesight of another fellow who has gone through it and stuck it out mightgive me courage. I've had my wife here. We're rather fond of oneanother, you know . .. My God! what brave things women are! If she hadbroken down all over me I could have risen to the occasion. But shedidn't, and I felt a cowardly worm. "

"I had a brave wife, too, " said I, and for a few moments we talkedshyly about the women who had played sacred parts in our lives. Whetherhe was comforted by what I said I don't know. Probably he only listenedpolitely. But I think he found comfort in a sympathetic ear. 

Presently he turned on to Boyce, the real motive of his summons. Herepented much that he had told and written to me. His long defamationof the character of a brother-officer had lain on his conscience. Andlately he had, at last, met Boyce personally, and his generous hearthad gone out to the man's soldierly charm. 

"I never felt such a slanderous brute in my life as when I shook him bythe hand. You know the feeling--how one wants to get behind a hedge andkick oneself. Kick oneself, " he repeated faintly. Then he closed hiseyes and his lips contracted in pain. 

The Sister, who had been watching him from a distance, came up. He hadtalked enough. It was time to go. But at the announcement he opened hiseyes again and with an effort recovered his gaiety. 

"The whole gist of the matter lies in the postscript. Like a woman'sletter. I must have my postscript. "

"Very well. Two more minutes. "

"Merciless dragon, " said he. 

She smiled and left us. 

"The dearest angel, bar one, in the world. " said he. "What were wetalking about?"

"Colonel Boyce. "

"Oh, yes. Forgive me. My head goes FUT now and then. It's idiotic notto be able to control one's brain. .. . The point is this. I may peg out. I know this operation they're going to perform is just touch and go. Iwant to face things with a clear conscience. I've convinced you, haven't I, that there wasn't a word of truth in that South-Africanstory? If ever it crops up you'll scotch it like a venomous snake?"

The ethics of my answer I leave to the casuist. I am an old-fashionedChurch of England person. As I am so mentally constituted that I amunable to believe cheerfully in nothing. I believe in God and JesusChrist, and accept the details of doctrine as laid down in theThirty-nine Articles. For liars I have the Apocryphal condemnation. YetI lied without the faintest rippling qualm of conscience. 

"My dear fellow, " said I, stoutly, "there's not the remotest speck oftruth in it. You haven't a second's occasion to worry. "

"That's all right, " he said. 

The Sister approached again. Instinctively I stretched out my hand. Helaughed. 

"No good. You must take it as gripped. Goodbye, old chap. "

I bade him good-bye and Marigold wheeled me away. 

A few days afterwards they told me that this gay, gallant, honourable, sensitive gentleman was dead. Although I had known him so little, itseemed that I knew him very intimately, and I deeply mourned his loss. 

I think this episode was the most striking of what I may term personalevents during those autumn months. 

Of Randall Holmes we continued to hear in the same mysterious manner. His mother visited the firm of solicitors in London through whom hiscorrespondence passed. They pleaded ignorance of his doings andprofessional secrecy as to the disclosure of his whereabouts. InDecember he ceased writing altogether, and twice a week Mrs. Holmesreceived a formal communication from the lawyers to the effect thatthey had been instructed by her son to inform her that he was inperfect health and sent her his affectionate greetings. Such news ofthis kind as I received I gave to Betty, who passed it on to PhyllisGedge. 

Of course my intimacy with my dear Betty continued unbroken. If theunmarried Betty had a fault, it was a certain sweet truculence, apretty self-assertiveness which sometimes betrayed intolerance of humanfoibles. Her widowhood had, in a subtle way, softened these littleangularities of her spiritual contour. And bodily, the curves of herslim figure had become more rounded. She was no longer the young Dianaof a year ago. The change into the gracious woman who had passedthrough the joy and the sorrow of life was obvious even to me, to whomit had been all but imperceptibly gradual. After a while she rarelyspoke of her husband. The name of Leonard Boyce was never mentionedbetween us. With her as with me, the weeks ate up the uneventful daysand the months the uneventful weeks. In her humdrum life the fallingaway of Mrs. Tufton loomed catastrophic. 

For four months Mrs. Tufton shone splendid as the wife of the Britishwarrior. The Wellingsford Hospital rang with her praises and glistenedwith her scrubbing brush. She was the Admirable Crichton of theinstitution. What with men going off to the war and women going off tomake munitions, there were never-ending temporary gaps in the staff. And there was never a gap that Mrs. Tufton did not triumphantly fill. The pride of Betty, who had wrought this reformation, was simplymonstrous. If she had created a real live angel, wings and all, out ofthe dust-bin, she could not have boasted more arrogantly. Being amember of the Hospital Committee, I must confess to a bemused share inthe popular enthusiasm. And was I not one of the original discoverersof Mrs. Tufton? When Marigold, inspired doubtless by his wife, fromtime to time suggested disparagement of the incomparable woman, Irebuked him for an arrant scandal-monger. There had been a case or twoof drunkenness at the hospital. Wounded soldiers had returned the worsefor liquor, an almost unforgivable offence. .. . Not that the poorfellows desired to get drunk. A couple of pints of ale or a couple ofglasses of whisky will set swimming the head of any man who has nottasted alcohol for months. But to a man with a septic wound or trenchnephritis or smashed up skull, alcohol is poison and poison is death, and so it is sternly forbidden to our wounded soldiers. They cannot beserved in public houses. Where, then, did the hospital defaulters gettheir drink?

"If I was you, sir, " said Marigold, "I'd keep an eye on that there Mrs. Tufton. "

I instantly annihilated him--or should have done so had hisexpressionless face not been made of non-inflammable timber. He said:"Very good, sir. " But there was a damnably ironical and insubordinatelook in his one eye. 

Gradually the lady lapsed from grace. She got up late and complained ofspasms. She left dustpan and brush on a patient's bed. She wrongfullyinterfered with the cook, insisting, until she was forcibly ejectedfrom the kitchen, on throwing lettuces into the Irish stew. Finally, one Sunday afternoon, a policeman wandering through some waste ground, a deserted brickfield behind Flowery End, came upon an unedifyingspectacle. There were madam and an elderly Irish soldier sprawlingblissfully comatose with an empty flask of gin and an empty bottle ofwhisky lying between them. They were taken to the hospital and put tobed. The next morning, the lady, being sober, was summarily dismissedby the matron. Late at night she rang and battered at the door, clamouring for admittance, which was refused. Then she went away, apparently composed herself to slumber in the roadway of thepitch-black High Street, and was killed by a motor-car. And that, barthe funeral, was the end of Mrs. Tufton. 

From her bereaved husband, with whom I at once communicated, I receivedthe following reply:

"Dear Sir, "Yours to hand announcing the accidental death of my wife, which I neednot say I deeply regret. You will be interested to hear that I havebeen offered a commission in the Royal Fusiliers, which I am now ableto accept. In view of the same, any expense to which you may be put togive my late wife honourable burial, I shall be most ready to defray. 

"With many thanks for your kindness in informing me of this unfortunatecircumstance, "I am, "Yours faithfully, "JOHN P. TUFTON. "

"I think he's a horrid, callous, cold-blooded fellow!" cried Betty whenI showed her this epistle. 

"After all, " said I, "she wasn't a model wife. If the fatal motor-carhadn't come along, the probability is that she would have received poorTufton on his next leave with something even more deadly than a poker. Now and again the Fates have brilliant inspirations. This was one ofthem. Now, you see the virago-clogged Tufton is a free man, able toaccept a commission and start a new life as an officer and a gentleman. "

"I think you're perfectly odious. Odious and cynical, " she exclaimedwrathfully. 

"I think, " said I, "that a living warrior is better than a dead--Disappointment. "

"You don't understand, " she stormed. "If I didn't love you, I couldrend you to pieces. "

"It is because I do understand, my dear, " said I, enjoying the flashingbeauty of her return to Artemisian attitudes, "that I particularlycharacterised the dear lady as a disappointment. "

"I think, " she said, in dejected generalisation, "the working out ofthe whole scheme of the universe is a disappointment. "

"The High Originators of the scheme seem to bear it prettyphilosophically, " I rejoined; "so why shouldn't we?"

"They're gods and we're human, " said Betty. 

"Precisely, " said I. "And oughtn't it to be our ideal to approximate tothe divine attitude?"

Again Betty declared that I was odious. From her point of view--No. That is an abuse of language. There are mental states in which a womanhas no point of view at all. She wanders over an ill-defined circulararea of vision. That is why, in such conditions, you can never pin awoman down with a shaft of logic and compel her surrender, as you cancompel that of a mere man. We went on arguing, and after a time Ireally did not know what I was arguing about. I advanced and tried tosupport the theory that on the whole the progress of humanity asrepresented by the British Empire in general and the about-to-beLieutenant Tufton in particular, was advanced by the opportune demiseof an unfortunately balanced lady. From her point--or rather hercircular area of vision--perhaps my dear Betty was right in declaringme odious. She hated to be reminded of the intolerable goosiness of herswan. She longed for comforting, corroborative evidence of essentialswaniness for her own justification. In a word, the poor dear girl wassore all over with mortification, and wherever one touched her, nomatter with how gentle a finger, one hurt. 

"I would have trusted that woman, " she cried tragically, "with agold-mine or a distillery. "

"We trusted her with something more valuable, my dear, " said I. "Ourguileless faith in human nature. Anyhow we'll keep the faith undamaged. "

She smiled. "That's considerably less odious. "

Nothing more could be said. We let the unfortunate subject rest inpeace for ever after. 

These two episodes, the death of poor Reggie Dacre and the Tuftoncatastrophe, are the only incidents in my diary that are worthrecording here. Christmas came and went and we entered on the new yearof 1916. It was only at a date in the middle of February, a year sinceI had driven to Wellings Park to hear the tragic news of OswaldFenimore's death, that I find an important entry in my diary. 

CHAPTER XVII

Mrs. Boyce was shown into my study, her comely Dresden china face verywhite and her hands shaking. She held a telegram. I had seen faces likethat before. Every day in England there are hundreds thus stricken. Ifeared the worst. It was a relief to read the telegram and find thatBoyce was only wounded. The message said seriously wounded, but gaveconsolation by adding that his life was not in immediate danger. Mrs. Boyce was for setting out for France forthwith. I dissuaded her from aproject so embarrassing to the hospital authorities and so fatiguing toherself. In spite of the chivalry and humanity of our medical staff, old ladies of seventy are not welcome at a busy base hospital. As soonas he was fit to be moved, I assured her, he would be sent home, beforeshe could even obtain her permits and passes and passport and makeother general arrangements for her journey. There was nothing for itbut her Englishwoman's courage. She held up her hand at that, and wentaway to live, like many another, patiently through the long hours ofsuspense. 

For two or three days no news came. I spent as much time as I couldwith my old friend, seeking to comfort her. 

On the third morning it was announced in the papers that the King hadbeen graciously pleased to confer the Victoria Cross on Lt. ColonelLeonard Boyce for conspicuous gallantry in action. It did not occur ina list of honours. It had a special paragraph all to itself. Suchisolated announcements generally indicate immediate recognition of somesplendid feat. I was thrilled by the news. It was a grand achievementto win through death to the greatest of all military rewardsdeliberately coveted. Here, as I had strange reason for knowing, was nosudden act of sublime valour. The final achievement was the result ofmonths of heroic, almost suicidal daring. And it was repayment of aterrible debt, the whole extent of which I knew not, owed by the man tohis tormented soul. 

I rang up Mrs. Boyce, who replied tremulously to my congratulations. Would I come over and lunch?

I found a very proud and tearful old lady. She may not have known thedifference between a platoon and a howitzer, and have conceived thewoolliest notions of the nature of her son's command, but the VictoriaCross was a matter on which her ideas were both definite and correct. She had spent the morning at the telephone receiving calls ofcongratulation. A great sheaf of telegrams had arrived. Two or three ofthem were from the High and Mighty of the Military Hierarchy. She wasin such a twitter of joy that she almost forgot her anxiety as to hiswounds. 

"Do you think he knows? I telegraphed to him at once. "

"So did I. "

She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. 

"How long would it take for a telegram to reach him?"

"You may be sure he has it by now, " said I, "and it has given him aprodigious appetite for lunch. "

Her face clouded over. "That horrid tinned stuff. It's so dangerous. Iremember once Mary's aunt--or was it Cook's aunt--one of them anyway--nearly died of eating tinned lobster--ptomaine poisoning. I'vealways told Leonard not to touch it. 

"They don't give Colonels and V. C. S tinned lobster at Boulogne, " Ianswered cheerfully. "He's living now on the fat of the land. "

"Let us hope so, " she sighed dubiously. "It's no use my sending outthings for him, as they always go wrong. Some time ago I sent him threebrace of grouse and three brace of partridges. He didn't acknowledgethem for weeks, and then he said they were most handy things to killGermans with, but were an expensive form of ammunition. I don't quiteknow what he meant--but at any rate they were not eatable when theyarrived. Poor fellow!" She sighed again. "If only I knew what was thematter with him. "

"It can't be much, " I reassured her, "or you would have heard again. And this news will act like a sovereign remedy. "

She patted the back of my hand with her plump palm. "You're always sosympathetic and comforting. "

"I'm an old soldier, like Leonard, " said I, "and never meet troublehalfway. "

At lunch, the old lady insisted on opening a bottle of champagne, aVeuve Clicquot which Leonard loved, in honour of the glorious occasion. We could not drink to the hero's health in any meaner vintage, althoughshe swore that a teaspoonful meant death to her, and I protested that aconfession of champagne to my medical adviser meant a dog's rating. Weeach, conscience-bound, put up the tips of our fingers to the glassesas soon as Mary had filled them with froth, and solemnly drank thetoast in the eighth of an inch residuum. But by some freakish chance orthe other, there was nothing left in that quart bottle by the time Marycleared the table for dessert. And to tell the honest truth, I don'tthink the health of either my hostess or myself was a penny the worse. Let no man despise generous wine. Treated with due reverence it is agreat loosener of human sympathy. 

Generous ale similarly treated produces the same effect. Marigold, driving me home, cocked a luminous eye on me and said:

"Begging your pardon, sir, would you mind very much if I broke the neckof that there Gedge?"

"You would be aiding the good cause, " said I, "but I should deplore thehanging of an old friend. What has Gedge been doing?"

Marigold sounded his horn and slowed down round a bend, and, as soon ashe got into a straight road, he replied. 

"I'm not going to say, sir, if I may take the liberty, that I was eversweet on Colonel Boyce. People affect you in different ways. You eitherlike 'em or you don't like 'em. You can't tell why. And a Sergeant, being, as you may say, a human being, has as much right to his privatefeelings regarding a Colonel as any officer. "

"Undoubtedly, " said I. 

"Well, sir, I never thought Colonel Boyce was true metal. But I take itall back--every bit of it. "

"For God's sake, " I cried, stretching out a foolish but instinctivehand to the wheel, "for God's sake, control your emotions, or you'll belanding us in the ditch. "

"That's all right, sir, " he replied, steering a straight course. "She'sa bit skittish at times. I was saying as how I did the Colonel aninjustice. I'm very sorry. No man who wasn't steel all through ever gotthe V. C. They don't chuck it around on blighters. "

"That's all very interesting and commendable, " said I, "but what has itto do with Gedge?"

"He has been slandering the Colonel something dreadful the last fewmonths, sneering at him, saying nothing definite, but insinuatinglytaking away his character. "

"In what way?" I asked. 

"Well, he tells one man that the Colonel's a drunkard, another thatit's women, another that he gambles and doesn't pay, another that hepays the newspapers to put in all these things about him, while all thetime in France he's in a blue funk hiding in his dugout. "

"That's moonshine, " said I. And as regards the drinking, drabbing, andgaming of course it was. But the suggestion of cowardice gave me asharp stab of surprise and dismay. 

"I know it is, " said Marigold. "But the people hereabouts are soignorant, you can make them believe anything. " Marigold was a man ofKent and had a poor opinion of those born and bred in other counties. "I met Gedge this morning, " he continued, and thereupon gave me thesubstance of the conversation. I hardly think the adjectives of thereport were those that were really used. 

"So your precious Colonel has got the V. C. , " sneered Gedge. 

"He has, " said Marigold. "And it's too great an honour for yourinconsiderable town. "

"If this inconsiderable town knew as much about him as I do, it wouldgive him the order of the precious boot. "

"And what do you know?" asked Marigold. 

"That's what all you downtrodden slaves of militarism would like tofind out, " replied Gedge. "The time will come when I, and such as I, will tear the veils away and expose them, and say 'These be thy gods, OIsrael. '"

"The time will come, " retorted Marigold, "when if you don't hold yourprecious jaw, I and such as I will smash it into a thousand pieces. Fortwopence I'd knock your ugly head off this present minute. "

Whereupon Gedge apparently wilted before the indignant eye of SergeantMarigold and faded away down the High Street. 

All this in itself seemed very trivial, but for the past year theattitude of Gedge had been mysterious. Could it be possible that Gedgethought himself the sole repository of the secret which Boyce had sodesperately confided to me? But when had the life of Gedge and themilitary life of Leonard Boyce crossed? It was puzzling. 

Well, to tell the truth, I thought no more about the matter. The glowof Mrs. Boyce's happiness remained with me all the evening. Rarely hadI seen her so animated, so forgetful of her own ailments. She had takenthe rosiest view of Leonard's physical condition and sunned herself inthe honour conferred on him by the King. I had never spent a pleasanterafternoon at her house. We had comfortably criticised our neighbours, and, laudatores temporis acti, had extolled the days of our youth. Iwent to bed as well pleased with life as a man can be in thisconvulsion of the world. 

The next morning she sent me a letter to read. It was written atBoyce's dictation. It ran:

"Dear Mother:

"I'm sorry to say I am knocked out pro tem. I was fooling about where aC. O. Didn't ought to, and a Bosch bullet got me so that I can't write. But don't worry at all about me. I'm too tough for anything the Boschescan do. To show how little serious it is, they tell me that I'll beconveyed to England in a day or two. So get hot-water bottles and bathsalts ready. 

"Your ever loving Leonard. "

This was good news. Over the telephone wire we agreed that the letterwas a justification of our yesterday's little merrymaking. Obviously, Itold her, he would live to fight another day. She was of opinion thathe had done enough fighting already. If he went on much longer, thepoor boy would get quite tired out, to say nothing of the danger ofbeing wounded again. The King ought to let him rest on his laurels andmake others who hadn't worked a quarter as hard do the remainder of thewar. 

"Perhaps, " I said light-heartedly, "Leonard will drop the hint when hewrites to thank the King for the nice cross. "

She said that I was laughing at her, and rang off in the best ofspirits. 

In the evening came Betty, inviting herself to dinner. She had been onnight duty at the hospital, and I had not seen her for some days. Thesight of her, bright-eyed and brave, fresh and young, always filled mewith happiness. I felt her presence like wine and the sea wind and thesunshine. So greatly did her vitality enrich me, that sometimes Icalled myself a horrid old vampire. 

As soon as she had greeted me, she said in her downright way:

"So Leonard Boyce has got his V. C. "

"Yes, " said I. "What do you think of it?"

A spot of colour rose to her cheek. "I'm very glad. It's no use, Majy, pretending that I ignore his existence. I don't and I can't. Because Iloved and married someone else doesn't alter the fact that I once caredfor him, does it?"

"Many people, " said I, judicially, "find out that they have beenmistaken as to the extent and nature of their own sentiments. "

"I wasn't mistaken, " she replied, sitting down on the piano stool, herhands on the leathern seat, her neatly shod feet stretched out in frontof her, just as she had sat on her wedding eve talking nonsense toWillie Connor. "I wasn't mistaken. I was never addicted to sillyschool-girl fancies. I know my own mind. I cared a lot for LeonardBoyce. "

"Eh bien?" said I. 

"Well, don't you see what I'm driving at?"

"I don't a bit. "

She sighed. "Oh, dear! How dull some people are! Don't you see that, when an affair like that is over, a woman likes to get some evidence ofthe man's fine qualities, in order to justify her for having once caredfor him?"

"Quite so. Yet--" I felt argumentative. The breach, as you know, between Betty and Boyce was wrapped in exasperating obscurity. "Yet, onthe other hand, " said I, "she might welcome evidence of hisworthlessness, so as to justify her for having thrown him over. "

"If a woman isn't a dam-fool already, " said Betty, "and I don't thinkI'm one, she doesn't like to feel that she ever made a dam-fool ofherself. She is proud of her instincts and her judgments and thesensitive, emotional intelligence that is hers. When all these seem tohave gone wrong, it's pleasing to realise that originally they wentright. It soothes one's self-respect, one's pride. I know now that allthese blind perceptions in me went straight to certain magnificentessentials--those that make the great, strong, fearless fighting man. That's attractive to a woman, you know. At any rate, to an independentbarbarian like myself--"

"My dear Betty, " I interrupted with a laugh. "You a barbarian? You whomI regard as the last word, the last charming and delightful word, inmodern womanhood?"

"Of course I'm the child of my century, " she cried, flushing. "I wantvotes, freedom, opportunity for expansion, power--everything that candevelop Betty Connor into a human product worthy of the God who madeher. But how she could fulfil herself without the collaboration of aman, has baffled her ever since she was a girl of sixteen, when shebegan to awake to the modern movement. On one side I saw womenperfectly happy in the mere savage state of wifehood and motherhood, and not caring a hang for anything else, and on the other side womenwho threw babies back into limbo and preached of nothing butintellectual and political and economic independence. Oh, I worriedterribly about it, Majy, when I was a girl. Each side seemed to havesuch a lot to say for itself. Then it dawned upon me that the only wayout of the dilemma was to combine both ideals--that of the savage womanin skins and the lady professor in spectacles. That is what, allowingfor the difference of sex, a man does. Why shouldn't a woman? Thewoman, of course, has to droop a bit more to the savage, because shehas to produce the babies and suckle them, and so forth, and a manhasn't. That was my philosophy of life when I entered the world as ayoung woman. Love came into it, of course. It was a sanctification ofthe savagery. I've gone on like this, " she laughed, "because I don'twant you to protest in your dear old-fashioned way against my callingmyself an independent barbarian. I am, and I glory in it. That's why, as I was saying, I'm deeply glad that Leonard Boyce has made good. Hishonour means a good deal to me--to my self-esteem. I hope, " she added, rising and coming to me with a caressing touch. "I hope you've got thehang of the thing now. "

Within myself I sincerely hoped I had. If her sentiments were just asshe analysed them, all was well. If, on the other hand, the littledemon of love for Boyce still lurked in her heart, in spite of themarriage and widowhood, there might be trouble ahead. I remembered howonce she had called him a devil. I remembered, too, uncomfortably, thescrap of conversation I had overheard between Boyce and herself in thehall. She had lashed him with her scorn, and he had taken his whippingwithout much show of fight. Still, a woman's love, especially that of alady barbarian, was a curiously complex affair, and had been known toimpel her to trample on a man one minute and the next to fall at hisfeet. Now the worm she had trampled on had turned; stood erect as aproperly authenticated hero. I felt dubious as to the ensuing situation. 

"I wrote to old Mrs. Boyce, " she added after a while. "I thought itonly decent. I wrote yesterday, but only posted the letter to-day, soas to be sure I wasn't acting on impulse. "

The latter part of the remark was by way of apology. The breach of theengagement had occasioned a cessation of social relations between Bettyand Mrs. Boyce. Betty's aunts had ceased calling on Mrs. Boyce and Mrs. Boyce had ceased calling on Betty's aunts. Whenever the estrangedparties met, which now and then was inevitable in a little town, theybowed with distant politeness, but exchanged no words. Everything wasconducted with complete propriety. The old lady, knowing how beloved anintimate of mine was Betty, alluded but once to the broken engagement. That was when Betty got married. 

"It has been a great unhappiness to me, Major, " she said. "In spite ofher daring ways, which an old woman like myself can't quite understand, I was very fond of her. She was just the girl for Leonard. They madesuch a handsome couple. I have never known why it was broken off. Leonard won't tell me. It's out of the question that it could be hisfault, and I can't believe it is all Betty Fairfax's. She's a girl oftoo much character to be a mere jilt. "

I remember that I couldn't help smiling at the application of theold-fashioned word to my Betty. 

"You may be quite certain she isn't that, " said I. 

"Then what was the reason? Do you know?"

I didn't. I was as mystified as herself. I told her so. I didn'tmention that a few days before she had implied that Leonard was a deviland she wished that he was dead, thereby proving to me, who knewBetty's uprightness, that Boyce and Boyce only was to blame in thematter. It would have been a breach of confidence, and it would nothave made my old friend any the happier. It would have fired her withflaming indignation against Betty. 

"Young people, " said I, "must arrange their own lives. " And we left itat that. Now and then, afterwards, she enquired politely after Betty'shealth, and when Willie Connor was killed, she spoke to me veryfeelingly and begged me to convey to Betty the expression of her deepsympathy. In the unhappy circumstances, she explained, she wasnaturally precluded from writing. 

So Betty's letter was the first direct communication that had passedbetween them for nearly two years. That is why to my meddlesome-mindedself it appeared to have some significance. 

"You did, did you?" said I. Then I looked at her quickly, with an ideain my head. "What did Mrs. Boyce say in reply?"

"She has had no time to answer. Didn't I tell you I only posted theletter to-day?"

"Then you've heard nothing more about Leonard Boyce except that he hasgot the V. C. ?"

"No. What more is there to hear?"

Even Bettys are sly folk. It behooved me to counter with equal slyness. I wondered whether she had known all along of Boyce's mishap, or hadbeen informed of it by his mother. Knowledge might explain her unwontedoutburst. I looked at her fixedly. 

"What's the matter?" she asked, bending slightly down to me. 

"You haven't heard that he is wounded?"

She straightened herself. "No. When?"

"Five days ago. "

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I haven't seen you. "

"I mean--this evening. "

I reached for her hand. "Will you forgive me, my dear Betty, forremarking that for the last twenty minutes you have done all thetalking?"

"Is he badly hurt?"

She ignored my playful rejoinder. I noted the fact. Usually she wasquick to play Beatrice to my Benedick. Had I caught her off her guard?

I told her all that I knew. She seated herself again on the piano-stool. 

"I hope Mrs. Boyce did not think me unfeeling for not referring to it, "she said calmly. "You will explain, won't you?"

Marigold entered, announcing dinner. We went into the dining-room. Allthrough the meal Bella, my parlour-maid, flitted about with dishes andplates, and Marigold, when he was not solemnly pouring claret, stoodgrim behind my chair, roasting, as usual, his posterior before ablazing fire, with soldierly devotion to duty. Conversation fell alittle flat. The arrival of the evening newspapers, half an hourbelated, created a diversion. The war is sometimes subversive of nicetable decorum. I read out the cream of the news. Discussion thereonlasted us until coffee and cigarettes were brought in and the servantsleft us to ourselves. 

One of the curious little phenomena of human intercourse is the factthat now and again the outer personality of one with whom you are dailyfamiliar suddenly strikes you afresh, thus printing, as it were, a newportrait on your mind. At varying intervals I had received suchportrait impressions of Betty, and I had stored them in my memory. Another I received at this moment, and it is among the most delectable. She was sitting with both elbows on the table, her palms clasped andher cheek resting on the back of the left hand. Her face was turnedtowards me. She wore a low-cut black chiffon evening dress--the thinghad mere straps over the shoulders--an all but discarded vanity ofpre-war days. I had never before noticed what beautiful arms she had. Perhaps in her girlhood, when I had often seen her in such exiguousfinery, they had not been so shapely. I have told you already of thesoftening touch of her womanhood. An exquisite curve from arm to neckfaded into the shadow of her hair. She had a single string of pearlsround her neck. The fatigue of last week's night duty had cast an addedspirituality over her frank, sensitive face. 

We had not spoken for a while. She smiled at me. 

"What are you thinking of?"

"I wasn't thinking at all, " said I. "I was only gratefully admiringyou. "

"Why gratefully?"

"Oughtn't one to be grateful to God for the beautiful things He givesus?"

She flushed and averted her eyes. "You are very good to me, Majy. "

"What made you attire yourself in all this splendour?" I asked, laughing. The wise man does not carry sentiment too far. He keeps itlike a little precious nugget of pure gold; the less wise beats it outinto a flabby film. 

"I don't know, " she said, shifting her position and casting a criticalglance at her bodice. "All kinds of funny little feminine vanities. Perhaps I wanted to see whether I hadn't gone off. Perhaps I wanted totry to feel good-looking even if I wasn't. Perhaps I thought my dearold Majy was sick to death of the hospital uniform perfumed withdisinfectant. Perhaps it was just a catlike longing for comfort. Anyhow, I'm glad you like me. "

"My dear Betty, " said I, "I adore you. "

"And I you, " she laughed. "So there's a pair of us. "

She lit a cigarette and sipped her coffee. Then, breaking a shortsilence:

"I hope you quite understand, dear, what I said about Leonard Boyce. Ishouldn't like to leave you with the smallest little bit of a wrongimpression. "

"What wrong impression could I possibly have?" I asked disingenuously. 

"You might think that I was still in love with him. "

"That would be absurd, " said I. 

"Utterly absurd. I should feel it to be almost an insult if you thoughtanything of the kind. Long before my marriage things that had happenedhad killed all such feelings outright. " She paused for a few secondsand her brow darkened, just as it had done when she had spoken of himin the days immediately preceding her marriage with Willie Connor. Presently it cleared. "The whole beginning and end of my presentfeelings, " she continued, "is that I'm glad the man I once cared forhas won such high distinction, and I'm sorry that such a brave soldiershould be wounded. "

I could do nothing else than assure her of my perfect understanding. Iupbraided myself as a monster of indelicacy for my touch of doubtbefore dinner; also for a devilish and malicious suspicion that flittedthrough my brain while she was cataloguing her possible reasons forputting on the old evening dress. The thought of Betty's beautiful armand the man's bull-neck was a shivering offence. I craved purification. 

"If you've finished your coffee, " I said, "let us go into thedrawing-room and have some music. "

She rose with the impulsiveness of a child told that it can be excused, and responded startlingly to my thought. 

"I think we need it, " she said. 

In the drawing-room I swung my chair so that I could watch her hands onthe keys. She was a good musician and had the well-taught executant'scertainty and grace of movement. It may be the fancy of an outerPhilistine, but I love to forget the existence of the instrument and tofeel the music coming from the human finger-tips. She found a volume ofChopin's Nocturnes on the rest. In fact she had left it there afortnight before, the last time she had played for me. I am very fondof Chopin. I am an uneducated fellow and the lyrical mostly appeals tome both in poetry and in music. Besides, I have understood him bettersince I have been a crock. And I loved Betty's sympatheticinterpretation. So I sat there, listening and watching, and I knew thatshe was playing for the ease of both our souls. Once more I thanked Godfor the great gift of Betty to my crippled life. Peace gathered roundmy heart as Betty played. 

The raucous buzz of the telephone in the corner of the room knocked themusic to shatters. I cried out impatiently. It was the fault of thatgiant of ineptitude Marigold and his incompetent satellites, whose dutyit was to keep all upstairs extensions turned off and receive callsbelow. Only two months before I had been the victim of their culpableneglect, when I was forced to have an altercation with a man atHarrod's Stores, who seemed pained because I declined to take aninterest in some idiotic remark he was making about fish. 

"I'll strangle Marigold with my own hands, " I cried. 

Betty, unmoved by my ferocity, laughed and rose from the piano. 

"Shall I take the call?"

To Betty I was all urbanity. "If you'll be so kind, dear, " said I. 

She crossed the room and stopped the abominable buzzing. 

"Yes. Hold on for a minute. It's the post-office"--she turned tome--"telephoning a telegram that has just come in. Shall I take it downfor you?"

More urbanity on my part. She found pencil and paper on an escritoirenear by, and went back to the instrument. For a while she listened andwrote. At last she said:

"Are you sure there's no signature?"

She got the reply, waited until the message had been read over, andhung up the receiver. When she came round to me--my back had been halfturned to her all the time--I was astonished to see her looking rathershaken. She handed me the paper without a word. 

The message ran:

"Thanks yesterday's telegram. Just got home. Queen Victoria Hospital, Belton Square. Must have talk with you before I communicate with mymother. Rely absolutely on your discretion. Come to-morrow. Forgiveinconvenience caused, but most urgent. "

"It's from Boyce, " I said, looking up at her. 

"Naturally. "

"I suppose he omitted the signature to avoid any possible leakagethrough the post-office here. "

She nodded. "What do you think is the matter?"

"God knows, " said I. "Evidently something very serious. "

She went back to the piano seat. "It's odd that I should have takendown that message, " she said, after a while. 

"I'll sack Marigold for putting you in that abominable position, " Iexclaimed wrathfully. 

"No, you won't, dear. What does it signify? I'm not a silly child. Isuppose you're going to-morrow?"

"Of course--for Mrs. Boyce's sake alone I should have no alternative. "

She turned round and began to take up the thread of the Nocturne fromthe point where she had left off; but she only played half a page andquitted the piano abruptly. 

"The pretty little spell is broken, Majy. No matter how we try toescape from the war, it is always shrieking in upon us. We're upagainst naked facts all the time. If we can't face them we go undereither physically or spiritually. Anyhow--" she smiled with just alittle touch of weariness, --"we may as well face them in comfort. "

She pushed my chair gently nearer to the fire and sat down by my side. And there we remained in intimate silence until Marigold announced thearrival of her car. 

CHAPTER XVIII

I shrink morbidly from visiting strange houses. I shrink from theunknown discomforts and trivial humiliations they may hold for me. Ihate, for instance, not to know what kind of a chair may be providedfor me to sit on. I hate to be carried up many stairs even by mysteel-crane of a Marigold. Just try doing without your legs for acouple of days, and you will see what I mean. Of course I despisemyself for such nervous apprehensions, and do not allow them toinfluence my actions--just as one, under heavy fire, does not satisfyone's simple yearning to run away. I would have given a year's incometo be able to refuse Boyce's request with a clear conscience; but Icould not. I shrank all the more because my visit in the autumn toReggie Dacre had shaken me more than I cared to confess. It had beenthe only occasion for years when I had entered a London building otherthan my club. To the club, where I was as much at home as in my ownhouse, all those in town with whom I now and then had to transactbusiness were good enough to come. This penetration of strangehospitals was an agitating adventure. Apart, however, from the merephysical nervousness against which, as I say, I fought, there wasanother element in my feelings with regard to Boyce's summons. If Italk about the Iron Hand of Fate you may think I am using a cliche ofmelodrama. Perhaps I am. But it expresses what I mean. Somethingunregenerate in me, some lingering atavistic savage instinct towardsfreedom, rebelled against this same Iron Hand of Fate that, firstclapping me on the shoulder long ago in Cape Town, was now dragging me, against my will, into ever thickening entanglement with the dark andcrooked destiny of Leonard Boyce. 

I tell you all this because I don't want to pose as a kind of apodalangel of mercy. 

I was also deadly anxious as to the nature of the communication Boycewould make to me, before his mother should be informed of his arrivalin London. In spite of his frank confession, there was still such acloud of mystery over the man's soul as to render any revelationpossible. Had his hurt declared itself to be a mortal one? Had hesummoned me to unburden his conscience while yet there was time? Was itgoing to be a repetition, with a difference, of my last interview withReggie Dacre? I worried myself with unnecessary conjecture. 

After a miserable drive through February rain and slush, I reached mydestination in Belton Square, a large mansion, presumably equipped byits owner as a hospital for officers, and given over to the nation. Atelephone message had prepared the authorities for my arrival. Marigold, preceded by the Sister in charge, carried me across atesselated hall and began to ascend the broad staircase. 

I uttered a little gasp and looked around me, for in a flash I realisedwhere I was. Twenty years ago I had danced in this house. I had dancedhere with my wife before we were married. On the half landing we hadsat out together. It was the town house of the late Lord Madelow, withwhose wife I shared the acquaintance of a couple of hundred youngdancing men inscribed on her party list. Both were dead long since. Towhom the house belonged now I did not know. But I recognised picturesand statuary and a conservatory with palms. And the place shimmeredwith brilliant ghosts and was haunted by hot perfumes and by the echoof human voices and by elfin music. And the cripple forgot that he wasbeing carried up the stairs in the grip of the old soldier. He wasmounting them with heart beating high and the presence of a belovedhand on his arm. .. . You see, it was all so sudden. It took my breathaway and sent my mind whirling back over twenty years. 

It was like awaking from a dream to find a door flung open in front ofme and to hear the Sister announce my name. I was on the threshold notof a ward, but of a well-appointed private room fairly high up andfacing the square, for the first thing I saw was the tops of theleafless trees through the windows. Then I was conscious of a cheeryfire. The last thing I took in was the bed running at right angles todoor and window, and Leonard Boyce lying in it with bandages about hisface. For the dazed second or two he seemed to be Reggie Dacre overagain. But he had thrown back the bedclothes and his broad chest andgreat arms were free. His pleasant voice rang out at once. 

"Hallo! Hallo! You are a good Samaritan. Is that you, Marigold? There'sa comfortable chair by the bedside for Major Meredyth. "

He seemed remarkably strong and hearty; far from any danger of death. Stubs of cigarettes were lying in an ash-tray on the bed. In a momentor two they settled me down and left me alone with him. 

As soon as he heard the click of the door he said:

"I've done more than I set out to do. You remember our conversation. Isaid I should either get the V. C. Or never see you again. I've managedboth. "

"What do you mean?" I asked. 

"I shall never see you or anybody else again, or a dog or a cat, or atree or a flower. "

Then, for the first time the dreadful truth broke upon me. 

"Good Heavens!" I cried. "Your eyes--?"

"Done in. Blind. It's a bit ironical, isn't it?" He laughed bitterly. 

What I said by way of sympathy and consolation is neither here northere. I spoke sincerely from my heart, for I felt overwhelmed by thetragedy of it all. He stretched out his hand and grasped mine. 

"I knew you wouldn't fail me. Your sort never does. You understand nowwhy I wanted you to come?--To prepare the old mother for the shock. You've seen for yourself that I'm sound of wind and limb--as fit as afiddle. You can make it quite clear to her that I'm not going to dieyet awhile. And you can let her down easy on the real matter. Tell herI'm as merry as possible and looking forward to going aboutWellingsford with a dog and string. "

"You're a brave chap, Boyce, " I said. 

He laughed again. "You're anticipating. Do you remember what I saidwhen you asked me what I should do if I won all the pots I set my hearton and came through alive? I said I should begin to try to be a braveman. God! It's a tough proposition. But it's something to live for, anyway. "

I asked him how it happened. 

"I got sick, " he replied, "of bearing a charmed life and nothinghappening. The Bosch shell or bullet that could hit me wasn't made. Icould stroll about freely where it was death for anyone else to showthe top of his head. I didn't care. Then suddenly one day things wentwrong. You know what I mean. I nearly let my regiment down. It wastouch and go. And it was touch and go with my career. I just pulledthrough, however. I'll tell you all about it one of these days--ifyou'll put up with me. "

Again the familiar twitch of the lips which looked ghastly below thebandaged eyes. "No one ever dreamed of the hell I went through. Then Ifound I was losing the nerve I had built up all these months. I nearlywent off my head. At last I thought I would put an end to it. It was asmall attack of ours that had failed. The men poured back over theparapet into the trench, leaving heaven knows how many dead and woundedoutside. I'm not superstitious and I don't believe in premonitions andwarnings, and so forth; but in cases of waiting like mine a mansuddenly gets to know that his hour has come. .. . I got in six wounded. Two men were shot while I was carrying them. How I lived God knows. Itwas cold hell. My clothes were torn to rags. As I was going for theseventh, the knob of my life-preserver was shot away and my wristnearly broken. I wore it with a strap, you know. The infernal thing hadbeen a kind of mascot. When I realised it was gone I just stood stilland shivered in a sudden, helpless funk. The seventh man was crawlingup to me. He had a bloody face and one dragging leg. That's my lastpicture of God's earth. Before I could do anything--I must have beenstanding sideways on--a bullet got me across the bridge of the nose andnight came down like a black curtain. Then I ran like a hare. SometimesI tripped over a man, dead or wounded, and fell on my head. I don'tremember much about this part of it. They told me afterwards. At last Istumbled on to the parapet and some plucky fellow got me into thetrench. It was the regulation V. C. Business, " he added, "and so theygave it to me. "

"Specially, " said I. 

"Consolation prize, I suppose, for losing my sight. They had just timeto get me away behind when the Germans counter attacked. If I hadn'tbrought the six men in, they wouldn't have had a dog's chance. I didsave their lives. That's something to the credit side of the infernalbalance. "

"There can be no balance now, my dear chap, " said I. "God knows you'vepaid in full. "

He lifted his hand and dropped it with a despairing gesture. 

"There's only one payment in full. That was denied me. God, or whoeverwas responsible, had my eyes knocked out, and made it impossible forever. He or somebody must be enjoying the farce. "

"That's all very well, " said I. "A man can do no more than hisutmost--as you've done. He must be content to leave the rest in thehands of the Almighty. "

"The Almighty has got a down on me, " he replied. "And I don't blameHim. Of course, from your point of view, you're right. You're a normal, honourable soldier and gentleman. Anything you've got to reproachyourself with is of very little importance. But I'm an accursed freak. I told you all about it when you held me up over the South Africanaffair. There were other affairs after that. Others again in this war. Haven't I just told you I let my regiment down?"

"Don't, my dear man, don't!" I cried, in great pain, for it washorrible to hear a man talk like this. "Can't you see you've wiped outeverything?"

"There's one thing at any rate I can't ever wipe out, " he said in a lowvoice. Then he laughed. "I've got to stick it. It may be amusing to seehow it all pans out. I suppose the very last passion left us iscuriosity. "

"There's also the unconquerable soul, " said I. 

"You're very comforting, " said he. "If I were in your place, I'd leavea chap like me to the worms. " He drew a long breath. "I suppose I'llpull through all right. "

"Of course you will, " said I. 

"I feel tons better, thanks to you, already. "

"That's right, " said I. 

He fumbled for the box of cigarettes on the bed. Instinctively I triedto help him, but I was tied to my fixed chair. It was a trivialoccasion; but I have never been so terrified by the sense ofhelplessness. Just think of it. Two men of clear brain and, to allintents and purposes, of sound bodily health, unable to reach an objecta few feet away. Boyce uttered an impatient exclamation. 

"Get hold of that box for me, like a good chap, " he said, his fingersgroping wide of the mark. 

"I can't move, " said I. 

"Good Lord! I forgot. "

He began to laugh. I laughed, too. We laughed like fools and the tearsran down my cheeks. I suppose we were on the verge of hysterics. 

I pulled myself together and gave him a cigarette from my case. Andthen, stretch as I would, I could not reach far enough to apply thematch to the end of the cigarette between his lips. He was unable tolift his head. I lit another match and, like an idiot, put it betweenhis fingers. He nearly burned his moustache and his bandage, and wouldhave burned his fingers had not the match--a wooden one--providentiallygone out. Then I lit a cigarette myself and handed it to him. 

The incident, as I say, was trivial, but it had deep symbolicsignificance. All symbols in their literal objectivity are trivial. What more trivial than the eating of a bit of bread and the sippingfrom a cup of wine? This trumpery business with the cigaretterevolutionised my whole feelings towards Boyce. It initiated us into asacred brotherhood. Hitherto, it had been his nature which had reachedout towards me tentacles of despair. My inner self, as I have tried toshow you, had never responded. It was restrained by all kinds ofdoubts, suspicions, and repulsions. Now, suddenly, it broke through allthose barriers and rushed forth to meet him. My death in life againstwhich I had fought, I hope like a brave man (it takes a bit offighting) for many years, would henceforth be his death in life, atwhose terrors he too would have to snap a disdainful finger. I had feltdeep pity for him; but if pity is indeed akin to love, it is a verypoor relation. Now I had cast pity and such like superior sentimentaside and accepted him as a sworn brother. The sins, whatever theywere, that lay on the man's conscience mattered nothing. He had paid insplendid penance and in terrible penalty. 

I should have liked to express to him something of this surge ofemotion. But I could find no words. As a race, our emotions are notfacile, and therefore we lack the necessary practice in expressingthem. When they do come, they come all of a heap and scare us out ofour wits and leave us speechless. So the immediate outcome of all thispsychological upheaval was that we went on smoking and said nothingmore about it. As far as I remember we started talking about therecruiting muddle, as to which our views most vigorously coincided. 

We parted cheerily. It was only when I got outside the room that theghastly irony of the situation again made my heart as lead. We passedby the conservatory and the statuary and down the great staircase, butthe ghosts had gone. Yet I cast a wistful glance at the spot--it wasjust under that Cuyp with the flashing white horse--where we had sattwenty years ago. But the new tragedy had rendered the memory lesspoignant. 

"It's a dreadful thing about the Colonel, sir, " said Marigold as wedrove off. 

"More dreadful than anyone can imagine, " said I. 

"What he's going to do with himself is what I'm wondering, " saidMarigold. 

What indeed? The question went infinitely deeper than the practicaldreams of Marigold's philosophy. My honest fellow saw but theoutside--the full-blooded man of action cabined in his lifelongdarkness. I, to whom chance had revealed more, trembled at thecontemplation of his future. The man, goaded by the Furies, had rushedinto the jaws of death. Those jaws, by some divine ordinance, hadruthlessly closed against him. The Furies meanwhile attended himunrelenting. Whither now would they goad him? Into madness? I doubtedit. In spite of his contradictory nature, he did not seem to be thesort of man who would go mad. He could exercise over himself tooreasoned a control. Yet here were passions and despairs seethingwithout an outlet. What would be the end? It is true that he hadachieved glory. To the end of his life, wherever he went, he wouldcommand the honour and admiration of men. Greater achievement isgranted to few mortals. In our little town he would be the Great Hero. But would all that human sympathy and veneration could contrive keepthe Furies at bay and soothe the tormented spirit?

I tried to eat a meal at the club, but the food choked me. I got intothe car as soon as possible and reached Wellingsford with head andheart racked with pain. But before I could go home I had to executeBoyce's mission. 

If I accomplished it successfully, my heart and not my wearied minddeserves the credit. At first Mrs. Boyce broke down under the shock ofthe news, for all the preparation in the world can do little to softena deadly blow; but breed and pride soon asserted themselves, and shefaced things bravely. With charming dignity she received Marigold's fewrespectful words of condolence. And she thanked me for what I had done, beyond my deserts. To show how brave she was, she insisted onaccompanying us downstairs and on standing in the bleak evening airwhile Marigold put me in the car. 

"After all, I have my son alive and in good strong health. I mustrealise how merciful God has been to me. " She put her hand into mine. "I shan't see you again till I bring him home with me. I shall go up toLondon early to-morrow morning and stay with my old friend LadyFanshawe--I think you have met her here--the widow of the late AdmiralFanshawe. She has a house in Eccleston Street, which is, I think, inthe neighbourhood of Belton Square. If I haven't thanked you enough, dear Major Meredyth, it is that, when one's heart is full, one can't doeverything all at once. "

She waved to me very graciously as the car drove off--a true "Spartian"mother, dear lady, of our modern England. 

Oh! the humiliation of possessing a frail body and a lot ofdisorganized nerves! When I got home Marigold, seeing that I wasovertired, was all for putting me to bed then and there. I spurned theinsulting proposal in language plain enough even to his woodenunderstanding. Sometimes his imperturbability exasperated me. I mightjust as well try to taunt a poker or sting a fire-shovel intoresentment of personal abuse. 

"I'll see you hanged, drawn, and quartered before I'll go to bed, " Ideclared. 

"Very good, sir. " The gaunt wretch was carrying me. "But I think youmight lie down for half an hour before dinner. "

He deposited me ignominiously on the bed and left the room. In aboutten minutes Dr. Cliffe, my inveterate adversary who has kept life in mefor many a year, came in with his confounded pink smiling face. 

"What's this I hear? Been overdoing it?"

"What the deuce are you doing here?" I cried. "Go away. How dare youcome when you're not wanted?"

He grinned. "I'm wanted right enough, old man. The good Marigold'snever at fault. He rang me up and I slipped round at once. "

"One of these days, " said I, "I'll murder that fellow. "

He replied by gagging me with his beastly thermometer. Then he felt mypulse and listened to my heart and stuck his fingers into the cornersof my eyes, so as to look at the whites; and when he was quitesatisfied with himself--there is only one animal more self-complacentthan your medical man in such circumstances, and that is a dog who hasgorged himself with surreptitious meat--he ordained that I shouldforthwith go properly to bed and stay there and be perfectly quietuntil he came again, and in the meanwhile swallow some filthy medicinewhich he would send round. 

"One of these days, " said he, rebukingly, "instead of murdering yourdevoted Sergeant, you'll be murdering yourself, if you go on suchlunatic excursions. Of course I'm shocked at hearing about ColonelBoyce, and I'm sorry for the poor lady, but why you should have beenmade to half kill yourself over the matter is more than I canunderstand. "

"I happen, " said I, "to be his only intimate friend in the place. "

"You happen, " he retorted, "to be a chronic invalid and the mostinfernal worry of my life. "

"You're nothing but an overbearing bully, " said I. 

He grinned again. That is what I have to put up with. If I curseMarigold, he takes no notice. If I curse Cliffe, he grins. Yet what Ishould do without them, Heaven only knows. 

"God bless 'em both, " said I, when my aching body was between the coolsheets. 

Although it was none of his duties, Marigold brought me in a lightsupper, fish and a glass of champagne. Never a parlour-maid would heallow to approach me when I was unwell. I often wondered what wouldhappen if I were really ill and required the attendance of a nurse. Iswear no nurse's touch could be so gentle as when he raised me on thepillows. He bent over the tray on the table by the bed and began todissect out the back-bone of the sole. 

"I can do that, " said I, fretfully. 

He cocked a solitary reproachful eye on me. I burst out laughing. Helooked so dear and ridiculous with his preposterous curly wig and hisbattered face. He went on with his task. 

"I wonder, Marigold, " said I, "how you put up with me. "

He did not reply until he had placed the neatly arranged tray across mybody. 

"I've never heard, sir, " said he, "as how a man couldn't put up withhis blessings. "

A bit of sole was on my fork and I was about to convey it to my mouth, but there came a sudden lump in my throat and I put the fork down. 

"But what about the curses?"

A horrible contortion of the face and a guttural rumble indicatedamusement on the part of Marigold. I stared, very serious, having beenprofoundly touched. 

"What are you laughing at?" I asked. 

The idiot's merriment increased in vehemence. He said: "You're toofunny, sir, " and just bolted, in a manner unbecoming not only to asergeant, but even to a butler. 

As I mused on this unprecedented occurrence, I made a discovery, --thatof Sergeant Marigold's sense of humour. To that sense of humour myupbraidings, often, I must confess, couched in picturesque andfigurative terms so as not too greatly to hurt his feelings, had madeconstant appeal for the past fifteen years. Hitherto he had hidden allsigns of humorous titillation behind his impassive mask. To-night, aspark of sentiment had been the match to explode the mine of his mirth. It was a serious position. Here had I been wasting on him half alifetime's choicest objurgations. What was I to do in the future toconsolidate my authority?

I never enjoyed a fried sole and a glass of champagne more in my life. 

He came in later to remove the tray, as wooden as ever. 

"Mrs. Connor called a little while ago, sir. "

"Why didn't you ask her to come in to see me?"

"Doctor's orders, sir. "

After the sole and champagne, I felt much better. I should havewelcomed my dear Betty with delight. That, at any rate, was my firstimpulsive thought. 

"Confound the doctor!" I cried. And I was going to confound Marigold, too, but I caught his steady luminous eye. What was the use of anyanathema when he would only take it away, as a dog does a bone, andenjoy it in a solitary corner? I recovered myself. 

"Well?" said I, with dignity. "Did Mrs. Connor leave any message?"

"I was to give you her compliments, sir, and say she was sorry you wereso unwell and she was shocked to hear of Colonel Boyce's sadaffliction. "

This was sheer orderly room. Such an expression as "sad affliction"never passed Betty's lips. I, however, had nothing to say. Marigoldsettled me for the night and left me. 

When I was alone and able to consider the point, I felt a cowardlygratitude towards the doctor who had put me to bed like a sick man andforbidden access to my room. I had been spared breaking the news toBetty. How she received it, I did not know. It had been impossible toquestion Marigold. After all, it was a matter of no essential moment. Iconsoled myself with the reflection and tried to go to sleep. But Ipassed a wretched night, my head whirling with the day's happenings. 

The morning papers showed me that Boyce, wishing to spare his mother, had been wise to summon me at once. They all published an officialparagraph describing the act for which he had received his distinction, and announcing the fact of his blindness. They also gave a brief andflattering sketch of his career. One paper devoted to him a shortleading article. The illustrated papers published his photograph. Boycewas on the road to becoming a popular hero. 

Cliffe kept me in bed all that day, to my great irritation. I had noconverse with the outside world, save vicariously with Betty, who rangup to enquire after my health. On the following morning, when I droveabroad with Hosea, I found the whole town ringing with Boyce. It was aFriday, the day of publication of the local newspaper. It had run toextravagant bills all over the place:

"Wellingsford Hero honoured by the King. Tragic End to Glorious Deeds. "

The word--Marigold's, I suppose--had gone round that I had visited thehero in London. I was stopped half a dozen times on my way up the HighStreet by folks eager for personal details. Outside Prettilove thehairdresser's I held quite a little reception, and instead of moving meon for blocking the traffic, as any of his London colleagues would havedone, the local police sergeant sank his authority and by the side of abutcher's boy formed part of the assembly. 

When I got to the Market Square, I saw Sir Anthony Fenimore's carstanding outside the Town Hall. The chauffeur stopped me. 

"Sir Anthony was going to call on you, sir, as soon as he had finishedhis business inside. "

"I'll wait for him, " said I. It was one of the few mild days of awretched month and I enjoyed the air. Springfield, the house agent, passed and engaged me in conversation on the absorbing topic, and thenthe manager of the gasworks joined us. Everyone listened so reverentlyto my utterances that I began to feel as if I had won the VictoriaCross myself. 

Presently Sir Anthony bustled out of the Town Hall, pink, brisk, fullof business. At the august appearance of the Mayor my less civicallydistinguished friends departed. His eyes brightened as they fell on meand he shook hands vigorously. 

"My dear Duncan, I was just on my way to you. Only heard this morningthat you've been seedy. Knocked up, I suppose, by your journey to town. Just heard of that, too. Must have thought me a brute not to enquire. But Edith and I didn't know. I was away all yesterday. These infernaltribunals. With the example of men like Leonard Boyce before theireyes, it makes one sick to look at able-bodied young Englishmen tryingto wriggle out of their duty to the country. Well, dear old chap, howare you?"

I assured him that I had recovered from Cliffe and was in my usualstate of health. He rubbed his hands. 

"That's good. Now give me all the news. What is Boyce's condition? Whenwill he be able to be moved? When do you think he'll come back toWellingsford?"

At this series of questions I pricked a curious ear. 

"Am I speaking to the man or the Mayor?"

"The Mayor, " said he. "I wish to goodness I could get you inside, sothat you and I and Winterbotham could talk things over. "

Winterbotham was the Town Clerk. Sir Anthony cast an instinctive glanceat his chauffeur, a little withered elderly man. I laughed and made asign of dissent. When you have to be carried about, you shy at theprospect of little withered, elderly men as carriers. Besides--

"Unless it would lower Winterbotham's dignity or give him a cold in thehead, " said I, "why shouldn't he come out here?"

Sir Anthony crossed the pavement briskly, gave a message to thedoorkeeper of the Town Hall, and returned to Hosea and myself. 

"It's a dreadful thing. Dreadful. I never realised till yesterday, whenI read his record, what a distinguished soldier he was. A modernBayard. For the last year or so he seemed to put my back up. Behaved inrather a curious way, never came near the house where once he wasalways welcome, and when I asked him to dinner he turned me down flat. But that's all over. Sometimes one has these pettifogging personalvanities. The best thing is to be heartily ashamed of 'em like anhonest man, and throw 'em out in the dung-heap where they belong. That's what I told Edith last night, and she agreed with me. Don't you?"

I smiled. Here was another typical English gentleman ridding hisconscience of an injustice done to Leonard Boyce. 

"Of course I do, " said I. "Boyce is a queer fellow. A man with hisexceptional qualities has to be judged in an exceptional way. "

"And then, " said Sir Anthony, "it's that poor dear old lady that I'vebeen thinking of. Edith went to see her yesterday afternoon, but foundshe had gone up to London. In her frail health it's enough to kill her. "

"It won't, " said I. "A woman doesn't give birth to a lion withouthaving something of the lion in her nature. "

"I've never thought of that, " said Sir Anthony. 

"Haven't you?"

His face turned grave and he looked far away over the red-brickpost-office on the opposite side of the square. Then he sighed, lookedat me with a smile, and nodded. 

"You're right, Duncan. "

"I know I am, " said I. "I broke the news to Mrs. Boyce. That's why heasked me to go up and see him. "

Winterbotham appeared--a tall, cadaverous man in a fur coat and a softfelt hat. He shook hands with me in a melancholy way. In a humbler walkof life, I am sure he would have been an undertaker. 

"Now, " said Sir Anthony, "tell us all about your interview with Boyce. "

"Before I commit myself, " said I, "with the Civic Authorities, will youkindly inform me what this conference coram publico is all about?"

"Why, my dear chap, haven't I told you?" cried Sir Anthony. "We'regoing to give Colonel Boyce a Civic Reception. "

CHAPTER XIX

Thenceforward nothing was talked of but the home-coming of ColonelBoyce. He touched the public imagination. All kinds of stories, someapocryphal, some having a basis of truth, some authentic, went theround of the little place. It simmered with martial fervour. Elderlylaggards enrolled themselves in the Volunteer Training Corps. Youngmarried men who had not attested under the Derby Scheme rushed out toenlist. The Tribunal languished in idleness for lack of claimants forexemption. Exempted men, with the enthusiastic backing of employers, lost the sense of their indispensability and joined the colours. Anenergetic lady who had met the Serbian Minister in London conceived thehappy idea of organising a Serbian Flag Day in Wellingsford, and reapeda prodigious harvest. We were all tremendously patriotic, living underBoyce's reflected glory. 

At first I had deprecated the proposal, fearing lest Boyce might notfind it acceptable. The reputation he had sought at the cannon's mouthwas a bubble of a different kind from that which the good townsfolkwere eager to celebrate. Vanity had no part in it. For what the outerworld thought of his exploits he did not care a penny. He was pastcaring. His soul alone, for its own sore needs, had driven him to thesearch. Before his own soul and not before his fellow countrymen, hadhe craved to parade as a recipient of the Victoria Cross. His own soul, as I knew, not being satisfied, he would shrink from obtaining popularapplause under false pretences. No unhappy man ever took sternermeasure of himself. Of all this no one but myself had the faintestidea. In explaining my opinion I had to leave out all essentials. Icould only hint that a sensitive man like Colonel Boyce might be aversefrom exhibiting in public his physical disabilities; that he had alwaysshown himself a modest soldier with a dislike of self-advertisement;that he would prefer to seek immediate refuge in the quietude of hishome. But they would not listen to me. Colonel Boyce, they said, wouldbe too patriotic to refuse the town's recognition. It was part of thegame which he, as a brave soldier, no matter how modest, could not failto play. He would recognise that such public honourings of valour hadwidespread effect among the population. In face of such arguments I hadto withdraw my opposition; otherwise it might have appeared that I wasactuated by petty personal motives. God knows I only desired to saveBoyce from undergoing a difficult ordeal. For the same reasons I couldnot refuse to serve on the Reception Committee which was immediatelyformed under the chairmanship of the Mayor. 

Preliminaries having been discussed, the Mayor and the Town Clerkwaited on Boyce in Belton Square, and returned with the triumphanttidings that they had succeeded in their mission. 

"I can't make out what you were running your head against, Duncan, "said Sir Anthony. "Of course, as you say, he's a modest chap anddislikes publicity. So do we all. But I quickly talked him out of thatobjection. I talked him out of all sorts of objections before he couldraise them. At last what do you think he said?"

"I should have told you to go to blazes and not worry me. "

"He didn't. He said--now I like the chap for it, it was so simple andhonest--he said: 'If I were alone in the world I wouldn't have it, forI don't like it. But I'll accept on one condition. My poor old motherhas had rather a thin time and she's going to have a thinner. She nevergets a look in. Make it as far as possible her show, and I'll do whatyou like. ' What do you think of that?"

"I think it's very characteristic, " said I. 

And it was. In my mental survey of the situation from Boyce's point ofview I had not taken into account the best and finest in the man. Hisreason rang true against my exceptional knowledge of him. I had workedmyself into so sympathetic a comprehension that I KNEW he would befacing something unknown and terrible in the proposed ceremony; I KNEWthat for his own sake he would have unequivocably declined. But, adnajorem matris gloriam, he assented. 

The main question, at any rate, was settled. The hero would accept thehonour. It was for the Committee to make the necessary arrangements. Wecorresponded far and wide in order to obtain municipal precedents. Wehad interviews with the military and railway authorities. We were inconstant communication with the local Volunteer Training Corps; withthe Godbury Volunteers and the Godbury School O. T. C. , who both desiredto take a part in the great event. In compliance with the conditionsimposed, we gave as much publicity as we could to Mrs. Boyce. Lieutenant Colonel Boyce, V. C. , and Mrs. Boyce were officiallyassociated in the programme of the reception. How to disentangle themafterwards, when the presentation of the address, engrossed on velluniand enclosed in a casket, should be made to the Colonel, was thesubject of heated and confused discussion. Then the feminine elementsin town and county desired to rally to the side of Mrs. Boyce. The RedCross and Volunteer Aid Detachment Nurses claimed representation. Sodid the munitions workers of Godbury. The Countess of Laleham, the wifeof the Lord Lieutenant of the County, a most imposing and masterfulwoman, signified (in genteel though incisive language) her intention totake a leading part in the proceedings and to bring along her husband, apparently as an unofficial ornament. This, of course, upset our plans, which had all to be reconsidered from the beginning. 

"Who is giving the reception?" cried Lady Fenimore, who could standupon her dignity as well as anybody. "The County or Wellingsford? Ipresume it's Wellingsford, and, so long as I am Mayoress, that dreadfulLaleham woman will have to take a back seat. "

So, you see, we had our hands full. 

All this time I found Betty curiously elusive. Now and then I met herfor a few fugitive moments at the hospital. Twice she ran in fordinner, in uniform, desperately busy, arriving on the stroke of thedinner hour and rushing away five minutes after her coffee andcigarette, alleging as excuse the epidemic of influenza, consequent onthe vile weather, which had woefully reduced the hospital staff. Sheseemed to be feverish and ill at ease, and tried to cover the symptomsby a reversion to her old offhand manner. As I was so seldom alone withher I could find scant opportunity for intimate conversation. I thoughtthat she might have regretted the frank exposition of her feelingsregarding Leonard Boyce. But she showed no sign of it. She spoke in themost detached way of his blindness and the coming ceremony. Never once, even on the first occasion when I met her--in the hospitalcorridor--after my return from London, did her attitude vary from thatof any kind-hearted Englishwoman who deplores the mutilation of agallant social acquaintance. Sometimes I wanted to shake her, though Icould scarcely tell why. I certainly would not have had her weep on myshoulder over Boyce's misfortune; nor would I have cared for her toexhibit a vindictive callousness. She behaved with perfect propriety. Perhaps that is what disturbed me. I was not accustomed to associateperfect propriety with my dear Betty. 

The days went on. The reception arrangements were perfected. We onlywaited for the date of Boyce's arrival to be fixed. That depended onthe date of the particular Investiture by the King which Boyce'sconvalescence should allow him to attend. At last the date was fixed. 

A few days before the Investiture I went to London and called at LadyFanshawe's in Eccleston Street, whither he had been removed afterleaving the hospital. I was received in the dining-room on the groundfloor by Boyce and his mother. He wore black glasses to hide terribledisfigurement--he lifted them to show me. One eye had been extracted. The other was seared and sightless. He greeted me as heartily as ever, made little jests over his infirmity, treating it lightly for hismother's sake. She, on her side, deemed it her duty to exhibit equalcheerfulness. She boasted of his progress in self-reliance and in theaccomplishment of various little blind man's tricks. At her bidding helit a cigarette for my benefit, by means of a patent fuse. He said, when he had succeeded:

"Better than the last time you saw me, eh, Meredyth?"

"What was that?" asked Mrs. Boyce. 

"He nearly burned his fingers, " said I, shortly. I had no desire torelate the incident. 

We talked of the coming ceremony and I gave them the details of theprogramme. Boyce had been right in accepting on the score of hismother. Only once had she been the central figure in any publicceremony--on her wedding day, in the years long ago. Here was a newkind of wedding day in her old age. The prospect filled her with atremulous joy which was to both of them a compensation. She bubbledover with pride and excitement at her inclusion in the homage that wasto be paid to the valour of her only son. 

"After all, " she said, "I did bring him into the world. So I can claimsome credit. I only hope I shan't cry and make a fool of myself. Theywon't expect me to keep on bowing, will they? I once saw Queen Victoriadriving through the streets, and I thought how dreadfully her poor oldneck must have ached. "

On the latter point I reassured her. On the drive from the stationBoyce would take the salute of the troops on the line of route. If shesmiled charmingly on them, their hearts would be satisfied, and if shejust nodded at them occasionally in a motherly sort of way, they wouldbe enchanted. She informed me that she was having a new dress made forthe occasion. She had also bought a new hat, which I must see. Aservant was summoned and dispatched for it. She tried it on girlishlybefore the mirror over the mantelpiece, and received my compliments. 

"Tell me what it looks like, " said Boyce. 

You might as well ask a savage in Central Africa to describe theinterior of a submarine as the ordinary man to describe a woman's hat. My artless endeavours caused considerable merriment. To hear Boyce'sgay laughter one would have thought he had never a care in the world . .. 

When I took my leave, Mrs. Boyce accompanied Marigold and myself to thefront door. 

"Did you ever hear of anything so dreadful?" she whispered, and I sawher lips quivering and the tears rolling down her cheeks. "If heweren't so brave and wonderful, I should break my heart. "

"What do you suppose you are yourself, my dear old friend, " said I overMarigold's shoulder. 

I went away greatly comforted. Both of them were as brave as could be. For the first time I took a more cheerful view of Boyce's future. 

On the evening before the Reception Betty was shown into the library. It was late, getting on towards my bedtime, and I was nodding in frontof the fire. 

"I'm just in and out, Majy dear, " she said. "I had to come. I didn'twant to give you too many shocks. " At my expression of alarm, shelaughed. "I've only run in to tell you that I've made up my mind tocome to the Town Hall tomorrow. "

I looked at her, and I suppose my hands moved in a slight gesture. 

"By that, " she said, "I suppose you mean you can never tell what I'mgoing to do next. "

"You've guessed it, my dear, " said I. 

"Do you disapprove?"

"I couldn't be so presumptuous. "

She bent over me and caught the lapels of my jacket. 

"Oh, don't be so dreadfully dignified. I want you to understand. Everybody is going to pay honour to-morrow to a man who has giveneverything he could to his country. Don't you think it would be pettyof me if I stood out? What have the dead things that have passedbetween us to do with my tribute as an Englishwoman?"

What indeed? I asked her whether she was attending in her privatecapacity or as one of the representatives of the V. A. D. Nurses. Ilearned for the thousandth time that Betty Connor did not deal in halfmeasures. If she went at all, it was as Betty Connor that she would go. Her aunts would accompany her. It was part of the municipal ordering ofthings that the Town Clerk should have sent them the special cards ofinvitation. 

"I think it my duty to go, " said Betty. 

"If you think so, my dear, " said I, "then it is your duty. So there'snothing more to be said about it. "

Betty kissed the top of my head and went off. 

We come now to the morning of the great day. Everything had beenfinally settled. The Mayor and Aldermen, Lady Fenimore and theAldermen's wives, the Lord Lieutenant (in unofficial mufti) and LadyLaleham (great though officially obscure lady), the General of theDivision quartered in the neighbourhood and officers of his staff, anda few other magnates to meet the three o'clock train by which theBoyces were due to arrive. The station hung with flags andinscriptions. A guard of honour and a band in the station-yard, with afleet of motor cars in waiting. Troops lining the route from station toTown Hall. More troops in the decorated Market Square, including theGodbury School O. T. C. And the Wellingsford and Godbury Volunteers. Iheard that the latter were very anxious to fire off a feu de joie, butwere restrained owing to lack of precedent. The local fire-brigade infreshly burnished helmets were to follow the procession of motor cars, and behind them motor omnibuses with the nurses. 

Marigold, although his attendance on me precluded him from taking partin the parade of Volunteers, appeared in full grey uniform with all hismedals and the black patch of ceremony over his eyeless socket. I mustconfess to regarding him with some jealousy. I too should have liked towear my decorations. If a man swears to you that he is free from suchlittle vanities, he is more often than not a mere liar. But abroken-down old soldier, although still drawing pay from theGovernment, is not allowed to wear uniform (which I think isoutrageous), and he can't go and plaster himself with medals when he iswearing on his head a hard felt hat. My envy of the martial lookingMarigold is a proof that my mind was not busied with sternerpreoccupations. I ate my breakfast with the serene conscience not onlyof a man who knows he has done his duty, but of an organiser confidentin the success of his schemes. The abominable weather of snows andtempests from which we had suffered for weeks had undergone a change. It was a mild morning brightened by a pale convalescent sort of sun, and there was just a little hope of spring in the air. I felt contentwith everything and everybody. 

About eleven o'clock the buzz of the library telephone disturbed mycomfortable perusal of the newspaper. I wheeled towards the instrument. Sir Anthony was speaking. 

"Can you come round at once? Very urgent. The car is on its way to you. "

"What's the matter?" I asked. 

He could not tell me over the wires. I was to take it that my presencewas urgently needed. 

"I'll come along at once, " said I. 

Some hitch doubtless had occurred. Perhaps the War Office (whose wayswere ever weird and unaccountable) had forbidden the General to takepart in such a village-pump demonstration. Perhaps Lady Laleham hadinsisted on her husband coming down like a uniformed Lord Lieutenant onthe fold. Perhaps the hero himself was laid up with measles. 

With the lightest heart I drove to Wellings Park. Marigold, straight asa ramrod, sitting in front by the chauffeur. As soon as Pardoe, thebutler, had brought out my chair and Marigold had settled me in it, SirAnthony, very red and flustered, appeared and, shaking me nervously bythe hand, said without preliminary greeting:

"Come into the library. "

He, I think, had come from the morning room on the right of the hall. The library was on the left. He flung open the door. I steered myselfinto the room; and there, standing on the white bearskin hearthrug, hisback to the fire, his hands in his pockets, his six inches of stiffwhite beard stuck aggressively outward, I saw Daniel Gedge. 

While I gaped in astonishment, Sir Anthony shut the door behind him, drew a straight-backed chair from the wall, planted it roughly somedistance away from the fire, and, pointing to it, bade Gedge sit down. Gedge obeyed. Sir Anthony took the hearthrug position, his hands behindhis back, his legs apart. 

"This man, " said he, "has come to me with a ridiculous, beastly story. At first I was undecided whether I should listen to him or kick himout. I thought it wiser to listen to him in the presence of a reputablewitness. That's why I've sent for you, Duncan. Now you just begin allover again, my man, " said he, turning to Gedge, "and remember thatanything you say here will be used against you at your trial. "

Gedge laughed--I must admit, with some justification. 

"You forget, Sir Anthony, I'm not a criminal and you're not apoliceman. "

"I'm the Mayor to this town, sir, " cried Sir Anthony. "I'm also aJustice of the Peace. "

"And I'm a law-abiding citizen, " retorted Gedge. 

"You're an infernal socialistic pro-German, " exclaimed Sir Anthony. 

"Prove it. I only ask you to prove it. No matter what my privateopinions may be, you just try to bring me up under the Defence of theRealm Act, and you'll find you can't touch me. "

I held out a hand. "Forgive me for interrupting, " said I, "but what isall this discussion about?"

Gedge crossed one leg over the other and drew his beard through hisfingers. Sir Anthony was about to burst into speech, but I checked himwith a gesture and turned to Gedge. 

"It has nothing to do with political opinions, " said he. "It has to dowith the death, nearly two years ago, of Miss Althea Fenimore, SirAnthony's only daughter. "

Sir Anthony, his face congested, glared at him malevolently. I started, with a gasp of surprise, and stared at the man who, caressing hisbeard, looked from one to the other of us with an air of satisfaction. 

"Get on, " said Sir Anthony. 

"You are going to give a civic reception to-day to Colonel Boyce, V. C. , aren't you?"

"Yes, I am, " snapped Sir Anthony. 

"Do you think you ought to do it when I tell you that Colonel Boyce, V. C. , murdered Miss Althea Fenimore on the night of the 25th June, twoyears ago?"

"Yes, " said Sir Anthony. "And do you know why? Because I know you to bea liar and a scoundrel. "

I can never describe the awful horror that numbed me to the heart. Fora few moments my body seemed as lifeless as my legs. The charge, astounding almost to grotesqueness in the eyes of Sir Anthony, androusing him to mere wrath, deprived me of the power of speech. For Iknew, in that dreadful instant, that the man's words contained someelements of truth. 

All the pieces of the puzzle that had worried me at odd times formonths fitted themselves together in a vivid flash. Boyce and Althea! Ihad never dreamed of associating their names. That association was thekey of the puzzle. Out of the darkness disturbing things shone clear. Boyce's abrupt retirement from Wellingsford before the war; hiscancellation by default of his engagement; his morbid desire, a yearago, to keep secret his presence in his own house; Gedge's veiledthreat to me in the street to use a way "that'll knock all you greatpeople of Wellingsford off your high horses;" his extraordinaryinterview with Boyce; his generally expressed hatred of Boyce. Was thistoo the secret which he let out in his cups to Randall Holmes and whichdrove the young man from his society? And Betty? Boyce was a devil. Shewished he were dead. And her words: "You have behaved worse to others. I don't wonder at your shrinking from showing your face here. " How muchdid Betty know? There was the lost week--in Carlisle?--in poor Althea'slife. And then there were Boyce's half confessions, the glimpses he hadafforded me into the tormented soul. To me he had condemned himself outof his own mouth. 

I repeat that, sitting there paralysed by the sudden shock of it, Iknew--not that the man was speaking the literal truth--God forbid!--butthat Boyce was, in some degree, responsible for Althea's death. 

"Calling me names won't alter the facts, Sir Anthony, " said Gedge, witha touch of insolence. "I was there at the time. I saw it. "

"If that's true, " Sir Anthony retorted, "you're an accessory after thefact, and in greater danger of being hanged than ever. " He turned to mein his abrupt way. "Now that we've heard this blackguard, shall we handhim over to the police?"

Being directly addressed, I recovered my nerve. 

"Before doing that, " said I, "perhaps it would be best for us to hearwhat kind of a story he has to tell us. We should also like to know hismotives in not denouncing the supposed murderer at once, and in keepinghis knowledge hidden all this time. "

"With regard to the last part of your remarks, I dare say you would, "said Gedge. "Only I don't know whether I'll go so far as to oblige you. Anyhow you may have discovered that I don't particularly care aboutyour class. I've been preaching against your idleness and vanity andvices, and the strangling grip you have on the throats of the people, ever since I was a young man. If one of your lot chose to do in anotherof your lot--a common story of seduction and crime--"

At this slur in his daughter's honour Sir Anthony broke out fiercely, and, for a moment, I feared lest he would throw himself on Gedge andwring his neck. I managed to check his outburst and bring him toreason. He resumed his attitude on the hearthrug. 

"As I was saying, " Gedge continued, rather frightened, "from mysociological point of view I considered the affair no business of mine. I speak of it now, because ever since war broke out your class and theparasitical bourgeoisie have done your best to reduce me to starvation. I thought it would be pleasant to get a bit of my own back. Just alittle bit, " he added, rubbing his hands. 

"If you think you've done it, you'll find yourself mistaken. "

Gedge shrugged his shoulders and pulled his beard. I hated the light inhis little crafty eyes. I feel sure he had been looking forward formonths to this moment of pure happiness. 

"Having given us an insight into your motives, which seem consistentwith what we know of your character, " said I, judicially, "will you nowmake your statement of facts?"

"What's the good of listening further to his lies?" interrupted SirAnthony. "I'm a magistrate. I can give the police at once a warrant forhis arrest. "

Again I pacified him. "Let us hear what the man has to say. "

Gedge began. He spoke by the book, like one who repeats a statementcarefully prepared. 

"It was past ten o'clock on the night of the 25th June, 1914. I hadjust finished supper when I was rung up by the landlord of The ThreeFeathers on the Farfield road--it's the inn about a quarter of a milefrom the lock gates. He said that the District Secretary of the RedDemocratic Federation was staying there--his brother-in-law, if youwant to know--and he hadn't received my report. I must explain that Iam the local secretary, and as there was to be an important conferenceof the Federation at Derby the next day, the District Secretary oughtto have been in possession of my report on local affairs. I had drawnup the report. My daughter Phyllis had typed it, and she ought to haveposted it. On questioning her, I found she had neglected to do so. Iexplained this over the wires and said I would bring the report at onceto The Three Feathers. I only tell you all this, in which you can't beinterested, so that you can't say: 'What were you doing on a lonelyroad at that time of night?' My daughter and the landlord of The ThreeFeathers can corroborate this part of my story. I set out on mybicycle. It was bright moonlight. You know that for about two hundredyards before the lock gate, and for about twenty after, the towing-pathis raised above the level of the main road which runs parallel with ita few yards away. There are strips of market garden between. When I gotto this open bit I saw two persons up on the towing-path. One was agirl with a loose kind of cloak and a hat. The other was a man wearinga soft felt hat and a light overcoat. The overcoat was open and I sawthat he was wearing it over evening dress. That caught my attention. What was this swell in evening dress doing there with a girl? I sloweddown and dismounted. They didn't see me. I got into the shadow of awhitethorn. They turned their faces so that the moon beat full on them. I saw them as plain as I see you. They were Colonel Boyce, V. C. , --Majorthen--and your daughter, Mr. Mayor, Miss Althea Fenimore. "

He paused as though to point the dramatic effect, and twisted round, sticking out his horrible beard at Sir Anthony. Sir Anthony, his handsthrust deep in his trouser-pockets and his bullet head bent forward, glared at him balefully out of his old blue eyes. But he said never aword. Gedge continued. 

"They didn't speak very loud, so I could only hear a scrap or two oftheir conversation. They seemed to be quarrelling--she wanted him to dosomething which he wouldn't do. I heard the words 'marriage' and'disgrace. ' They stood still for a moment. Then they turned back. I hadovertaken them, you know. I remounted my bicycle and rode to The ThreeFeathers. I was there about a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes. Then I rode back for home. When I came in sight of the lock, there Isaw a man standing alone, sharp in the moonlight. As I came nearer Irecognised the same man, Major Boyce. There were no lights in thelock-keeper's cottage. He and his wife had gone to bed long before. Iwas so interested that I forgot what I was doing and ran into the hedgeso that I nearly came down. There was the noise of the scrape and dragof the machine which must have sounded very loud in the stillness. Itstartled him, for he looked all round, but he didn't see me, for I wasunder the hedge. Then suddenly he started running. He ran as if thedevil was after him. I saw him squash down his Trilby hat so that itwas shapeless. Then he disappeared along the path. I thought this aqueer proceeding. Why should he have taken to his heels? I thought Ishould like to see him again. If he kept to the towing-path, hisshortest way home, he was bound to go along the Chestnut Avenue, where, as you know, the road and the path again come together. On a bicycle itwas easy to get there before him. I sat down on a bench and waited. Presently he comes, walking fast, his hat still squashed in all overhis ears. I walked my bicycle slap in front of him. 

"'Good-night, Major, ' I said. 

"He stared at me as if he didn't know me. Then he seemed to pullhimself together and said: 'Good-night, Gedge. What are you doing outat this time of night?'

"'If it comes to that, sir, ' said I, 'what are you?'

"Then he says, very haughty, as if I was the dirt under his feet--Isuppose, Sir Anthony Fenimore and Major Meredyth, you think that me andmy class are by divine prescription the dirt beneath your feet, butyou're damn well mistaken--then he says: 'What the devil do you mean?'and catches hold of the front wheel of the bicycle and swings it and meout of his way so that I had a nasty fall, with the machine on top ofme, and he marches off. I picked myself up furious with anger. I am anelderly man and not accustomed to that sort of treatment. I yelled out:'What have you been doing with the Squire's daughter on thetowing-path?' It pulled him up short. He made a step or two towards me, and again he asked me what I meant. And this time I told him. He calledme a liar, swore he had never been on any tow-path or had seen anysquire's daughter, and threatened to murder me. As soon as I couldmount my bicycle I left him and made for home. The next afternoon, ifyou remember, the unfortunate young lady's body was found at the bottomof three fathoms of water by the lock gates. "

He had spoken so clearly, so unfalteringly, that Sir Anthony had beensurprised into listening without interruption. The bull-dog expressionon his face never changed. When Gedge had come to the end, he said:

"Will you again tell me your object in coming to me with thisdisgusting story?"

Gedge lifted his bushy eyebrows. "Don't you believe it even now?"

"Not a word of it, " replied Sir Anthony. 

"I ought to remind you of another point. " said Gedge. "Was Major Boyceever seen in Wellingsford after that night? No. He went off by thefirst train the next morning. Went abroad and stayed there till theoutbreak of war. "

"I happen to know he had made arrangements to start for Norway thatmorning, " said Sir Anthony. "He had called here a day or two before tosay good-bye. "

"Did he write you any letter of condolence?" Gedge asked sneeringly. 

I saw a sudden spasm pass over Sir Anthony's features. But he said inthe same tone as before:

"I am not going to answer insolent questions. "

Gedge turned to me with the air of a man giving up argument with achild. 

"What do you think of it, Major Meredyth?"

What could I say? I had kept a grim iron face all through theproceedings. I could only reply:

"I agree entirely with Sir Anthony. "

Gedge rose and thrust his hand into his jacket pocket. "You gentlemenare hard to convince. If you want proof positive, just read that. " Andhe held a letter out to Sir Anthony. 

Sir Anthony glared at him and abruptly plucked the letter out of hishand; for the fraction of a second he stood irresolute; then he threwit behind him into the blazing fire. 

"Do you think I'm going to soil my mind with your dirty forgeries?"

Gedge laughed. "You think you've queered my pitch, I suppose. Youhaven't. I've heaps more incriminating letters. That was only a sample. "

"Publish one of them at your peril, " said I. 

"Pray, Mister Major Meredyth, " said he, "what is to prevent me?"

"Penal servitude for malicious slander. "

"I should win my case. "

"In that event they would get you, on your own showing, for being anaccessory after the fact of murder, and for blackmail. "

"Suppose I risk it?"

"You won't, " said I. 

Sir Anthony turned to the bell-push by the side of the mantelpiece. 

"What's the good of talking to this double-dyed scoundrel?" He pointedto the door. "You infamous liar, get out. And if I ever catch youprowling round this house, I'll set the dogs on you. "

Gedge marched to the door and turned on the threshold and shook hisfist. 

"You'll repent your folly till your dying day!"

"To Hell with you, " cried Sir Anthony. 

The door slammed. We were left alone. An avalanche of silenceoverwhelmed us. Heaven knows how long we remained speechless andmotionless--I in my wheel-chair, he standing on the hearthrug staringawfully in front of him. At last he drew a deep breath and threw up hisarms and flung himself down on a leather-covered couch, where he sat, elbows on knees and his head in his hands. After a while he lifted adrawn face. 

"It's true, Duncan, " said he, "and you know it. "

"I don't know it, " I replied stoutly, "any more than you do. "

He rose in his nervous way and came swiftly to me and clapped both hishands on my frail shoulders and bent over me--he was a little man, as Ihave told you--and put his face so close to mine that I could feel hisbreath on my cheek. 

"Upon your soul as a Christian you know that man wasn't lying. "

I looked into his eyes--about six inches from mine. 

"Boyce never murdered Althea, " I said. 

"But he is the man--the man I've been looking for. "

I pushed him away with both hands, using all my strength. It was toohorrible. 

"Suppose he is. What then?"

He fell back a pace or two. "Once I remember saying: 'If ever I gethold of that man--God help him!'"

He clenched his fists and started to pace up and down the library, passing and repassing my chair. At last my nerves could stand it nolonger and I called on him to halt. 

"Gedge's story is curiously incomplete, " said I. "We ought to havecrossexamined him more closely. Is it likely that Boyce should havegone off leaving behind him a witness of his crime whom he hadthreatened to murder, and who he must have known would have giveninformation as soon as the death was discovered? And don't you thinkGedge's reason for holding his tongue very unconvincing? His foolhatred of our class, instead of keeping him cynically indifferent, would have made him lodge information at once and gloat over ourdiscomfiture. "

I could not choose but come to the defence of the unhappy man whom Ihad learned to call my friend, although, for all my trying, I couldconjure up no doubt as to his intimate relation with the tragedy. AsSir Anthony did not speak, I went on. 

"You can't judge a man with Leonard Boyce's record on the EX PARTEstatement of a malevolent beast like Gedge. Look back. If there hadbeen any affair between Althea and Boyce, the merest foolishflirtation, even, do you think it would have passed unnoticed? You, Edith, Betty--I myself--would have cast an uneasy eye. When we werelooking about, some months ago, at the time of your sister-in-law'svisit, for a possible man, the thought of Leonard Boyce never enteredour heads. The only man you could rush at was young Randall Holmes, andI laughed you out of the idea. Just throw your mind back, Anthony, andtry to recall any suspicious incident. You can't. "

I paused rhetorically, expecting a reply. None came. He just satlooking at me in a dead way. I continued my special pleading; and themore I said, the more was I baffled by his dead stare and the moreunconvincing platitudes did I find myself uttering. Some people may beable to speak vividly to a deaf and dumb creature. On this occasion Itried hard to do so, and failed. After a while my words dribbled outwith difficulty and eventually ceased. At last he spoke, in the dull, toneless way of a dead man--presuming that the dead could speak:

"You may talk till you're black in the face, but you know as well as Ido that the man told the truth--or practically the truth. What he saidhe saw, he saw. What motives have been at the back of his miserablemind, I don't know. You say I can't recall suspicious incidents. I can. I'll tell you one. I came across them once--about a month before thething happened--among the greenhouses. I think we were having one ofour tennis parties. I heard her using angry words, and when I appearedher face was flushed and there were tears in her eyes. She was takenaback for a second and then she rushed up to me. 'I think he'sperfectly horrid. He says that Jingo--' pointing to the dog; youremember Jingo the Sealingham--she was devoted to him--he died lastyear--'He says that Jingo is a mongrel--a throw back. ' Boyce said hewas only teasing her and made pretty apologies. I left it at that. Hita dog or a horse belonging to Althea, and you hit Althea. That was herway. The incident went out of my mind till this morning. Otherincidents, too. One thinks pretty quick at times. Again, this scoundrelhit me on the raw. Boyce never wrote to us. Sent us through his mothera conventional word of condolence. Edith and I were hurt. That was oneof the things that made me speak so angrily of him when he wouldn'tcome and dine with us. "

Once more I pleaded. "Your Sealingham incident doesn't impress me. Whynot take it at its face value? As for the letter of condolence, thatmay have twenty explanations. "

He passed his hand over his cropped iron-grey head. "What are youdriving at, Duncan? You know as well as I do--you know more than I do. I saw it in your face ever since that man opened his mouth. "

"If you're so sure of everything, " said I foolishly, relaxing grip onmy self-control, "why did you hound him out of the place for a liar?"

He leaped to his feet and spread himself into a fighting attitude, forall the world like a half-dead bantam cock springing into a new leaseof combative life. 

"Do you think I'd let a dunghill beast like that crow over me? Do youthink I'd let him imagine for a minute that anything he said couldinfluence me in my public duty? By God, sir, what kind of a worm do youthink I am?"

His sudden fury disconcerted me. All this time I had been wonderingwhat kind of catastrophe was going to happen during the next few hours. I am afraid I haven't made clear to you the ghastly racket in my brain. There was the town all beflagged, everyone making holiday, all the pompand circumstance at our disposal awaiting the signal to be displayed. There was the blind conquering hero almost on his way to localapotheosis. And here were Sir Anthony and I with the revelation of theman Gedge. It was a fantastic, baffling situation. I had been hauntedby the dread of discussing it. So in reply to his outburst I simplysaid:

"What are you going to do?"

He drew himself up, with his obstinate chin in the air, and looked atme straight. 

"If God gives me strength, I am going to do what lies before me. "

At this moment Lady Fenimore came in. 

"Mr. Winterbotham would like to speak to you a minute, Anthony. It'ssomething about the school children. "

"All right, my dear. I'll go to him at once, " said Sir Anthony. "You'llstay and lunch with us, Duncan?"

I declined on the plea that I should have to nurse myself for astrenuous day. Sir Anthony might play the Roman father, but it wasbeyond my power to play the Roman father's guest. 

CHAPTER XX

How he passed through the ordeal I don't know. If ever a man stoodcaptain of his soul, it was Anthony Fenimore that day. And his soul wassteel-armoured. Perhaps, if proof had come to him from an untaintedsource, it might have modified his attitude. I cannot tell. Withoutdoubt the knavery of Gedge set aflame his indignation--or rather thefierce pride of the great old Tory gentleman. He would have walkedthrough hell-fire sooner than yielded an inch to Gedge. So much wouldscornful defiance have done. But behind all this--and I am as certainof it as I am certain that one day I shall die--burned even fiercer, steadier, and clearer the unquenchable fire of patriotic duty. He wasdealing not with a man who had sinned terribly towards him, but with aman who had offered his life over and over again to his country, a manwho had given to his country the sight of his eyes, a man on whosebreast the King himself had pinned the supreme badge of honour in hisgift. He was dealing, not with a private individual, but with anational hero. In his small official capacity as Mayor of Wellingsford, he was but the mouthpiece of a national sentiment. And more than that. This ceremony was an appeal to the unimaginative, the sluggish, thefaint-hearted. In its little way--and please remember that alltremendous enthusiasms are fit by these little fires--it was aproclamation of the undying glory of England. It was impersonal, it wasnational, it was Imperial. In its little way it was of vast, far-reaching importance. 

I want you to remember these things in order that you should understandthe mental processes, or soul processes, or whatever you like, of SirAnthony Fenimore. Picture him. The most unheroic little man you canimagine. Clean-shaven, bullet-headed, close-cropped, his face ruddy andwrinkled like a withered apple, his eyes a misty blue, his big nosemarked like a network of veins, his hands glazed and reddened, like hisface, by wind and weather; standing, even under his mayoral robes, likea jockey. Of course he had the undefinable air of breeding; no onecould have mistaken his class. But he was an undistinguished, veryordinary looking little man; and indeed he had done nothing for thepast half century to distinguish himself above his fellows. There arethousands of his type, masters of English country houses. And of allthe thousands, every one brought up against the stern issues of lifewould have acted like Anthony Fenimore. I say "would have acted, " butanyone who has lived in England during the war knows that they have soacted. These incarnations of the commonplace, the object of thedisdain, before the war, of the self-styled "intellectuals"--if the warsweeps the insufferable term into oblivion it will have done somegood--these honest unassuming gentlemen have responded heroically tothe great appeal; and when the intellectuals have thought of theirintellects or their skins, they have thought only of their duty. And itwas only the heroical sense of duty that sustained Sir Anthony Fenimorethat day. 

I did not see the reception at the Railway Station or join thetriumphal procession; but went early to the Town Hall and took my seaton the platform. I glibly say "took my seat. " A wheel-chair, sent therepreviously, was hoisted, with me inside, on to the platform by Marigoldand a porter. After all these years, I still hate to be publiclyparaded, like a grizzled baby, in Marigold's arms. For convenience'sake I was posted at the front left-hand corner. The hall soon filled. The first three rows of seats were reserved for the recipients of themunicipality's special invitation; the remainder were occupied by thesuccessful applicants for tickets. From my almost solitary perch Iwatched the fluttering and excited crowd. The town band in the organgallery at the further end discoursed martial music. From the main doorbeneath them ran the central gangway to the platform. I recognised manyfriends. In the front row with her two aunts sat Betty, very demure inher widow's hat relieved by its little white band of frilly stuffbeneath the brim. She looked unusually pale. I could not help watchingher intently and trying to divine how much she knew of the story ofBoyce and Althea. She caught my eye, nodded, and smiled wanly. 

My situation was uncanny. In this crowded assemblage in front of me, whispering, talking, laughing beneath the blare of the band, not one, save Betty, had a suspicion of the tragedy. At times they seemed tomelt into a shadow-mass of dreamland . .. . Time crawled on very slowly. Anxious forebodings oppressed me. Had Sir Anthony's valiancy stood thetest? Had he been able to shake hands with his daughter's betrayer? Hadhe broken down during the drive side by side with him, amid thehooraying of the townsfolk? And Gedge? Had he found some madman's meansof proclaiming the scandal aloud? Every nerve in my body was strained. Marigold, in his uniform and medals and patch and grey service capplugged over his black wig, stood sentry by the side of the platformnext my chair. All of a sudden he pulled out of his side pocket a phialof red liqueur in a medicine glass. He poured out the dose and handedit to me. I turned on him wrathfully. 

"What the dickens is that?"

"Dr. Cliffe's orders, sir. "

"When did he order it?"

"When I told him what you looked like after interviewing Mister DanielGedge. And he said, if you was to look like that again I was to giveyou this. So I'm giving it to you, sir. "

There was no arguing with Marigold in front of a thousand people. Iswallowed the stuff quickly. He put the phial and glass back in hispocket and resumed his wooden sentry attitude by my chair. I must ownto feeling better for the draught. But, thought I, if the strain of thesituation is so great for me, what must it be for Sir Anthony?

Presently the muffled sounds of outside cheering penetrated the hall. The band stopped abruptly, to begin again with "See the Conquering HeroComes" when the civic procession appeared through the great doors. There was little Sir Anthony in his robes, grave and imposing, andbeside him Mrs. Boyce, flushed, bright-eyed, and tearful. Then cameLady Fenimore with Boyce, black-spectacled, soldierly, bull-necked, hislittle bronze cross conspicuous among the medals on his breast, hiselbow gripped by a weatherbeaten young soldier, one of his captains, asI learned afterwards, home on leave, who had claimed the privilege ofguiding his blind footsteps. And behind came the Aldermen and theCouncillors, and the General and his staff, and the Lord Lieutenant andLady Laleham and the other members of the Reception Committee. Thecheering drowned the strains of the "Conquering Hero. " Places weretaken on the platform. To the right of the Mayor sat Boyce, to the lefthis mother. On the table in front were set scrolls and caskets. Yousee, we had arranged that Mrs. Boyce should have an address and acasket all to herself. The gallery soon was picturesquely filled withthe nurses, and the fire-brigade, bright-helmeted, was massed in thedoorway. 

God gave the steel-hearted little man strength to go through theordeal. He delivered his carefully prepared oration in a voice thatnever faltered. The passages referring to Boyce's blindness he spokewith an accent of amazing sincerity. When he had ended the responsiveaudience applauded tumultuously. From my seat by the edge of theplatform I watched Betty. Two red spots burned in her cheeks. Theaddresses were read, the caskets presented. Boyce remained standing, about to respond. He still held the casket in both hands. His FIDUSACHATES, guessing his difficulty, sprang up, took it from him, and laidit on the table. Boyce turned to him with his charming smile and said:"Thanks, old man. " Again the tumult broke out. Men cheered and womenwept and waved wet handkerchiefs. And he stood smiling at his unseenaudience. When he spoke, his deep, beautifully modulated voice heldeveryone under its spell, and he spoke modestly and gaily like a bravegentleman. I bent forward, as far as I was able, and scanned his face. Never once, during the whole ceremony, did the tell-tale twitch appearat the corners of his lips. He stood there the incarnation of themodern knights sans fear and sans reproach. 

I cannot tell which of the two, he or Sir Anthony, the more moved mywondering admiration. Each exhibited a glorious defiance. 

You may say that Boyce, receiving in his debonair fashion the encomiumsof the man whom he had wronged, was merely exhibiting the familiarcallousness of the criminal. If you do, I throw up my brief. I shallhave failed utterly to accomplish my object in writing this book. Iwant no tears of sensibility shed over Boyce. I want you to judge himby the evidence that I am trying to put before you. If you judge him asa criminal, it is my poor presentation of the evidence that is atfault. I claim for Boyce a certain splendour of character, for all hisgrievous sins, a splendour which no criminal in the world's history hasever achieved. I beg you therefore to suspend your judgment, until Ihave finished, as far as my poor powers allow, my unravelling of histangled skein. And pray remember too that I have sought all through topresent you with the facts PARI PASSU with my knowledge of them. I havetried to tell the story through myself. I could think of no other wayof creating an essential verisimilitude. Yet, even now, writing in thelight of full knowledge, I cannot admit that, when Boyce in that TownHall faced the world--for, in the deep tragic sense Wellingsford washis world--anyone knowing as much as I did would have been justified incalling his demeanour criminal callousness. 

I say that he exhibited a glorious defiance. He defied the concreteGedge. He defied the more abstract, but none the less real, tormentingFuries. He defied remorse. In accepting Sir Anthony's praise he defiedthe craven in his own soul. 

After a speech or two more, to which I did not listen, the proceedingsin the Town Hall ended. I drew a breath of relief. No breakdown by SirAnthony, no scandalous interruption by Gedge, had marred the impressiveceremony. The band in the gallery played "God Save the King. " The crowdin the body of the hall, who had stood for the anthem, sat down again, evidently waiting for Boyce and the notables to pass out. Theassemblage on the platform broke up. Several members, among them theGeneral, who paused to shake hands with Boyce and his mother, left thehall by the private side door. The Lord Lieutenant and Lady Lalehamfollowed him soon afterwards. Then the less magnificent crowded roundBoyce, each eager for a personal exchange of words with the hero. SirAnthony remained at his post, keeping on the outskirts of the throng, bidding formal adieux to those who went away. Presently I saw thatBoyce was asking for me, for someone pointed me out to his officerattendant, who led him down the steps of the platform and round theedge to my seat. 

"Well, it has gone off all right, " said he. "Let me introduce CaptainWinslow, more than ever my right-hand man--Major Meredyth. "

We exchanged bows. 

"The old mother's as pleased as Punch. She didn't know she was going toget a little box of her own. I should like to have seen her face. I didhear her give one of her little squeals. Did you?"

"No, " said I, "but I saw her face. It was that of a saint in anunexpected beatitude. "

He laughed. "Dear old mother, " said he. "She has deserved a show. " Heturned away unconsciously, and, thinking to address me, addressed thefirst row of spectators. "I suppose there's a lot of folks here that Iknow. "

By chance he seemed to be looking through his black glasses straight atBetty a few feet away. She rose impulsively and, before allWellingsford, went up to him with hand outstretched. 

"There's one at any rate, Colonel Boyce. I'm Betty Connor--"

"No need to tell me that, " said he, bowing. 

Winslow, at his elbow, most scrupulous of prompters, whispered:

"She wants to shake hands with you. "

So their hands met. He kept hers an appreciable second or two in hisgrasp. 

"I hope you will accept my congratulations, " said Betty. 

"I have already accepted them, very gratefully. My mother conveyed themto me. She was deeply touched by your letter. And may I, too, say howdeeply touched I am by your coming here?"

Betty looked swiftly round and her cheeks flushed, for there were manyof us within earshot. She laughed off her embarrassment. 

"You have developed from a man into a Wellingsford Institution, and Ihad to come and see you inaugurated. My aunts, too, are here. " Shebeckoned to them. "They are shyer than I am. "

The elderly ladies came forward and spoke their pleasant words ofcongratulation. Mrs. Holmes and others, encouraged, followed theirexample. Mrs. Boyce suddenly swooped from the platform into the middleof the group and kissed Betty, who emerged from the excited lady'sembrace blushing furiously. She shook hands with Betty's aunts andthanked them for their presence; and in the old lady's mind thereconciliation of the two houses was complete. Then, with cheeks of amore delicate natural pink than any living valetudinarian of her agecould boast of, and with glistening eyes, she made her way to me, andreaching up and drawing me down, kissed me, too. 

While all this was going on, the body of the hall began to empty. Theprogramme had arranged for nothing more by way of ceremonial to takeplace. But a public gathering always hopes for something unexpected, and, when it does not happen, takes its disappointment philosophically. I think Betty's action must have shown them that the rest of theproceedings were to be purely private and informal. 

The platform also gradually thinned, until at last, looking round, Isaw that only Sir Anthony and Lady Fenimore and Winterbotham, the TownClerk, remained. Then Lady Fenimore joined us. We were about a score, myself perched on the edge and corner of the platform, the reststanding on the floor of the hall in a sector round me, Marigold, ofcourse, in the middle of them by my side, like an ill-graven image. Assoon as she could Lady Fenimore came up to me. 

"Don't you think it splendid of Betty Connor to bury the hatchet sopublicly?" she whispered. 

"The war, " said I, "is a solvent of many human complications. "

"It is indeed. " Then she added: "I am going to have a little dinnerparty some time soon for the Boyces. I sounded him to-day and hepractically promised. I'll ask the Lalehams. Of course you'll come. Nowthat things have shown themselves so topsy-turvy I've been wonderingwhether I should ask Betty. "

"Does Anthony know of this dinner party?" I enquired. 

"What does it matter whether he does or not?" she laughed. "Dinnerparties come within my province and I'm mistress of it. "

Of course Boyce had half promised. What else could he do withoutdiscourtesy? But the banquet which, in her unsuspecting innocence sheproposed, seemed to me a horrible meal. Doubtless it would seem so toSir Anthony. At the moment I did not know whether he intended to tellGedge's story to his wife. At any rate, hitherto, he had not done so. 

"All the same, my dear Edith, " I replied, "Anthony may have a word tosay. I happen to know he has no particular personal friendship forBoyce, who, if you'll forgive my saying so, has treated you rathercavalierly for the past two years. Anthony's welcome to-day was purelypublic and official. It had nothing to do with his private feelings. "

"But they have changed. He was referring to the matter only thismorning at breakfast and suggesting things we could do to lighten thepoor man's affliction. "

"I don't think a dinner party would lighten it, " I said. "And if I wereyou, I wouldn't suggest it to Anthony. "

"That's rather mysterious. " She looked at me shrewdly. "And there'sanother mysterious thing. Anthony's like a yapping sphinx over it. Whatwere you two talking to Gedge about this morning?" "Nothing particular. "

"That's nonsense, Duncan. Gedge was making himself unpleasant. He neverdoes anything else. "

"If you want to know, " said I, with a convulsive effort of invention, "we heard that he was preparing some sort of demonstration, going tobring down some of his precious anti-war-league people. "

"He wouldn't have the pluck, " she exclaimed. 

"Anyhow, " said I, "we thought we had better have him in and read himthe Riot--or rather the Defence of the Realm--Act. That's all. "

"Then why on earth couldn't Anthony tell me?"

"You ought to know the mixture of sugar and pepper in your husband'snature better than I do, my dear Edith, " I replied. 

Her laugh reassured me. I had turned a difficult corner. No doubt shewould go to Sir Anthony with my explanation and either receive hisacquiescence or learn the real truth. 

She was bidding me farewell when Sir Anthony came along the platform tothe chair. I glanced up, but I saw that he did not wish to speak to me. He was looking grim and tired. He called down to his wife:

"It's time to move, dear. The troops are still standing outside. "

She bustled about giving the signal for departure, first running toBoyce and taking him by the sleeve. I had not noticed that he hadwithdrawn with Betty a few feet away from the little group. They wereinterrupted in an animated conversation. At the sight I felt a keenpang of repulsion. Those two ought not to talk together as old friends. It outraged decencies. It was all very well for Betty to play themagnanimous and patriotic Englishwoman. By her first word of welcomeshe had fulfilled the part. But this flushed, eager talk lay far beyondthe scope of patriotic duty. How could they thus converse over the bodyof the dead Althea? With both of them was I indignant. 

In my inmost heart I felt horribly and vulgarly jealous. I may as wellconfess it. Deeply as I had sworn blood-brotherhood with Boyce, regardless of the crimes he might or might not have committed, I couldnot admit him into that inner brotherhood of which Betty and I alonewere members. And this is just a roundabout, shame-faced way of sayingthat, at that moment, I discovered that I was hopelessly, insanely inlove with Betty. The knowledge came to me in a great wave of dismay. 

"You'll let me see you again, won't you?" he asked. 

"If you like. "

I don't think I heard the words, but I traced them on their lips. Theyparted. Sir Anthony descended from the platform and gave his arm toMrs. Boyce. Lady Fenimore still clung to Boyce. Winterbotham came next, bearing the two caskets, which had been lying neglected on the table. The sparse company followed down the empty hall. Marigold signalled tothe porter and they hoisted down my chair. Betty, who had lingeredduring the operation, walked by my side. Being able now to propelmyself, I dismissed Marigold to a discreet position in the rear. Betty, her face still slightly flushed, said:

"I'm waiting for congratulations which seem to be about as overwhelmingas snow in August. Don't you think I've been extraordinarily good?"

"Do you feel good?"

"More than good, " she laughed. "Christianlike. Aren't we told in theNew Testament to forgive our enemies?"

"'And love those that despitefully use us?'" I misquoted maliciously. Asudden gust of anger often causes us to do worse things than triflewith the text of the Sermon on the Mount. 

She turned on me quickly, as though stung. "Why not? Isn't the sight ofhim maimed like that enough to melt the heart of a stone?"

I replied soberly enough. "It is indeed. "

I had already betrayed my foolish jealousy. Further altercation couldonly result in my betraying Boyce. I did not feel very happy. Consciousof having spoken to me with unwonted sharpness, she sought to makeamends by laying her hand on my shoulder. 

"I think, dear, " she said, "we're all on rather an emotional edgeto-day. "

We reached the front door of the hall. At the top of the shallow flightof broad stairs the little group that had preceded us stood behindBoyce, who was receiving the cheers of the troops--soldiers andvolunteers and the Godbury School Officers' Training Corps--drawn up inthe Market Square. When the cheers died away the crowd raised cries fora speech. 

Again Boyce spoke. 

"The reception you have given my mother and myself, " he said, "werefuse to take personally. It is a reception given to the soldiers, andthe mothers and wives of soldiers, of the Empire, of whom we justhappen to be the lucky representatives. Whole regiments, to say nothingof whole armies, can't all, every jack man, receive Victoria Crosses. But every regiment very jealously counts up its honours. You'll hearmen say: 'Our regiment has two V. C. S, five D. S. O. S, and twentyDistinguished Conduct Medals. ' and the feeling is that all the honoursare lumped together and shared by everybody, from the Colonel to thedrummer-boys. And each individual is proud of his share because heknows that he deserves it. And so it happens that those whom chance hasset aside for distinction, like the lucky winners in a sweepstake, arethe most embarrassed people you can imagine, because everybody is doingeverything that they did every day in the week. For instance, if Ibegan to tell you a thousandth part of the dare-devil deeds of myfriend here, Captain Winslow of my regiment, he would bolt like arabbit into the Town Hall and fall on his knees and pray for anearthquake. And whether the earthquake came off or not, I'm sure hewould never speak to me again. And they're all like that. But inhonouring me you are honouring him, and you're honouring our regiment, and you're honouring the army. And in honouring Mrs. Boyce, you arehonouring that wonderful womanhood of the Empire that is standingheroically behind their men in the hell upon God's good earth which isknown as the front. "

It was a soldierlike little speech, delivered with the man's gallantcharm. Young Winslow gripped his arm affectionately and I heard himsay--"You are a brute, sir, dragging me into it. " The little partydescended the steps of the Town Hall. The words of command rang out. The Parade stood at the salute, which Boyce acknowledged, guided byWinslow and his mother he reached his car, to which he was attended bythe Mayor and Mayoress. After formal leave-taking the Boyces andWinslow drove off amid the plaudits of the crowd. Then Sir Anthony andLady Fenimore. Then Betty and her aunts. Last of all, while the troopswere preparing to march away and the crowd was dispersing and all theexcitement was over, Marigold picked me out of my chair and carried medown to my little grey two-seater. 

CHAPTER XXI

Of course, after this (in the words of my young friends) I crocked up. The confounded shell that had played the fool with my legs had alsodone something silly to my heart. Hence these collapses after physicaland emotional strain. I had to stay in bed for some days. Cliffe toldme that as soon as I was fit to travel I must go to Bournemouth, whereit would be warm. I told Cliffe to go to a place where it would bewarmer. As neither of us would obey the other, we remained where wewere. 

Cliffe informed me that Lady Fenimore had called him in to see SirAnthony, whom she described as being on the obstinate edge of a nervousbreakdown. I was sorry to hear it. 

"I suppose you've tried to send him, too, to Bournemouth?"

"I haven't, " Cliffe replied gravely. "He has got something on his mind. I'm sure of it. So is his wife. What's the good of sending him away?"

"What do you think is on his mind?" I asked. 

"How do I know? His wife thinks it must be something to do with Boyce'sreception. He went home dead-beat, is very irritable, off his food, can't sleep, and swears cantankerously that there's nothing the matterwith him, --the usual symptoms. Can you throw any light on it?"

"Certainly not, " I replied rather sharply. 

Cliffe said "Umph!" in his exasperating professional way and proceededto feel my pulse. 

"I don't quite see how Friday's mild exertion could account for YOURbreakdown, my friend, " he remarked. 

"I'm so glad you confess, at last, not to seeing everything, " said I. 

I was fearing this physical reaction in Sir Anthony. It was only theself-assertion of Nature. He had gone splendidly through his ordeal, having braced himself up for it. He had not braced himself up, however, sufficiently to go through the other and far longer ordeal of hidinghis secret from his wife. So of course he went to pieces. 

After Cliffe had left me, with his desire for information unsatisfied, I rang up Wellings Park. It was the Sunday morning after the reception. To my surprise, Sir Anthony answered me; for he was an old-fashionedcountry churchgoer and plague, pestilence, famine, battle, murder andsudden death had never been known to keep him out of his accustomed pewon Sunday morning. Edith, he informed me, had gone to church; hehimself, being as nervous as a cat, had funked it; he was afraid lesthe might get up in the middle of the sermon and curse the Vicar. 

"If that's so, " said I, "come round here and talk sense. I've somethingimportant to say to you. "

He agreed and shortly afterwards he arrived. I was shocked to see him. His ruddy face had yellowed and the firm flesh had loosened and sagged. I had never noticed that his stubbly hair was so grey. He couldscarcely sit still on the chair by my bedside. 

I told him of Cliffe's suspicions. We were a pair of conspirators withunavowable things on our minds which were driving us to nervouscatastrophe. Edith, said I, was more suspicious even than Cliffe. Ialso told him of our talk about the projected dinner party. 

"That, " he declared, "would drive me stark, staring mad. "

"So will continuing to hide the truth from Edith, " said I. "How do yousuppose you can carry on like this?"

He grew angry. How could he tell Edith? How could he make herunderstand his reason for welcoming Boyce? How could he prevent herfrom blazing the truth abroad and crying aloud for vengeance? What kindof a fool's counsel was I giving him?

I let him talk, until, tired with reiteration, he had nothing more tosay. Then I made him listen to me while I expounded that which wasfamiliar to his obstinate mind--namely, the heroic qualities of his ownwife. 

"It comes to this, " said I, by way of peroration, "that you're afraidof Edith letting you down, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. "

At that he flared out again. How dared I, he asked, eating his words, suggest that he did not trust the most splendid woman God had evermade? Didn't I see that he was only trying to shield her from knowledgethat might kill her? I retorted by pointing out that worry over hisinsane behaviour--please remember that above our deep unchangeablemutual affection, a violent surface quarrel was raging--would moresurely and swiftly kill her than unhappy knowledge. Her quickbrain--had already connected Gedge, Boyce, and his present condition asthe main factors of some strange problem. "Her quick brain!" I cried. "A half idiot child would have put things together. "

Presently he collapsed, sitting hopelessly, nervelessly in his chair. At last he lifted a piteously humble face. 

"What would you suggest my doing, Duncan?"

There seemed to me to be only one thing he could do in order topreserve, if not his reason, at any rate his moral equilibrium in theposition which he had contrived for himself. To tell him this had beenmy object in seeking the interview, and the blessed opportunity onlycame after an hour's hard wrangle--in current metaphor after an hour'sartillery preparation for attack. He looked so battered, poor oldAnthony, that I felt almost ashamed of the success of my bombardment. 

"It's not a question of suggesting, " said I. "It's a question of thingsthat have to be done. You need a holiday. You've been working here athigh pressure for nearly a couple of years. Go away. Put yourself inthe hands of Cliffe, and go to Bournemouth, or Biarritz, or Bahia, orany beastly place you can fix up with him to go to. Go frankly Forthree or four months. Go to-morrow. As soon as you're well out of theplace, tell Edith the whole story. Then you can take counsel andcomfort together. "

He was in the state of mind to be impressed by my argument. I followedup my advantage. I undertook to send a ruthless flaming angel of aCliffe to pronounce the inexorable decree of exile. After a fewfaint-hearted objections he acquiesced in the scheme. I fancy herevolted against even this apparent surrender to Gedge, although he wastoo proud to confess it. No man likes running away. Sir Anthony alsoregarded as pusillanimous the proposal to leave his wife in ignoranceuntil he had led her into the trap of holiday. Why not put her into hisconfidence before they started?

"That, " said I, "is a delicate question which only you yourself candecide. By following my plan you get away at once, which is the mostimportant thing. Once comfortably away, you can choose the opportunemoment. "

"There's something in that, " he replied; and, after thanking me for myadvice, he left me. 

I do not defend my plan. I admit it was Machiavellian. My one desirewas to remove these two dear people from Wellingsford for a season. Just think of the horrible impossibility of their maintaining socialrelations with the Boyces . .. . 

By publicly honouring Boyce, Sir Anthony had tied his own hands. It wasa pledge to Boyce, although the latter did not know it, of condonation. Whatever stories Gedge might spread abroad, whatever proofs he mightdisplay, Sir Anthony could take no action. But to carry on a semblanceof friendship with the man responsible for his daughter's death--forthe two of them, mind you, since Lady Fenimore would sooner or laterlearn everything--was, as I say, horribly impossible. 

Let them go, then, on their nominal holiday, during which the air mightclear. Boyce might take his mother away from Wellingsford. She would dofar more than uproot herself from her home in order to gratify a wishof her adored and blinded son. He would employ his time of darkness inlearning to be brave, he had told me. It took some courage to face theassociations of dreadful memories unflinchingly, for his mother's sake. Should he learn, however, that the Fenimores had an inkling of thetruth, he would recognise his presence in the place to be an outrage. And such inkling--who would give it him? Perhaps I, myself. The Boyceswould go--the Fenimores could return. Anything, anything rather thanthat the Fenimores and the Boyces should continue to dwell in the samelittle town. 

And there was Betty--with all the inexplicable feminine whirring insideher--socially reconciled with Boyce. Where the deuce was thisreconciliation going to lead? I have told you how my lunatic love forBetty had stood revealed to me. Had she chosen to love and marry anyordinary gallant gentleman, God knows I should not have had a word tosay. The love that such as I can give a woman can find its only trueexpression in desiring and contriving her happiness. But that sheshould sway back to Leonard Boyce--no, no. I could not bear it. All theshuddering pictures of him rose up before me, the last, that of himstanding by the lock gates and suddenly running like a frightenedrabbit, with his jaunty soft felt hat squashed shapelessly over hisears. 

Gedge could not have invented that abominable touch of the squashed hat. 

I have said that possibly I myself might give Boyce an inkling of thetruth. Thinking over the matter in my restless bed, I shrank from doingso. Should I not be disingenuously serving my own ends? Betty steppedin, whom I wanted for myself. Neither could I go to Boyce and challengehim for a villain and summon him to quit the town and leave those dearto me at peace. I could not condemn him. I had unshaken faith in theman's noble qualities. That he drowned Althea Fenimore I did not, couldnot, believe. After all that had passed between us, I felt my loyaltyto him irrevocably pledged. More than ever was I enmeshed in the net ofthe man's destiny. 

As yet, however, I could not bear to see him. I could not bear to seeBetty, who called now and then. For the first time in my life I tookrefuge in my invalidity, whereby I earned the commendation of Cliffe. Betty sent me flowers. Mrs. Boyce sent me grapes and an infallibleprescription for heart attacks which, owing to the hopeless mess shehad made in trying to copy the wriggles indicating the quantities ofthe various drugs, was of no practical use. Phyllis Gedge sent me a fewbunches of violets with a shy little note. Lady Fenimore wrote me anaffectionate letter bidding me farewell. They were going to Bude inCornwall, Anthony having put himself under Dr. Cliffe's orders like awonderful lamb. When she came back, she hoped that her two sick menwould be restored to health and able to look more favourably upon herprojected dinner party. Marigold also brought into my bedroom aprecious old Waterford claret jug which I had loved and secretlycoveted for twenty years, with a card attached bearing the inscription"With love from Anthony. " That was his dumb, British way of informingme that he was taking my advice. 

When my self-respect would allow me no longer to remain in bed, I gotup; but I still shrank from publishing the news of my recovery, inwhich reluctance I met with the hearty encouragement both of Cliffe andMarigold. The doctor then informed me that my attack of illness hadbeen very much more serious than I realised, and that unless I made upmy mind to lead the most unruffled of cabbage-like existences, he wouldnot answer for what might befall me. If he could have his way, he wouldcarry me off and put me into solitary confinement for a couple ofmonths on a sunny island, where I should hold no communication with theoutside world. Marigold heard this announcement with smug satisfaction. Nothing would please him more than to play gaoler over me. 

At last, one morning, I said to him: "I'm not going to submit totyranny any longer. I resume my normal life. I'm at home to anybody whocalls. I'm at home to the devil himself. "

"Very good, sir, " said Marigold. 

An hour or two afterwards the door was thrown open and there stood onthe threshold the most amazing apparition that ever sought admittanceinto a gentleman's library; an apparition, however, very familiarduring these days to English eyes. From the shapeless Tam-o'-Shanter tothe huge boots it was caked in mud. Over a filthy sheepskin were slungall kinds of paraphernalia, covered with dirty canvas which made itlook a thing of mighty bulges among which a rifle was poked away. Itwore a kilt covered by a khaki apron. It also had a dirty and unshavenface. A muddy warrior fresh from the trenches, of course. But what washe doing here?

"I see, sir, you don't recognise me, " he said with a smile. 

"Good Lord!" I cried, with a start, "it's Randall. "

"Yes, sir. May I come in?"

"Come in? What infernal nonsense are you talking?" I held out my hand, and, after greeting him, made him sit down. 

"Now, " said I, "what the deuce are you doing in that kit?"

"That's what I've been asking myself for the last ten months. Anyhow Ishan't wear it much longer. "

"How's that?"

"Commission, sir, " he answered. 

"Oh!" said I. 

His entrance had been so abrupt and unexpected that I hardly knew asyet what to make of him. Speculation as to his doings had led me toimagine him engaged in some elegant fancy occupation on the fringe ofthe army, if indeed he were serving his country so creditably. I foundit hard to reconcile my conception of Master Randall Holmes with thisbusinesslike Tommy who called me "Sir" every minute. 

"I'll tell you about it, sir, if you're interested. But first--how ismy mother?"

"Your mother? You haven't seen her yet?"

Here, at least, was a bit of the old casual Randall. He shook his head. 

"I've only just this minute arrived. Left the trenches yesterday. Walked from the station. Not a soul recognised me. I thought I hadbetter come here first and report, just as I was, and not wait until Ihad washed and shaved and put on Christian clothes again. He looked atme and grinned. "Seeing is believing. "

"Your mother is quite well, " said I. "Haven't you given her any warningof your arrival?"

"Oh, no!" he answered. "I didn't want any brass bands. Besides, as Isay, I wanted to see you first. Then to look in at the hospital. Isuppose Phyllis Gedge is still at the hospital?"

"She is. But I think, my dear chap, your mother has the first call onyou. "

"She wouldn't enjoy my present abominable appearance as much asPhyllis, " he replied, coolly. "You see, Phyllis is responsible for it. I told you she refused to marry me, didn't I, sir? After that, shecalled me a coward. I had to show her that I wasn't one. It was anawful nuisance, I admit, for I had intended to do something quitedifferent. Oh! not Gedging or anything of that sort--but--" he divedbeneath his sheepskin and brought out a tattered letter case and from amass of greasy documents (shades of superior Oxford!) selected a dirty, ragged bit of newspaper--"but, " said he, handing me the fragment, "Ithink I've succeeded. I don't suppose this caught your eye, but if youlook closely into it, you'll see that 11003 Private R. Holmes, 1stGordon Highlanders, a couple of months ago was awarded theDistinguished Conduct Medal. I may be any kind of a fool or knave shelikes to call me, but she can't call me a coward. "

I congratulated him with all my heart, which, after the first shock, was warming towards him rapidly. 

"But why, " I asked, still somewhat bewildered, "didn't you apply for acommission? A year ago you could have got one easily. Why enlist? Andthe 1st Gordons--that's the regular army. "

He laughed and asked permission to help himself to a cigarette. "ByGeorge, that's good, " he exclaimed after a few puffs. "That's goodafter months of Woodbines. I found I could stand everything exceptTommy's cigarettes. Everything about me has got as hard as nails, except my palate for tobacco . .. . Why didn't I apply for a commission?Any fool could get a commission. It's different now. Men are picked andmust have seen active service, and then they're sent off to cadettraining corps. But last year I could have got one easily. And I mighthave been kicking my heels about England now. "

"Yet, at the sight of a Sam Browne belt, Phyllis would have surelyrecanted, " said I. 

"I didn't want the girl I intended to marry and pass my life with tohave her head turned by such trappings as a Sam Browne belt. She hashad to be taught that she is going to marry a man. I'm not such a foolas you may have thought me, Major, " he said, forgetful of his humblerank. "Suppose I had got a commission and married her. Suppose I hadbeen kept at home and never gone out and never seen a shot fired, likeheaps of other fellows, or suppose I had taken the line I had markedout--do you think we should have been assured a happy life? Not a bitof it. We might have been happy for twenty years. And then--women arewomen and can't help themselves--the old word--by George, sir, she spatit at me from a festering sore in her very soul--the old word wouldhave rankled all the time, and some stupid quarrel having arisen, shewould have spat it at me again. I wasn't taking any chances of thatkind. "

"My dear boy, " said I, subridently, "you seem to be very wise. " And hedid. So far as I knew anything about humans, male and female, hisproposition was incontrovertible. "But where did you gather yourwisdom?"

"I suppose, " he replied seriously, "that my mind is not entirelyunaffected by a very expensive education. "

I looked at the extraordinary figure in sheepskin, bundles and mud, andlaughed out loud. The hands of Esau and the voice of Jacob. The garb ofThomas Atkins and the voice of Balliol. Still, as I say, the fellow wasperfectly right. His highly trained intelligence had led him to anexact conclusion. The festering sore demanded drastic treatment, --thesurgeon's knife. As we talked I saw how coldly his brain had worked. And side by side with that working I saw, to my amusement, theinsistent claims of his vanity. The quickest way to the front, wherealone he could re-establish his impugned honour was by enlistment inthe regular army. For the first time in his life he took a grip onessentials. He knew that by going straight into the heart of the oldarmy his brains, provided they remained in his head, would enable himto accomplish his purpose. As for his choice of regiment, there hisvanity guided. You may remember that after his disappearance we firstheard of him at Aberdeen. Now Aberdeen is the depot of the GordonHighlanders. 

"What on earth made you go there?" I asked. 

"I wanted to get among a crowd where I wasn't known, and wasn't everlikely to be known, " he replied. "And my instinct was right. I wasamong farmers from Skye and butchers from Inverness and drunkenscallywags from the slums of Aberdeen, and a leaven of old soldiersfrom all over Scotland. I had no idea that such people existed. Atfirst I thought I shouldn't be able to stick it. They gave me a badtime for being an Englishman. But soon, I think, they rather liked me. I set my brains to work and made 'em like me. I knew there waseverything to learn about these fellows and I went scientifically towork to learn it. And, by Heaven, sir, when once they accepted me, Ifound I had never been in such splendid company in my life. "

"My dear boy, " I cried in a burst of enthusiasm, "have you hadbreakfast?"

"Of course I have. At the Union Jack Club--the Tommies' place the otherside of the river--bacon and eggs and sausages. I thought I'd neverstop eating. "

"Have some more?"

He laughed. "Couldn't think of it. "

"Then, " said I, "get yourself a cigar. " I pointed to a stack of boxes. "You'll find the Corona--Coronas the best. "

As I am not a millionaire I don't offer these Coronas to everybody. Imyself can only afford to smoke one or two a week. 

When he had lit it he said: "I was led away from what I wanted to tellyou, --my going to Aberdeen and plunging into the obscurity of aScottish regiment. I was absolutely determined that none of my friends, none of you good people, should know what an ass I had made of myself. That's why I kept it from my mother. She would have blabbed it all overthe place. "

"But, my good fellow, " said I, "why the dickens shouldn't we haveknown?"

"That I was making an ass of myself?"

"No, you young idiot!" I cried. "That you were making a man ofyourself. "

"I preferred to wait, " said he, coolly, "until I had a reasonablecertainty that I had achieved that consummation--or, rather, somethingthat might stand for it in the prejudiced eyes of my dear friends. Iknew that you all, ultimately, you and mother and Phyllis, would judgeby results. Well, here they are. I've lived the life of a Tommy for tenmonths. I've been five in the thick of it over there. I've refusedstripes over and over again. I've got my D. C. M. I've got my commissionthrough the ranks, practically on the field. And of the draft of twohundred who went out with me only one other and myself remain. "

"It's a splendid record, my boy, " said I. 

He rose. "Don't misunderstand me, Major. I'm not bragging. God forbid. I'm only wanting to explain why I kept dark all the time, and why I'mspringing smugly and complacently on you now. "

"I quite understand, " said I. 

"In that case, " he laughed, "I can proceed on my rounds. " But he didnot proceed. He lingered. "There's another matter I should like tomention, " he said. "In her last letter my mother told me that the Mayorand Town Council were on the point of giving a civic reception toColonel Boyce. Has it taken place yet?"

"Yes, " said I. "And did it go off all right?"

In spite of wisdom learned at Balliol and shell craters, he was stillan ingenuous youth. 

"Gedge was perfectly quiet, " I answered. 

He started, as he had for months learned not to start, and into hiseyes sprang an alarm that was usually foreign to them. 

"Gedge? How do you know anything about Gedge and Colonel Boyce? GoodLord! He hasn't been spreading that poisonous stuff over the town?"

"That's what you were afraid of when you asked about the reception?"

"Of course, " said he. 

"And you wanted to have your mind clear on the point beforeinterviewing Phyllis. "

"You're quite right, sir, " he replied, a bit shamefacedly. "But if hehasn't been spreading it, how do you know? And, " he looked at mesharply, "what do you know?"

"You gave your word of honour not to repeat what Gedge told you. Ithink you may be absolved of your promise. Gedge came to Sir Anthonyand myself with a lying story about the death of Althea Fenimore. "

"Yes, " said he. "That was it. "

"Sit down for another minute or two, " said I, "and let us comparenotes. "

He obeyed. We compared notes. I found that in most essentials the twostories were identical, although Gedge had been maudlin drunk when headmitted Randall into his confidence. 

"But in pitching you his yarn, " cried Randall, "he left out theblackmail. He bragged in his beastly way that Colonel Boyce was worth athousand a year to him. All he had to live upon now that theblood-suckers had ruined his business. Then he began to weep andslobber--he was a disgusting sight--and he said he would give it all upand beg with his daughter in the streets as soon as he had anopportunity of unmasking 'that shocking wicked fellow. '"

"What did you say then?" I asked. 

"I told him if ever I heard of him spreading such infernal lies abroad, I'd wring his neck. "

"Very good, my boy, " said I. "That's practically what Sir Anthony toldhim. "

"Sir Anthony doesn't believe there's any truth in it?"

"Sir Anthony, " said I, boldly, "knows there's not a particle of truthin it. The man's malignancy has taken the form of a fixed idea. He'scrack-brained. Between us we put the fear of God into him, and I don'tthink he'll give any more trouble. "

Randall got to his feet again. "I'm very much relieved to hear you sayso. I must confess I've been horribly uneasy about the whole thing. " Hedrew a deep breath. "Thank goodness I can go to Phyllis, as you say, with a clear mind. The last time I saw her I was half crazy. "

He held out his hand, a dirty, knubbly, ragged-nailed hand--the handthat was once so irritatingly manicured. 

"Good-bye, Major. You won't shut the door on me now, will you?"

I wrung his hand hard and bade him not be silly, and, looking up athim, said:

"What was the other thing quite different you were intending to dobefore you, let us say, quarreled with Phyllis?"

He hesitated, his forehead knit in a little web of perplexity. 

"Whatever it was, " I continued, "let us have it. I'm your oldestfriend, a sort of father. Be frank with me and you won't regret it. Thesplendid work you've done has wiped out everything. "

"I'm afraid it has, " said he ruefully. "Wiped it out clean. " With ahitch of the shoulders he settled his pack more comfortably. "Well, I'll tell you, Major. I thought I had brains. I still think I have. Iwas on the point of getting a job in the Secret Service--IntelligenceDepartment. I had the whole thing cut and dried--to get at theramifications of German espionage in socialistic and so-calledintellectual circles in neutral and other countries. It would have beenticklish work, for I should have been carrying my life in my hands. Icould have done it well. I started out by being a sort of'intellectual' myself. All along I wanted to put my brains at theservice of my country. I took some time to hit upon the real way. I hitupon it. I learned lots of things from Gedge. If he weren't an arrantcoward, he might be dangerous. He would be taking German money longago, but that he's frightened to death of it. " He laughed. "It neveroccurred to you, I suppose, a year ago, " he continued, "that I spentmost of my days in London working like a horse. "

"But, " I cried--I felt myself flushing purple--and, when I flushpurple, the unregenerate old soldier in me uses language of acorresponding hue--"But, " I cried--and in this language I asked him whyhe had told me nothing about it. 

"The essence of the Secret Service, sir, " replied this maddening youngman, "is--well--secrecy. "

"You had a billet offered to you, of the kind you describe?"

"The offer reached me, very much belated, one day when I was half dead, after having performed some humiliating fatigue duty. I think I hadpersisted in trying to scratch an itching back on parade. Militarydiscipline, I need not tell you, Major, doesn't take into account thesensitiveness of a recruit's back. It flatly denies such a phenomenon. Now I think I can defy anything in God's quaint universe to make meitch. But that's by the way. I tore the letter up and never answeredit. You do these things, sir, when the whole universe seems to be astumbling-block and an offence. Phyllis was the stumbling-block and therest of the cosmos was the other thing. That's why I have reason on myside when I say that, all through Phyllis Gedge, I made an ass ofmyself. "

He clutched his rude coat with both hands. "An ass in sheep's clothing. "

He drew himself up, saluted, and marched out. 

He marched out, the young scoundrel, with all the honours of war. 

CHAPTER XXII

So, in drawing a bow at a venture, I had hit the mark. You may rememberthat I had rapped out the word "blackmail" at Gedge; now Randalljustified the charge. Boyce was worth a thousand a year to him. Themore I speculated on the danger that might arise from Gedge, the easierI grew in my mind. Your blackmailer is a notorious saver of his skin. Gedge had no desire to bring Boyce to justice and thereby incriminatehimself. His visit to Sir Anthony was actuated by sheer malignity. Without doubt, he counted on his story being believed. But he knewenough of the hated and envied aristocracy to feel assured that SirAnthony would not subject his beloved dead to such ghastly disintermentas a public denunciation of Boyce would necessitate. He desired tothrow an asphyxiating bomb into the midst of our private circle. Hereckoned on the Mayor taking some action that would stop the receptionand thereby put a public affront on Boyce. Sir Anthony's violentindignation and perhaps my appearance of cold incredulity upset hiscalculations. He went out of the room a defeated man, with the secretload (as I knew now) of blackmail on his shoulders. 

I snapped my fingers at Gedge. Randall seemed to do the same, undesirable father-in-law IN PROSPECTU as he was. But that was entirelyRandall's affair. The stomach that he had for fighting with Germanswould stand him in good stead against Gedge, especially as he hadformed so contemptuous an estimate of the latter's valour. 

I emerged again into my little world. I saw most of my friends. Phyllislay in wait for me at the hospital, radiant and blushing, ostensibly tocongratulate me on recovery from my illness, really (little baggage!)to hear from my lips a word or two in praise of Randall. Apparently hehad come, in his warrior garb, seen, and conquered on the spot. I sawMrs. Holmes, who, gladdened by the Distinguished Conduct Medallist'sreturn, had wiped from her memory his abominably unfilial behaviour. Isaw Betty and I saw Boyce. 

Now here I come to a point in this chronicle where I am faced by anappalling difficulty. Hitherto I have striven to tell you no more aboutmyself and my motives and feelings than was demanded by my purpose ofunfolding to you the lives of others. Primarily I wanted to explainLeonard Boyce. I could only do it by showing you how he reacted onmyself--myself being an unimportant and uninteresting person. It wasall very well when I could stand aside and dispassionately analyse suchreactions. The same with regard to my dear Betty. But now if I adoptedthe same method of telling you the story of Betty and the story ofBoyce--the method of reaction, so to speak--I should be merely whininginto your ears the dolorous tale of Duncan Meredyth, paralytic andidiot. 

The deuce of it is that, for a long time, nothing particular ordefinite happened. So how can I describe to you a very important periodin the lives of Betty and Boyce and me?

I had to resume my intimacy with Boyce. The blind and lonely man cravedit and claimed it. It would be an unmeaning pretence of modesty tounder-estimate the value to him of my friendship. He was a man ofintense feelings. Torture had closed his heart to the troops of friendsthat so distinguished a soldier might have had. He granted admittancebut to three, his mother, Betty and--for some unaccountablereason--myself. On us he concentrated all the strength of hisaffection. Mind you, it was not a case of a maimed creature clingingfor support to those who cared for him. In his intercourse with me, henever for a moment suggested that he was seeking help or solace in hisaffliction. On the contrary, he ruled it out of the conditions ofsocial life. He was as brave as you please. In his laughing scorn ofblindness he was the bravest man I have ever known. He learned theconfidence of the blind with marvellous facility. His path throughdarkness was a triumphant march. 

Sometimes, when he re-fought old battles and planned new ones, forecastthe strategy of the Great Advance, word-painted scenes and places, drewcharacter sketches of great leaders and quaint men, I forgot thetragedy of Althea Fenimore. And when the memory came swiftly back, Iwondered whether, after all, Gedge's story from first to last had notbeen a malevolent invention. The man seemed so happy. Of course youwill say it was my duty to give a hint of Gedge's revelation. It was. To my shame, I shirked it. I could not find it in my heart suddenly todash into his happiness. I awaited an opportunity, a change of mood inhim, an allusion to confidences of which I alone of human beings hadbeen the recipient. 

Betty visited me as usual. We talked war and hospital and local gossipfor a while and then she seemed to take refuge at the piano. We had onered-letter day, when a sailor cousin of hers, fresh from the North Sea, came to luncheon and told us wonders of the Navy which we had barelyimagined and did not dare to hope for. His tidings gave subject formany a talk. 

I knew that she was seeing Boyce constantly. The former acquaintance ofthe elders of the two houses flamed into sudden friendship. From aremark artlessly let fall by Mrs. Boyce, I gathered that the old ladieswere deliberately contriving such meetings. Boyce and Betty referred toeach other rarely and casually, but enough to show me that the old feudwas at an end. And of what save one thing could the end of a feudbetween lovers be the beginning? What did she know? Knowing all, howcould she be drawn back under the man's fascination? The questionmaddened me. I suffered terribly. 

At last, one evening, I could bear it no longer. She was playingChopin. The music grated on me. I called out to her:

"Betty!"

She broke off and turned round, with a smile of surprise. Again she waswearing the old black evening dress, in which I have told you shelooked so beautiful. 

"No more music, dear. Come and talk to me. "

She crossed the room with her free step and sat near my chair. 

"What shall I talk about?" she laughed. 

"Leonard Boyce. "

The laughter left her face and she gave me a swift glance. 

"Majy dear, I'd rather not, " she said with a little air of finality. 

"I know that, " said I. "I also know that in your eyes I am committingan unwarrantable impertinence. "

"Not at all, " she replied politely. "You have the right to talk to mefor my good. It's impertinence in me not to wish to hear it. "

"Betty dear, " said I, "will you tell me what was the cause of yourestrangement?"

She stiffened. "No one has the right to ask me that. "

"A man who loves you very, very dearly, " said I, "will claim it. Wasthe cause Althea Fenimore?"

She looked at me almost in frightened amazement. 

"Is that mere guesswork?"

"No, dear, " said I quietly. 

"I thought no one knew--except one person. I was not even sure thatLeonard Boyce was aware that I knew. "

Another bow at a venture. "That one person is Gedge. "

"You're right. I suppose he has been talking, " she said, greatlyagitated. "He has been putting it about all over the place. I've beendreading it. " Then she sprang to her feet and drew herself up andsnapped her fingers in an heroical way. "And if he has said that AltheaFenimore drowned herself for love of Leonard Boyce, what is there init? After all, what has Leonard Boyce done that he can't be forgiven?Men are men and women are women. We've tried for tens of thousands ofyears to lay down hard and fast lines for the sexes to walk upon, andwe've failed miserably. Suppose Leonard Boyce did make love to AltheaFenimore--trifle with her affections, in the old-fashioned phrase. Whatthen? I'm greatly to blame. It has only lately been brought home to me. Instead of staying here while we were engaged, I would have my lastfling as an emancipated young woman in London. He consoled himself withAlthea. When she found he meant nothing, she threw herself into thecanal. It was dreadful. It was tragic. He went away and broke with me. I didn't discover the reason till months afterwards. She drownedherself for love of him, it's true. But what was his share in it thathe can't be forgiven for? Millions of men have been forgiven by womenfor passing loves. Why not he? Why not a tremendous man like him? A manwho has paid every penalty for wrong, if wrong there was? Blind!"

She walked about and threw up her hands and halted in front of mychair. "I'll own that until lately I accused him of unforgivablesin--deceiving me and making love to another girl and driving her tosuicide. I tore him out of my heart and married Willie. We won't speakof that . .. . But since he has come back, things seem different. Hismother has told me that one day when he was asleep she found he wasstill wearing his identification disc . .. There was an old fadedphotograph of me on the other side . .. It had been there all throughthe war . .. . You see, " she added, after a pause during which herheaving bosom and quivering lip made her maddeningly lovely, "I don'tcare a brass button for anything that Gedge may say. "

And that was all my clean-souled Betty knew about it! She had no ideaof deeper faithlessness; no suspicion of Boyce's presence with Altheaon the bank of the canal. She stood pathetic in her half knowledge. Myheart ached. 

From her pure woman's point of view she had been justified in herdenunciation of Boyce. He had left her without a word. A wall ofsilence came between them. Then she learned the reason. He had trifledwith a young girl's affections and out of despair she had drownedherself . .. . But how had she learned? I had to question her. And it wasthen that she told me the story of Phyllis and her father to which Ihave made previous allusion: how Phyllis, as her father's secretary, had opened a letter which had frightened her; how her father's craftyface had frightened her still more; how she had run to Betty for theeasing of her heart. And this letter was from Leonard Boyce. "I cannotafford one penny more, " so the letter ran, according to Betty'srecollection of Phyllis's recollection, "but if you remain loyal to ouragreement, you will not regret it. If ever I hear of your coupling myname with that of Miss Fenimore, I'll kill you. I am a man of my word. "I think Betty crystallised Phyllis's looser statement. But the exactwording was immaterial. Here was Boyce branding himself with complicityin the tragedy of Althea, and paying Gedge to keep it dark. Like SirAnthony, Betty remembered trivial things that assumed gravesignificance. There was no room for doubt. Catastrophe following on hisvillainy had kept Boyce away from Wellingsford, had terrified him outof his engagement. And so her heart had grown bitter against him. Youmay ask why her knowledge of the world had not led her to suspectblacker wrong; for a man does not pay blackmail because he has led aromantic girl into a wrong notion of the extent of his affection. Myonly answer is that Betty was Betty, clean-hearted and clean-souledlike the young Artemis she resembled. 

And now she proclaimed that he had expiated his offence. She proclaimedher renewed and passionate interest in the man. I saw that deep down inher heart she had always loved him. 

After telling me about Phyllis, she returned to the point where she hadbroken off. She supposed that Gedge had been talking all over the place. 

"I don't think so, dear, " said I. "So far as I know he has only spoken, first to Randall Holmes--that was what made him break away from Gedge, whose society he had been cultivating for other reasons than those Iimagined (you remember telling me Phyllis's sorrowful little tale lastyear?). " She nodded. "And secondly to Sir Anthony and myself, a fewhours before the Reception. "

She clenched her fists and broke out again. "The devil! The incarnatedevil! And Sir Anthony?"

"Pretended to treat Gedge's story as a lie, threw into the fire withoutreading it an incriminating letter--possibly the letter that Phyllissaw, ordered Gedge out of the house and, like a great gentleman, wentthrough the ceremony. "

"Does Leonard know?"

"Not that I'm aware of, " said I. 

"He must be told. It's terrible to have an enemy waiting to stab you inthe dark--and you blind to boot. Why haven't you told him?"

Why? Why? Why?

It was so hard to keep to the lower key of her conception of things. Imade a little gesture signifying I know not what: that it was not mybusiness, that I was not on sufficient terms of intimacy with Boyce, that it didn't seem important enough . .. . My helpless shrug suggested, I suppose, all of these excuses. Why hadn't I warned him? Cowardice, Isuppose. 

"Either you or I must do it, " she went on. "You're his friend. Hethinks more of you than of any other man in the world. And he's right, dear--" she flashed me a proud glance, sweet and stabbing--"Don't Iknow it?"

Then suddenly a new idea seemed to pass through her brain. She bentforward and touched the light shawl covering my knees. 

"For the last month or two you've known what he has done. It hasn'tmade any difference in your friendship. You must think with me that thepast is past, that he has purged his sins, or whatever you like to callthem; that he is a man greatly to be forgiven. "

"Yes, dear, " said I, with a show of bravery, though I dreaded lest myvoice should break, "I think he is a man to be forgiven. "

Her logic was remorseless. 

With her frank grace she threw herself, in her old attitude, by theside of my chair. 

"I'm so glad we have had this talk, Majy darling. It has madeeverything between us so clear and beautiful. It is always such a griefto me to think you may not understand. I shall always be the littlegirl that looked upon you as a wonderful hero and divine dispenser ofchocolates. Only now the chocolates stand for love and forbearance andsympathy, and all kinds of spiritual goodies. "

I passed my hand over her hair. "Silly child!"

"I got it into my head, " she continued, "that you were blaming mefor--for my reconciliation with Leonard. But, my dear, my dear, whatwoman's heart wouldn't be turned to water at the sight of him? It makesme so happy that you understand. I can't tell you how happy. "

"Are you going to marry him?" I think my voice was steady and kindenough. 

"Possibly. Some day. If he asks me. "

I still stroked her hair. "I wouldn't let it be too soon, " said I. 

Her eyes were downcast. "On account of Willie?" she murmured. 

"No, dear. I don't dare touch on that side of things. "

Again a whisper. "Why, then?"

How could I tell her why without betrayal of Boyce? I had to turn thequestion playfully. I said, "What should I do without my Betty?"

"Do you really care about me so much?"

I laughed. There are times when one has to laugh--or overwhelm oneselfin dishonour. 

"Now you see my nature in all its vile egotism, " said I, and thestatement led to a pretty quarrel. 

But after it was over to our joint satisfaction, she had to return tothe distressful main theme of our talk. She harked back to Sir Anthony, touched on his splendid behaviour, recalled, with a little dismay, thehitherto unnoted fact that, after the ceremony he had held himselfaloof from those that thronged round Boyce. Then, without hint from me, she perceived the significance of the Fenimores' retirement fromWellingsford. 

"Leonard's ignorance, " she said, "leaves him in a frightful position. More than ever he ought to know. "

"He ought, indeed, my dear, " said I. "And I will tell him. I ought tohave done so before. "

I gave my undertaking. I went to bed upbraiding myself for cowardiceand resolved to go to Boyce the next day. Not only Fate, but honour anddecency forced me to the detested task. 

Alas! Next morning I was nailed to my bed by my abominable malady. Theattacks had become more frequent of late. Cliffe administeredrestoratives and for the first time he lost his smile and lookedworried. You see until quite lately I had had a very tranquil life, deeply interested in other folks' joys and sorrows, but moved by veryfew of my own. And now there had swooped down on me this ravening packof emotions which were tearing me to pieces. I lay for a couple of daystortured by physical pain, humiliation and mental anguish. 

On the evening of the second day, Marigold came into the bedroom with apuzzled look on his face. 

"Colonel Boyce is here, sir. I told him you were in bed and seeingnobody, but he says he wants to see you on something important. I askedhim whether it couldn't wait till to-morrow, and he said that if Iwould give you a password, Vilboek's Farm, you'd be sure to see him. "

"Quite right, Marigold, " said I. "Show him in. "

Vilboek's Farm! Fate had driven him to me, instead of me to him. Iwould see him though it killed me, and get the horrible business overfor ever. 

Marigold led him in and drew up a chair for him by the bedside. Afterpulling on the lights and drawing the curtains, for the warm Mayevening was drawing to a close. 

"Anything more, sir, for the present?" he asked. 

"Could I have materials for a whisky and soda to hand?" said Boyce. 

"Of course, " said I. 

Marigold departed. Boyce said:

"If you're too ill to stand me, send me away. But if you can stand me, for God's sake let me talk to you. "

"Talk as much as you like, " said I. "This is only one of my stupidattacks which a man without legs has to put up with. "

"But Marigold--"

"Marigold's an old hen, " said I. 

"Are you sure you're well enough? That's the curse of not being able tosee. Tell me frankly. "

"I'm quite sure, " said I. 

I have never been able to get over the curious embarrassment of talkingto a man whose eyes I cannot see. The black spectacles seemed to belike a wall behind which the man hid his thoughts. I watched his lips. Once or twice the odd little twitch had appeared at the corners. 

Even with his baffling black spectacles he looked a gallant figure of aman. He was precisely dressed in perfectly fitting dinner jacket andneat black tie; well-groomed from the points of his patent leathershoes to his trim crisp brown hair. And beneath this scrupulousness ofattire lay the suggestion of great strength. 

Marigold brought in the tray with decanter, siphon and glasses, and putthem on a table, together with cigars and cigarettes, by his side. After a few deft touches, so as to identify the objects, Boyce smiledand nodded at Marigold. 

"Thanks very much, Sergeant, " he said. 

If there is one thing Marigold loves, it is to be addressed as"Sergeant. " "Marigold" might indicate a butler, but "Sergeant" means asergeant. 

"Perhaps I might fetch the Colonel a more comfortable chair, sir, " saidhe. 

But Boyce laughed, "No, no!" and Marigold left us. 

Boyce's ear listened for the click of the door. Then he turned to me. 

"I was rather mean in sending you in that password. But I felt as if Ishould go mad if I didn't see you. You're the only man living whoreally knows about me. You're the only human being who can give me ahelping hand. It's strange, old man--the halt leading the blind. But soit is. And Vilboek's Farm is the damned essence of the matter. I'vecome to you to ask you, for the love of God, to tell me what I am todo. "

I guessed what had happened. "Betty Connor has told you something thatI was to tell you. "

"Yes, " said he. "This afternoon. And in her splendid way she offered tomarry me. "

"What did you say?"

"I said that I would give her my answer to-morrow. "

"And what will that answer be?"

"It is for you to tell me, " said Boyce. 

"In order to undertake such a terrible responsibility, " said I, "I mustknow the whole truth concerning Althea Fenimore. "

"I've come here to tell it to you, " said he. 

CHAPTER XXIII

It was to a priest rather than to a man that he made full confession ofhis grievous sin. He did not attempt to mitigate it or to throw uponanother a share of the blame. From that attitude he did not vary ahair's breadth. Mea culpa; mea maxima culpa. That was the burthen ofhis avowal. 

I, knowing the strange mingling in his nature of brutality andsensitiveness, of animal and spiritual, and knowing something of theunstable character of Althea Fenimore, may more justly, I think, thanhe, sketch out the miserable prologue of the drama. That she was madly, recklessly in love with him there can be no doubt. Nor can there bedoubt that unconsciously she fired the passion in him. The deliberate, cold-blooded seducer of his friend's daughter, such as Boyce, in hisconfession, made himself out to be, is a rare phenomenon. Almostinvariably it is the woman who tempts--tempts innocently andunknowingly, without intent to allure, still less with thought ofwrong--but tempts all the same by the attraction which she cannotconceal, by the soft promise which she cannot keep out of her eyes. 

That was the beginning of it. Betty, whom he loved, and to whom he wasengaged, was away from Wellingsford. In those days she was very muchthe young Diana, walking in search of chaste adventures, quitecontented with the love that lay serenely warm in her heart andthinking little of a passionate man's needs--perhaps starting away fromtoo violent an expression of them--perhaps prohibiting them altogether. The psychology of the pre-war young girl absorbed, even thoughintellectually and for curiosity's sake, in the feminist movement, isyet to be studied. Betty, then, was away. Althea, beata possidens, madeher artless, innocent appeal for victory. Unconsciously she tempted. The man yielded. A touch of the lips in a moment of folly, the manblazed, the woman helpless was consumed. This happened in January, justbefore Althea's supposed visit to Scotland. Boyce was due at a CountryHouse party near Carlisle. In the first flush of their madness theyagreed upon the wretched plan. She took rooms in the town and hevisited her there. Whether he or she conceived it, I do not know. If Icould judge coldly I should say that it was of feminine inspiration. Aman, particularly one of Boyce's temperament, who was eager for thepossession of a passionately loved woman, would have carried her off toa little Eden of their own. A calm consideration of the facts leads tothe suggestion of a half-hearted acquiescence on the part of anentangled man in the romantic scheme of an inexperienced girl to whomhe had suddenly become all in all. 

Such is my plea in extenuation of Boyce's conduct (if plea there canbe), seeing that he raised not a shadow of one of his own. You may saythat my plea is no excuse for his betrayal; that no man, even if he istempted, can be pardoned for non-control of his passions. But I amasking for no pardon; I am trying to obtain your understanding. Remember what I have told you about Boyce, his great bull-neck, hisblood-sodden life-preserver, the physical repulsion I felt when hecarried me in his arms. In such men the animal instinct is stronger attimes than the trained will. Whether you give him a measure of yoursympathy or not, at any rate do not believe that his short-livedliaison with Althea was a matter of deliberate and dastardly seduction. Nor must you think that I am setting down anything in disparagement ofa child whom I once loved. Long ago I touched lightly on the anomaly ofAlthea's character--her mid-Victorian sentimentality and softness, combined with her modern spirit of independence. A fatal anomaly; aperilous balance of qualities. Once the soft sentimentality was warmedinto romantic passion, the modern spirit led it recklessly to a modernconclusion. 

The liaison was short-lived. The man was remorseful. He loved anotherwoman. Very quickly did the poor girl awaken from her dream. 

"I was cruel, " said Boyce, fixing me with those awful black spectacles, "I know it. I ought to have married her. But if I had married her, Ishould have been more cruel. I should have hated her. It would havebeen an impossible life for both of us. One day I had to tell her so. Not brutally. In a normal state I think I am as kind-hearted and gentleas most men. And I couldn't be brutal, feeling an unutterable cur andcraving her forgiveness. But I wanted Betty and I swore that only onething should keep me from her. "

"One thing?" I asked. 

"The thing that didn't happen, " said he. 

And so it seemed that Althea accepted the inevitable. The placid, fatalistic side of her nature asserted itself. Pride, too, helped herinstinctive feminine secretiveness. She lived for months in herfather's house without giving those that were dear to her any occasionfor suspicion. In order to preserve the secrecy Boyce was bound tocontinue his visits to Wellings Park. Now and then, when they metalone, she upbraided him bitterly. On the whole, however, he concludedthat they had agreed to bury an ugly chapter in their lives. 

Yes, it was an ugly chapter. From such you cannot get away, bury it, asyou will, never so deep. 

"And all the time remember, " he said, "that I was mad for Betty. Themore shy she was, the madder I grew. I could not rest in Wellingsfordwithout her. When she came here, I came. When she went to town, I wentto town. She was as elusive as a dream. Finally I pinned her down to adate for our marriage in August. It was the last time I saw her. Shewent away to stay with friends. That was the beginning of June. She wasto be away two months. I knew, if I had clamoured, she would have madeit three. It was the shyness of the exquisite bird in her thatfascinated me. I could never touch Betty in those days without dreadinglest I might soil her feathers. You may laugh at a hulking brute likeme saying such things, but that's the way I saw Betty, that's the way Ifelt towards her. I could no more have taken her into my bear's hug andkissed her roughly than I could have smashed a child down with my fist. And yet--My God, man! how I ached for her!"

Long as I had loved Betty in a fatherly way, deeply as I loved her now, the man's unexpected picture of her was a revelation. You see it wasonly after her marriage, when she had softened and grown a woman andcome so near me that I felt the great comfort of her presence when shewas by, the need of it when she was away. How could I have knownanything of the elusiveness in her maidenhood before which he knelt soreverently?

That he so knelt is the keynote of the man's soul untainted by theflesh. 

It made clear to me the tenderness that lay beneath that which wasbrutal; the reason of that personal charm which had captivated meagainst my will; his defencelessness against the Furies. 

So far the narrative has reached the latter part of June. He had spentthe month with his mother. As Betty had ordained that July should beblank, a month during which the moon should know no changes but onlythe crescent of Diana should shine supreme in the heavens, he had madehis mundane arrangements for his fishing excursion to Norway. On theafternoon of the 23rd he paid a farewell call at Wellings Park. Althea, in the final settlement of their relations, had laid it down as adefinite condition that he should maintain his usual social intercoursewith the family. A few young people were playing tennis. Tea was servedon the lawn near by the court. Althea gave no sign of agitation. Sheplayed her game, laughed with her young men, and took casual leave ofBoyce, wishing him good sport. He drew her a pace aside and murmured:"God bless you for forgiving me. "

She laughed a reply out loud: "Oh, that's all right. "

When he told me that, I recalled vividly the picture of her, in mygarden, on the last afternoon of her life, eating the strawberrieswhich she had brought me for tea. I remembered the little slangy tonein her voice when she had asked me whether I didn't think life wasrather rotten. That was the tone in which she had said to him, "Oh, that's all right. "

During the early afternoon on the 25th, she rang him up on thetelephone. Chance willed that he should receive the call at first hand. She must see him before he left Wellingsford. She had something of theutmost importance to tell him. A matter of life and death. With oneawful thought in his mind, he placed his time at her disposal. For whatromantic, desperate or tragic reason she appointed the night meeting atthe end of the chestnut avenue where the towing-path turns into regionsof desolate quietude, he could not tell. He agreed without argument, dreading the possible lack of privacy in their talk over the wires. 

On that afternoon she came to me, as I have told you, with herstrawberries and her declaration of the rottenness of life. 

They met and walked along the towing-path. It was bright moonlight, butshe could not have chosen a lonelier spot, more free from curious eyesor ears. And then took place a scene which it is beyond my power todescribe. I can only picture it to myself from Boyce's broken, self-accusing talk. He was going away. She would never see him againuntil he returned to marry another woman. She was making her lastfrantic bid for happiness. She wept and sobbed and cajoled andupbraided--You know what women at the end of their tether can do. Hestrove to pacify her by the old arguments which hitherto she hadaccepted. Suddenly she cried: "If you don't marry me I am disgraced forever. " And this brought them to a dead halt. 

When he came to this point I remembered the diabolical accuracy ofGedge's story. 

Boyce said: "There is one usual reason why a man should marry a womanto save her from disgrace. Is that the reason?"

She said "Yes. "

The light went out of the man's life. 

"In that case, " said he, "there can be no question about it. I willmarry you. But why didn't you tell me before?"

She said she did not know. She made the faltering excuses of the drivengirl. They walked on together and sat on the great bar of the lockgates. 

"Till then, " said he, "I had never known what it was to have death inmy heart. But I swear to God, Meredyth, I played my part like a man. Ihad done a dastardly thing. There was nothing left for me but to makereparation. In a few moments I tore my life asunder. The girl I hadwronged was to be the mother of my child. I accepted the situation. Iwas as kind to her as I could be. She laid her head on my shoulder andcried, and I put my arm around her. I felt my heart going out to her inremorse and pity and tenderness. A man must be a devil who could feelotherwise. .. . Our lives were bound up together. .. . I kissed her and sheclung to me. Then we talked for a while--ways and means. .. . It was timeto go back. We rose. And then--Meredyth--this is what she said:

"'You swear to marry me?'

"'I swear it, ' said I. 

"'In spite of anything?'

"I gave my promise. She put her arms round my neck. 

"'What I've told you is not wholly true. But the moral disgrace isthere all the time. '

"I took her wrists and disengaged myself and held her and looked at her. 

"'What do you mean--not wholly true?' I asked. 

"My God! I shall never forget it. " He stuck both his elbows on the bedand clutched his hair and turned his black glasses wide of me. "Thechild crumpled up. She seemed to shrivel like a leaf in the fire. Shesaid:

"'I've tried to lie to you, but I can't. I can't. Pity me and forgiveme. '

"I started back from her in a sudden fury. I could not forgive her. Think of the awful revulsion of feeling. Foolishly tricked! I was madwith anger. I walked away and left her. I must have walked ten orfifteen yards. Then I heard a splash in the water. I turned. She was nolonger on the bank. I ran up. I heard a cry. I just saw her sinking. AND I COULDN'T MOVE. As God hears me, it is true. I knew I must dive inand rescue her--I had run up with every impulse to do so; BUT I COULDNOT MOVE. I stood shivering with the paralysis of fear. Fear of thedeep black water, the steep brick sides of the canal that seemed tostretch away for ever--fear of death, I suppose that was it. I don'tknow. Fear irresistible, unconquerable, gripped me as it had gripped mebefore, as it has gripped me since. And she drowned before my eyeswhile I stood like a stone. "

There was an awful pause. He had told me the end of the tragedy soswiftly and in a voice so keyed to the terror of the scene, that I layhorror-stricken, unable to speak. He buried his face in his hands, andbetween the fleshy part of the palms I saw the muscles of his lipstwitch horribly. I remembered, with a shiver, how I had first seen themtwitch, in his mother's house, when he had made his strange, almostpassionate apology for fear. And he had all but described this veryincident: the reckless, hare-brained devil standing on the bank of ariver and letting a wounded comrade drown. I remember how he haddefined it: "the sudden thing that hits a man's heart and makes himstand stock-still like a living corpse--unable to move a muscle--allhis will-power out of gear--just as a motor is out of gear. .. . It is asmuch of a fit as epilepsy. "

The span of stillness was unbearable. The watch on the little table bymy bedside ticked maddeningly. Marigold put his head in at the door, apparently to warn me that it was getting late. I waved him imperiouslyaway. Boyce did not notice his entrance. Presently he raised his head. 

"I don't know how long I stood there. But I know that when I moved shewas long since past help. Suddenly there was a sharp crashing noise onthe road below. I looked round and saw no one. But it gave me ashock--and I ran. I ran like a madman. And I thought as I ran that, ifI were discovered, I should be hanged for murder. For who would believemy story? Who would believe it now?"

"I believe it, Boyce, " I said. 

"Yes. You. You know something of the hell my life has been. But whoelse? He had every motive for the crime, the lawyers would say. Theycould prove it. But, my God! what motive had I for sending all mygallant fellows to their deaths at Vilboek's Farm? . .. The two thingsare on all fours--and many other things with them. .. . My one sanethought through the horror of it all was to get home and into the houseunobserved. Then I came upon the man Gedge, who had spied on me. "

"I know about that, " said I, wishing to spare him from saying more thanwas necessary. "He told Fenimore and me about it. "

"What was his version?" he asked in a low tone. "I had better hear it. "

When I had told him, he shook his head. "He lied. He was saving hisskin. I was not such a fool, mad as I was, as to leave him like that. He had seen us together. He had seen me alone. To-morrow there would bediscovery. I offered him a thousand pounds to say nothing. He haggled. Oh! the ghastly business! Eventually I suggested that he should come upto London with me by the first train in the morning and discuss themoney. I was dreading lest someone should come along the avenue and seeme. He agreed. I think I drank a bottle of whisky that night. It keptme alive. We met in my chambers in London. I had sent my man up the daybefore to do some odds and ends for me. I made a clear breast of it toGedge. He believed the worst. I don't blame him. I bought his silencefor a thousand a year. I made arrangements for payment through mybankers. I went to Norway. But I went alone. I didn't fish. I put offthe two men I was to join. I spent over a month all by myself. I don'tthink I could tell you a thing about the place. I walked and walked allday until I was exhausted, and got sleep that way. I'm sure I was goingmad. I should have gone mad if it hadn't been for the war. I supposeI'm the only Englishman living or dead who whooped and danced withexultation when he heard of it. I think my brain must have been a bittouched, for I laughed and cried and jumped about in a pine-wood with aweek old newspaper in my hands. I came home. You know the rest. "

Yes, I knew the rest. The woman he had left to drown had been everbefore his eyes; the avenging Furies in pursuit. This was the torturein his soul that had led him to many a mad challenge of Death, whoalways scorned his defiance. Yes, I knew all that he could tell me. 

But we went on talking. There were a few points I wanted cleared up. Why should he have kept up a correspondence with Gedge?

"I only wrote one foolish angry letter, " he replied. 

And I told him how Sir Anthony had thrown it unread into the fire. Gedge's nocturnal waylaying of him in my front garden was anotherunsuccessful attempt to tighten the screw. Like Randall and myself, hehad no fear of Gedge. 

Of Sir Anthony he could not speak. He seemed to be crushed by theheroic achievement. It was the only phase of our interview duringwhich, by voice and manner and attitude, he appeared to me like abeaten man. His own bravery at the reception had gone for naught. Hewas overwhelmed by the hideous insolence of it. 

"I shall never get that man's voice out of my ears as long as I live, "he said hoarsely. 

After a while he added: "I wonder whether there is any rest orpurification for me this side of the grave. "

I said tentatively, for we had never discussed matters of religion: "Ifyou believe in Christ, you must believe in the promise regarding thesins that be as scarlet. "

But he turned it aside. "In the olden days, men like me turned monk andfound salvation in fasting and penance. The times in which we live havechanged and we with them, my friend. Nos mulamur in illis, as the taggoes. "

We went on talking--or rather he talked and I listened. Now and againhe would help himself to a drink or a cigarette, and I marvelled at theclear assurance with which he performed the various little operations. I, lying in bed, lost all sense of pain, almost of personality. Mylittle ailments, my little selfish love of Betty, my little humdrumlife itself dwindled insignificant before the tragic intensity of thisstrange, curse-ridden being. 

And all the tune we had not spoken of Betty--except the Betty of longago. It was I, finally, who gave him the lead. 

"And Betty?" said I. 

He held out his hand in a gesture that was almost piteous. 

"I could tear her from my life. I had no alternative. In the tearing Ihurt her cruelly. To know it was not the least of the burning hell Ilit for myself. But I couldn't tear her from my heart. When a brutebeast like me does love a woman purely and ideally, it's a desperatebusiness. It means God's Heaven to him, while it means only an earthlyparadise to the ordinary man. It clutches hold of the one bit ofimmortal soul he has left, and nothing in this world can make it letgo. That's why I say it's a desperate business. "

"Yes, I can understand, " said I. 

"I schooled myself to the loss of her. It was part of my punishment. But now she has come back into my life. Fate has willed it so. Does itmean that I am forgiven?"

"By whom?" I asked. "By God?"

"By whom else?"

"How dare man, " said I, "speak for the Almighty?"

"How is man to know?"

"That's a hard question, " said I. "I can only think of answering it bysaying that a man knows of God's forgiveness by the measure of thePeace of God in his soul. "

"There's none of it in mine, my dear chap, and never will be, " saidBoyce. 

I strove to help him. For what other purpose had he come to me?

"You think then that the sending of Betty is a sign and a promise? Yes. Perhaps it is. What then?"

"I must accept it as such, " said he. "If there is a God, He would notgive me back the woman I love, only to take her away again. What shallI do?"

"In what way?" I asked. 

"She offered to marry me. I am to give her my answer to-morrow. If Iwere the callous, murdering brute that everyone would have the right tobelieve I am, I shouldn't have hesitated. If I hadn't been a tortured, damned soul, " he cried, bringing his great fist down on the bed, "Ishouldn't have come here to ask you what my answer can be. My wholebeing is infected with horror. " He rose and stood over the bed and, with clenched hands, gesticulated to the wall in front of him. "I'mincapable of judging. I only know that I crave her with everything inme. I've got it in my brain that she's my soul's salvation. Is my brainright? I don't know. I come to you--a clean, sweet man who knowseverything--I don't think there's a crime on my conscience or afoulness in my nature which I haven't confessed to you. You can judgestraight as I can't. What answer shall I give to-morrow?"

Did ever man, in a case of conscience, have a greater responsibility?God forgive me if I solved it wrongly. At any rate, He knows that I wasuninfluenced by mean personal considerations. All my life I have triedto have an honourable gentleman and a Christian man. According to mylights I saw only one clear course. 

"Sit down, old man, " said I. "You're a bit too big for me like that. "He felt for his chair, sat down and leaned back. "You've done almosteverything, " I continued, "that a man can do in expiation of offences. But there is one thing more that you must do in order to find peace. You couldn't find peace if you married Betty and left her in ignorance. You must tell Betty everything--everything that you have told me. Otherwise you would still be hag-ridden. If she learned the horror ofthe thing afterwards, what would be your position? Acquit yourconscience now before God and a splendid woman, and I stake my faith ineach that neither will fail you. "

After a few minutes, during which the man's face was like a mask, hesaid:

"That's what I wanted to know. That's what I wanted to be sure of. Doyou mind ringing your bell for Marigold to take me away? I've kept youup abominably. " He rose and held out his hand and I had to direct himhow it could reach mine. When it did, he gripped it firmly. 

"It's impossible, " said he, "for you to realise what you've done for meto-night. You've made my way absolutely clear to me--for the first timefor two years. You're the truest comrade I've ever had, Meredyth. Godbless you. "

Marigold appeared, answering my summons, and led Boyce away. Presentlyhe returned. 

"Do you know what time it is, sir?" he asked serenely. 

"No, " said I. 

"It's half-past one. "

He busied himself with my arrangements for the night, and administeredwhat I learned afterwards was a double dose of a sleeping draught whichCliffe had prescribed for special occasions. I just remember surpriseat feeling so drowsy after the intense excitement of the evening, andthen I fell asleep. 

When I awoke in the morning I gathered my wits together and recalledwhat had taken place. Marigold entered on tiptoe and found me alreadyaroused. 

"I'm sorry to tell you, sir, " said he, "that an accident happened toColonel Boyce after he left last night. "

"An accident?"

"I suppose so, sir, " said Marigold. "That's what his chauffeur says. Hegot out of the car in order to sit by the side of the canal--by thelock gates. He fell in, sir. He's drowned. "

CHAPTER XXIV

It is Christmas morning, 1916, the third Christmas of the war. Thetragedy of Boyce's death happened six months ago. Since then I havebeen very ill. The shock, too great for my silly heart, nearly killedme. By all the rules of the game I ought to have died. But I suppose, like a brother officer long since defunct, also a Major, one JoeBagstock, I am devilish tough. Cliffe told me this morning that, apartfrom a direct hit by a 42-centimetre shell, he saw no reason, afterwhat I had gone through, why I should not live for another hundredyears. "I wash my hands of you, " said he. Which indeed is pleasanthearing. 

I don't mind dying a bit, if it is my Maker's pleasure; if it wouldserve any useful purpose; if it would help my country a myriadth partof a millimetre on towards victory. But if it would not matter to theworld any more than the demise of a daddy-long-legs, I prefer to live. In fact, I want to live. I have never wanted to live more in all mylife. I want to see this fight out. I want to see the Light that iscoming after the Darkness. For, by God! it will come. 

And I want to live, too, for personal and private reasons. If I couldregard myself merely as a helpless incumbrance, a useless jellyfish, absorbing for my maintenance human effort that should be beneficiallyexerted elsewhere, I think I should be the first to bid them take meout and bury me. But it is my wonderful privilege to look around andsee great and beautiful human souls coming to me for guidance andconsolation. Why this should be I do not rightly know. Perhaps my veryinfirmity has taught me many lessons. .. . 

You see, in the years past, my life was not without its lonelinesses. It was so natural for the lusty and joyous to disregard, through merethoughtlessness, the little weather-beaten cripple in his wheelchair. But when one of these sacrificed an hour's glad life in order to sit bythe dull chair in a corner, the cripple did not forget it. He learnedin its terrible intensity the meaning of human kindness. And, in hiscourse through the years, or as the years coursed by him, he realisedthat a pair of gollywog legs was not the worst disability which a humanbeing might suffer. There were gollywog hearts, brains, nerves, temperaments, destinies. 

Perhaps, in this way, he came to the knowledge that in every humanbeing lies the spark of immortal beauty, to be fanned into flame by onelittle rightly directed breath. At any rate, he learned to love hiskind. 

It is Christmas day. I am as happy as a man has a right to be in thesefierce times in England. Love is all around me. I must tell you littleby little. Various things have happened during the last six months. 

At the inquest on the body of Leonard Boyce, the jury gave a verdict ofdeath by misadventure. The story of the chauffeur, an old soldierservant devoted to Boyce, received implicit belief. He had faithfullycarried out his master's orders: to conduct him from the road, acrossthe field, and seat him on the boom of the lock gates, where he wantedto remain alone in order to enjoy the quiet of the night and listen tothe lap of the water; to return and fetch him in a quarter of an hour. This he did, dreaming of no danger. When he came back he realised whathad happened. His master had got up and fallen into the canal. What hadreally happened only a few of us knew. 

Well, I have told you the man's story. I am not his judge. Whether hisact was the supreme amende, the supreme act of courage or the supremeact of cowardice, it is not for me to say. I heard nothing of thematter for many weeks, for they took me off to a nursing home and keptme in the deathly stillness of a sepulchre. When I resumed my life inWellingsford I found smiling faces to welcome me. My first publicaction was to give away Phyllis Gedge in marriage to RandallHolmes--Randall Holmes in the decent kit of an officer and a gentleman. He made this proposition to me on the first evening of my return. "Thebride's father, " said I, somewhat ironically, "is surely the properperson. "

"The bride's father, " said he, "is miles away, and, like a wise andhoary villain, is likely to remain there. "

This was news. "Gedge has left Wellingsford?" I cried. "How did thatcome about?"

He stuck his hands on his hips and looked down on me pityingly. 

"I'm afraid, sir, " said he, "you'll never do adequate justice to myintelligence and my capacity for affairs. "

Then he laughed and I guessed what had occurred. My young friend musthave paid a stiff price; but Phyllis and peace were worth it; and Ihave said that Randall is a young man of fortune. 

"My dear boy, " said I, "if you have exorcised this devil of afather-in-law of yours out of Wellingsford, I'll do any mortal thingyou ask. "

I was almost ecstatic. For think what it meant to those whom I helddear. The man's evil menace was removed from the midst of us. The man'sevil voice was silenced. The tragic secrets of the canal would be kept. I looked up at my young friend. There was a grim humour around thecorners of his mouth and in his eyes the quiet masterfulness of thosewho have looked scornfully at death. I realised that he had reached asplendid manhood. I realised that Gedge had realised it too; woe be tohim if he played Randall false. I stuck out my hand. 

"Any mortal thing, " I repeated. 

He regarded me steadily. "Anything? Do you really mean it?"

"You dashed young idiot, " I cried, "do you think I'm in the habit oftalking through my hat?"

"Well, " said he, "will you look after Phyllis when I'm gone?"

"Gone? Gone where? Eternity?"

"No, no! I've only a fortnight's leave. Then I'm off. Wherever theysend me. Secret Service. You know. It's no use planking Phyllis in adug-out of her own"--shades of Oxford and the Albemarle Review!--"she'ddie of loneliness. And she'd die of culture in the mater's highbrowestablishment. Whereas, if you would take her in--give her a shake-downhere--she wouldn't give much trouble--"

He stammered as even the most audacious young warrior must do whenmaking so astounding a proposal. But I bade him not be an ass, but sendher along when he had to finish with her; with the result that for somemonths my pretty little Phyllis has been an inmate of my house. Marigold keeps a sort of non-commissioned parent's eye on her. To himshe seems to be still the child whom he fed solicitously butunemotionally with Mrs. Marigold's cakes at tea parties years ago. Shegives me a daughter's dainty affection. Thank God for it!

There have been other little changes in Wellingsford. Mrs. Boyce leftthe town soon after Leonard's death, and lives with her sister inLondon. I had a letter from her this morning--a brave woman's letter. She has no suspicion of the truth. God still tempereth the wind. .. . Outof the innocent generosity of her heart she sent me also, as akeepsake, "a little heavy cane, of which Leonard was extraordinarilyfond. " She will never know that I put it into the fire, and with whatstrange and solemn thoughts I watched it burn. 

It is Christmas Day. Dr. Cliffe, although he has washed his hands ofme, tyrannically keeps me indoors of winter nights, so that I cannot, as usual, dine at Wellings Park. To counter the fellow's machinations, however, I have prepared a modest feast to which I have bidden SirAnthony and Lady Fenimore and my dearest Betty. 

As to Betty--

Phyllis comes in radiant, her pretty face pink above an absurd panoplyof furs. She has had a long letter from Randall from the Lord knowswhere. He will be home on leave in the middle of January. In herexcitement she drops prayer-books and hymn-books all over me. Then, picking them up, reminds me it is time to go to church. I am anold-fashioned fogey and I go to church on Christmas Day. I hope ouradmirable and conscientious Vicar won't feel it his duty to tell us tolove Germans. I simply can't do it. 

New Year's Day, 1917. 

I must finish off this jumble of a chronicle. 

Before us lies the most eventful year in all the old world's history. Thank God my beloved England is strong, and Great Britain and our greatEmpire and immortal France. There is exhilaration in the air; aconsciousness of high ideals; an unwavering resolution to attain them;a thrilling faith in their ultimate attainment. No one has died or lostsight or limbs in vain. I look around my own little circle. OswaldFenimore, Willie Connor, Reggie Dacre, Leonard Boyce--how many morecould I not add to the list? All those little burial grounds inFrance--which France, with her exquisite sense of beauty, has assignedas British soil for all time--all those burial grounds, each bearingits modest leaden inscription--some, indeed, heart-rendingly inscribed"Sacred to the memory of six unknown British soldiers killed inaction"--are monuments not to be bedewed with tears of lamentation. From the young lives that have gone there springs imperishable love andstrength and wisdom--and the vast determination to use that love andstrength and wisdom for the great good of mankind. If there is a God ofBattles, guiding, in His inscrutable omniscience, the hosts that fightfor the eternal verities--for all that man in his straining towards theGodhead has striven for since the world began--the men who have diedwill come into their glory, and those who have mourned will shareexultant in the victory. From before the beginning of Time Mithra hasever been triumphant and his foot on the throat of Ahriman. 

It was in February, 1915, that I began to expand my diary into thisnarrative, --nearly two years ago. We have passed through the darkness. The Dawn is breaking. Sursum corda. 

I was going to tell you about Betty when Phyllis, with her furs andhappiness and hymn-books, interrupted me. I should like to tell younow. But who am I to speak of the mysteries in the soul of a greatwoman? But I must try. And I can tell you more now than I could onChristmas Day. 

Last night she insisted on seeing the New Year in with me. If I hadtold Marigold that I proposed to sit up after midnight, he would havecome in at ten o'clock, picked me up with finger and thumb as anyBrobdingnagian might have picked up Gulliver, and put me straightway tobed. But Betty made the announcement in her airily imperious way, andMarigold, craven before Betty and Mrs. Marigold, said "Very good, madam, " as if Dr. Cliffe and his orders had never existed. At half pastten she packed off the happy and, I must confess, the somewhat sleepyPhyllis, and sat down, in her old attitude by the side of my chair, infront of the fire, and opened her dear heart to me. 

I had guessed what her proud soul had suffered during the last sixmonths. One who loved her as I did could see it in her face, in hereyes, in the little hardening of her voice, in odd little betrayals offeverishness in her manner. But the outside world saw nothing. Thesteel in her nature carried her through. She left no dutyunaccomplished. She gave her confidence to no human being. I, to whomshe might have come, was carried off to the sepulchre above mentioned. Letters were forbidden. But every day, for all her bleak despair, Bettysent me a box of fresh flowers. They would not tell me it was Betty whosent them; but I knew. My wonderful Betty. 

When they took off my cerecloths and sent me back to Wellingsford, Betty was the first to smile her dear welcome. We resumed our oldrelations. But Betty, treating me as an invalid, forbore to speak ofLeonard Boyce. Any approach on my part came up against that iron wallof reserve of which I spoke to you long ago. 

But last night she told me all. What she said I cannot repeat. But shehad divined the essential secret of the double tragedy of the canal. Ithad become obvious to her that he had made the final reparation for awrong far deeper than she had imagined. She was very clear-eyed andclear-souled. During her long companionship with pain and sorrow anddeath, she had learned many things. She had been purged by the fire ofthe war of all resentments, jealousies, harsh judgments, and came forthpure gold. .. . Leonard had been the great love of her life. If youcannot see now why she married Willie Connor, gave him all that hergenerous heart could give, and after his death was irresistibly drawnback to Boyce, I have written these pages in vain. 

A few minutes before midnight Marigold entered with a tray bearing acake or two, a pint of champagne and a couple of glasses. While he waspreparing to uncork the bottle Betty slipped from the room and returnedwith another glass. 

"For Sergeant Marigold, " she said. 

She opened the French window behind the drawn curtains and listened. Itwas a still clear night. Presently the clock of the Parish Churchstruck twelve. She came down to the little table by my side and filledthe glasses, and the three of us drank the New Year in. Then Bettykissed me and we both shook hands with Marigold, who stood very stiffand determined and cleared his throat and swallowed something as thoughhe were expected to make a speech. But Betty anticipated him. She putboth her hands on his gaunt shoulders and looked up into his ugly face. 

"You've just wished me a Happy New Year, Sergeant. "

"I have, " said he, "and I mean it. "

"Then will you let me have great happiness in staying here and helpingyou to look after the Major?"

He gasped for a moment (as did I) and clutched her arms for an instantin an iron grip. 

"Indeed I will, my dear, " said he. 

Then he stepped back a pace and stood rigid, his one eye staring, hisweather-beaten face the colour of beetroot. He was blushing. The beadsof perspiration appeared below his awful wig. He stammered outsomething about "Ma'am" and "Madam. " He had never so far forgottenhimself in his life. 

But Betty sprang forward and gripped his hand. 

"It is you who are the dear, " she said. "You, the greatest and loyalestfriend a man has ever known. And I'll be loyal to you, never fear. "

By what process of enchantment she got an emotion-filled Marigold tothe door and shut it behind him, I shall never discover. On its slamshe laughed--a queer high note. In one swift movement she was by myknees. And she broke into a passion of tears. For me, I was the mostmystified man under heaven. 

Soon she began to speak, her head bowed. 

"I've come to the end of the tether, Majy dear. They've driven me fromthe hospital--I didn't know how to tell you before--I've been doing allsorts of idiotic things. The doctors say it's a nervous breakdown--I'vehad rather a bad time--but I thought it contemptible to let one's ownwretched little miseries interfere with one's work for the country--soI fought as hard as I could. Indeed I did, Majy dear. But it seems I'vebeen playing the fool without knowing it, --I haven't slept properly formonths--and they've sent me away. Oh, they've been all that's kind, ofcourse--I must have at least six months' rest, they say--they talkabout nursing homes--I've thought and thought and thought about ituntil I'm certain. There's only one rest for me, Majy dear. " She raiseda tear-stained, tense and beautiful face and drew herself up so thatone arm leaned on my chair, and the other on my shoulder. "And that isto be with the one human being that is left for me to love--oh, reallylove--you know what I mean--in the world. "

I could only put my hand on her fair young head and say:

"My dear, my dear, you know I love you. "

"That is why I'm not afraid to speak. Perfect love casteth out fear--"

I pushed back her hair. "What is it that you want me to do, Betty?" Iasked. "My life, such as it is, is at your command. "

She looked me full, unflinchingly in the eyes. 

"If you would give me the privilege of bearing your name, I should be aproud and happy woman. "

We remained there, I don't know how long--she with her hand on myshoulder, I caressing her dear hair. It was a tremendous temptation. Tohave my beloved Betty in all her exquisite warm loyalty bound to me forthe rest of my crippled life. But I found the courage to say:

"My dear, you are young still, with the wonderful future that no onealive can foretell before you, and I am old--"

"You're not fifty. "

"Still I am old, I belong to the past--to a sort of affray behind anant-hill which they called a war. I'm dead, my dear, you are gloriouslyalive. I'm of the past, as I say. You're of the future. You, mydearest, are the embodiment of the woman of the Great War--" Ismiled--"The Woman of the Great War in capital letters. What yourdestiny is, God knows. But it isn't to be tied to a Prehistoric Manlike me. "

She rose and stood, with her beautiful bare arms behind her, sweet, magnificent. 

"I am a Woman of the Great War. You are quite right. But in a year orso I shall be like other women of the war who have suffered and spenttheir lives, a woman of the past--not of the future. All sorts ofthings have been burned up in it. " In a quick gesture she stretched outher hands to me. "Oh, can't you understand?"

I cannot set down the rest of the tender argument. If she had loved meless, she could have lived in my house, like Phyllis, without a thoughtof the conventions. But loving me dearly, she had got it into herfeminine head that the sacredness of the marriage tie would crown withdignity and beauty the part she had resolved to play for my happiness. 

Well, if I have yielded I pray it may not be set down to me for selfishexploitation of a woman's exhausted hour. When I said something of thesort, she laughed and cried:

"Why, I'm bullying you into it!"

The First of January, 1917--the dawn to me, a broken derelict, of theannus mirabilis. Somehow, foolishly, illogically, I feel that it willbe the annus mirabilis for my beloved country. 

And come--after all--I am, in spite of my legs, a Man too of the GreatWar. I have lived in it, and worked in it, and suffered in it--and init have I won a Great Thing. 

So long as one's soul is sound--that is the Great Matter. 

Just before we parted last night, I said to Betty:

"The beginning and end of all this business is that you're afraid ofMarigold. "

She started back indignantly. 

"I'm not! I'm not!"

I laughed. "The Lady protests too much, " said I. 

The clock struck two. Marigold appeared at the door. He approachedBetty. 

"I think, Madam, we ought to let the Major go to bed. "

"I think, Marigold, " said Betty serenely, "we ought to be ashamed ofourselves for keeping him up so late. "

THE END