"And you know me, Sir Richard?"
Again I bowed.
For a while he drummed with his fingers on the table, then once again he
fixed his piercing eyes on me.
"I want you to listen to a short story," he said, quietly. "It's very
short, and"--his voice shook a little--"your reception of it is very
important. I am no spinner of glib phrases: I have no tricks of speech
to captivate your imagination. But I have an idea that the story I have
to tell requires no assistance. Nearly fifty years ago a son was born
to a certain man and his wife. He was their only child; the woman was
not strong enough to have another. But that son was enough: he was the
heir that was needed to an historic house.... And then there was an
accident, and the boy broke his neck out hunting...."
He broke off and stared out of the window.
"The woman was too old to have another child," he went on after a while,
"and so it seemed that that historic name would pass out of the direct
line. And it would go to a man who had recently been expelled from his
London clubs for cheating at cards.... He was openly boasting of his
good fortune: had already started to raise money on his prospects...."
He paused again, his great fists clenched.
"A few months later the woman fell ill. And though she loved the man as
it is given to few men to be loved, she was glad--for the sake of his
family. She thought she was going to die, and then he could marry
again.... She prayed to die, and her prayer was not heard, though maybe
it was one of the most divinely unselfish prayers that a human heart has
ever raised.... Then one night, as she was recovering, the man found
her with a glass of something by her bedside.... And he didn't leave her
till she had sworn that she would not take that way out...."
He shifted restlessly in his seat. "It was about then that the plan was
conceived. It was hazy at first, and the man would have none of it....
But after a while he began to think of it more and more.... And, one
day, to his amazement he found that the woman had an unexpected ally in
the shape of the heart specialist who was attending her."
"Who was the heart specialist?" I asked, quietly.
"Sir William Lakington," he answered. "You see, Sir Richard, through a
turn of fate, this man is in your hands. He has no intention of hiding
anything from you.... That same day the prospective heir, who had
married a barmaid, became the father of twin sons; and the man made up
his mind. The woman died, and was buried in the family vault.... Such
was the story that was told the world. And then, with the help of that
great-hearted doctor, the woman was smuggled away. For twenty-four
years she has lived by herself with only one maid--buried, scarce daring
to leave the house, in case she should be recognized. Through those
long years the man has visited her just now and then.... Not too often,
again for fear of discovery, though when he did come he came disguised,
save only last night, when nothing mattered but the fact that it was the
end. And through those long years her only mainstay has been the
knowledge that his son will succeed to the title--that the line is still
direct.... Fate decreed it was not to be hers; but no word of complaint
or disappointment has ever passed her lips. Maybe they did wrong--that
man and that woman: maybe they sinned. But they did it for the best at
the time, and when, ten years afterwards, the man who would have been
the heir was confined in an inebriates' home, it seemed to them that
they had been justified. And now in your hands, Sir Richard, rest the
issue as to whether that sweet woman's sacrifice shall have been in
vain.... Rests also the issue of a dreadful scandal...."
The deep voice ceased, and I rose and stood by the window. The sun was
glinting on the hills opposite, bathing them in a riot of purple and
gold: a cart was moving lazily along the rough track below the house....
Maybe it had been a sin; who was I to judge? The risk was over now, the
sacrifice finished. And God knows that sacrifice had been heavy. At
the time they had done it for the best: that best was good enough for
me.
"You have told me a very wonderful story, Mr. MacDerry," I said, as I
turned and faced him. "For a short time I foolishly confused you with
Lord Fingarton: I must apologize for my mistake. May I express my
deepest sympathy with you in your terrible loss, and assure you that I
will attend to all the necessary formalities with regard to Mrs.
MacDerry's death?..."
For a moment I thought he would break down: instead he took my hand and
wrung it.... And then without a word he was gone.
* * * * *
It was a year later that I went with Bill Lakington to the christening
of a man-child. They are not entertainments that I generally patronize,
but this was an exception. Judging by the noise it contributed to the
performance, it was a fine, lusty child: certainly its parents seemed
more than usually idiotic about it.
"He's aged, Dick," said Bill to me after it was over. "Bob's aged
badly."
Coming towards us down the aisle was a tall gaunt man, whose piercing
eyes gleamed triumphantly from under his bushy eyebrows. He stopped as
he reached us, and held out a hand to each. And so for a moment we
stood in silence.... Then he spoke:
"The line is unbroken, old friends--the line is unbroken."
Without another word he was gone.
_*VII -- The Real Test*_
*I*
"It depends entirely," remarked the Great Doctor, twirling an empty
wine-glass in his long, sensitive fingers, "what you mean by fear. The
common interpretation of the word--the method which I think you would
use to portray it on the stage"--he turned to the Celebrated Actor, who
was helping himself to a cigarette from a silver box on the table in
front of him--"would show a nervous shrinking from doing a thing: a
positive distaste to it--a probable refusal, finally, to carry out the
action. And rightly or wrongly--but very naturally--that emotion is the
object of universal scorn. But----" and the Great Doctor paused
thoughtfully--"is there no more in fear than that?"
The Well-known Soldier drained his port. "It would be a platitude to
remark," he said, "that the successful overcoming of fear is the highest
form of bravery."
"That if, for instance, our young friend had overcome his fear this
afternoon," said the Rising Barrister, "and had jumped in after that
horrible little dog, it would have been an act of the highest bravery."
"Or the most stupid bravado," supplemented the Celebrated Actor.
"Precisely my point," exclaimed the Great Doctor. "What is the dividing
line between bravado and bravery?"
The Well-known Soldier looked thoughtful. "The man," he said at length,
"who exposes himself to being killed or wounded when there is no
necessity, with probably--at the bottom of his mind--a desire to show
off, is guilty of culpable bravado. The man who, when his battalion is
faltering, exposes himself to certain death to hold them is brave."
"Two extreme cases," answered the Doctor. "Narrow it down, General.
What is the dividing line?"
"I suppose," murmured the Soldier, "when the results justify the
sacrifice. No man has a right to throw his life away uselessly."
"In those circumstances," said the Rising Barrister, "there can be no
fixed dividing line. Every man must decide for himself; and what is
bravery to you, might be bravado in me."
The Doctor nodded. "Undoubtedly," he agreed. "And with a thoughtful
man that decision may be very difficult. For the fraction of a second
he will hesitate--weigh up the pros and cons; and even if he decides to
do it finally, it may then be too late."
"Only a fool would have gone in after that dog," said the Actor,
dogmatically.
"Women love fools," answered the Barrister, _a propos_ of nothing in
particular; and the Celebrated Actor snorted contemptuously.
"Which is why the man who is reputed to know no fear is so universally
popular," said the Soldier. "If such a man exists, he is most certainly
a fool."
The door opened and their hostess put her head into the room. "You men
have got to come and dance," she cried. "There's no good looking at one
another and hoping for bridge: you can have that afterwards."
The strains of a gramophone came faintly from the drawing-room as they
rose dutifully.
"I cannot perpetrate these new atrocities, dear lady," remarked the
Soldier, "but if anybody would like to have a barn dance, I shall be
happy to do my best."
"Sybil shall take you in hand, Sir John," she answered, leading the way
across the hall. "By the way, young Captain Seymour, the V.C.
flying-man, has come up. Such a nice boy--so modest and unassuming."
As they entered the room a fresh one-step had just started, and for a
while they stood watching. The two sons of the house, just home from
Eton, were performing vigorously with two pretty girls from a
neighbouring place; while Sybil, their sister, who was to take the
General in hand, floated past in the arms of a keen-eyed, bronzed young
man who had won the V.C. for a flying exploit that read like a
fairy-tale. The other two couples were girls dancing together; while,
seated on a sofa, knitting placidly, were two elderly ladies.
"And where, Lady Vera," murmured the Actor to his hostess, "is our young
friend Peter?"
She frowned almost imperceptibly and looked away. "He disappeared after
he left the dining-room," she remarked, shortly. "I suppose, in view of
what occurred this afternoon, he prefers to be by himself."
The Actor ran a delicate hand through his magnificent grey hair--it was
a gesture for which he was famous--and regarded his hostess in surprise.
"Even you, Lady Vera!" he remarked pensively. "I can understand these
young girls blaming the boy; but for you--a woman of sense----" He
shrugged his shoulders--another world-famed movement, feebly imitated by
lesser lights.
"I don't think we will discuss the matter, Mr. Peering," she said,
turning away a little abruptly.
It had been a somewhat unpleasant incident at the time, and the
unpleasantness was still apparently far from over. Madge Saunderson,
one of the girls stopping in the house, had been the owner of a small
dog of rat-like appearance and propensities, to which she had been
devoted. She shared this devotion with no one, the animal being of the
type that secretes itself under chairs and nips the ankle of the next
person who unsuspectingly sits down. However, _De mortuis_ ... And
since its violent death that afternoon, Toots--which was the animal's
name--had been invested with a halo. Its atrocious habits were
forgotten: it lived in everyone's memory as poor little Toots.
It was over its death that Peter Benton had made himself unpopular. Not
far from the house there was a disused mill, past which, at certain
times of the year, the water poured in a black, evil-looking torrent,
emerging below into a deep pond cupped out in the rocks. For a hundred
yards before the stream came to the old mill-wheel the slope of the
ground affected it to such an extent that, if much rain had fallen in
the hills above, the current was dangerous. The water swirled along,
its smoothness broken only by an occasional eddy, till with
ever-increasing speed it dropped sheer into the pond, twenty feet below.
Occasionally battered things were found floating in that pond--stray
animals which had got caught in the stream above; and twice since the
mill had closed down twenty years ago a child had been discovered,
bruised and dead, in the placid pool below the wheel. But, then, these
had been small animals and children--quite unable to keep their feet.
Whereas Peter Benton was a man, and tall at that.
Into this stream, flooded more than usual with the recent rain, had
fallen poor little Toots. Being completely blind in both eyes, it had
serenely waddled over the edge of the small hand-bridge which spanned
the water, and had departed, struggling feebly, towards the mill-wheel
seventy yards away. At the moment of the catastrophe Peter Benton and
Madge Saunderson were standing on the bridge, and her scream of horror
rang out simultaneously with the splash.
The man, seeing in an instant what had happened, raced along the bank,
and overtook the dog when it had gone about half-way, at the point where
the current quickened and seemed to leap ahead. And then had occurred
the dreadful thing.
According to the girl, afterwards, he just stood there and watched Toots
dashed to pieces. According to the man--but, incidentally, he said
nothing, which proved his cowardice, as the girl remarked. He had
nothing to say. Instead of going into the water and seizing the dog, he
had stood on the bank and let it drown. And he had no excuse. Of
course, there would have been a certain element of risk; but no man who
was a man would have thought of that. Not with poor little Toots
drowning before his eyes.
And his remark at the moment when she had rushed up to him, almost
hysterical with grief, showed him to be--well, perhaps it would be as
well not to say what she thought. Madge Saunderson had paused in her
narrative at tea and consumed a sugar cake.
"What _did_ he say, Madge?" asked Sybil Lethbridge.
"He said," remarked Miss Saunderson, "'Sorry. No bon, as they say. It
really wasn't worth it--not for Toots.' Can you beat it?" she stormed.
"'Not for Toots!' Poor little heart--drowning before that brute's
eyes."
"Of course," said Sybil, thoughtfully, "the mill-stream is very
dangerous."
"My dear Sybil," answered Madge Saunderson, coldly, "if you're going to
take that point of view I have nothing more to say. But I'd like to
know what you'd have said if it had been Ruffles."
The terrier in question regarded the speaker with an expectant eye, in
which thoughts of cake shone brightly.
"What happened then?" asked one of the audience.
"We walked in silence down to the pool below," continued Madge. "And
there--we found him--my little Toots. He floated to the side, and Mr.
Benton was actually daring enough to stoop down and pull him out of the
water. It was then that he added insult to injury," she went on, in a
voice of suppressed fury. "'Rotten luck, Miss Saunderson,' he said;
'but in a way it's rather a happy release for the poor little brute,
isn't it? I'm afraid only your kind heart prevented him being put away
years ago.'"
A silence had settled on the room, a silence which was broken at length
by Sybil.
"He _was_ very old, wasn't he?" she murmured. Madge Saunderson's eyes
flashed ominously. "Eighteen," she said. "And I quite fail to see that
that's any excuse. You wouldn't let an old man of ninety drown, would
you--just because he was old? And Toots was quite as human as any old
man, and far less trouble."
Such had been the official _communique_, issued to a feminine gathering
at tea-time; in due course it travelled to the rest of the house-party.
And, as is the way with such stories, it had not lost in the telling.
Daisy Johnson, for instance, had retailed it with some gusto to the
Rising Barrister.
"What a pity about Mr. Benton, isn't it?" she had murmured before
dinner, moving a little so that the pink light from a lamp fell on her
face. Pink, she reflected, was undoubtedly the colour she would have for
all the shades when she had a house.
The Rising Barrister regarded her casually. "What is a pity?" he asked.
"Haven't you heard?" she cried. "Why, this afternoon poor little
Toots--Madge Saunderson's dog--fell into the mill-stream."
"Thank God!" ejaculated the Barrister, brutally.
"Oh, I know he wasn't an attractive dog!" she said.
"Attractive!" he interrupted. "Why, the little beast's snorts
reverberated through the house!"
"But still," she continued, firmly, "I don't think Mr. Benton should
have let it drown before his eyes without raising a finger to save it.
He stood stock-still on the bank--hesitating; and then it was too late.
Of course, I suppose it was a little dangerous." She shrugged a
delightful pair of shoulders gracefully. "I don't think most men would
have hesitated." She glanced at the Rising Barrister as she spoke, and
if he failed to alter the "most men" to his own advantage the fault was
certainly not hers. It struck him suddenly that pink gave a most
attractive lighting effect.
"Er--perhaps not," he murmured. "Still, I expect he was quite right,
you know. One--er--should be very careful what one says in cases of
this sort."
Which was why a few minutes later he retailed the story to the
Celebrated Actor, over a sherry-and-bitters.
"The faintest tinge of the yellow streak," he said, confidentially.
"There was something or other in France--I don't exactly recall it at
this moment. I know I heard something."
But the Celebrated Actor flatly refused to agree. "I don't know anything
about France," he said, firmly. "I know a lot about that dog. If a
suitable occasion arises, I shall publicly propose a vote of thanks to
young Benton. Would you believe me, sir, only yesterday, when outlining
my part in my new play to Lady Vera and one or two others, the little
brute bit me in the ankle! True, I had inadvertently trodden on it,
but----" He waved a careless hand, as if dismissing such a trifling
cause.
From all of which it will be seen what the general feeling in the house
was towards Peter Benton on the night in question. And Peter, a very
discerning young man, was not slow to realize it. At first it had
amused him; after a while he had become annoyed. More or less a
stranger in the locality, he had not known the depth of the mill-stream;
and he frankly admitted to himself that he had hesitated to go into that
black, swirling water, not a stone's throw from the mill itself, in
order to save a dog. He had hesitated, and in a second it had been too
late. The dog had flashed past him, and he had watched it disappear
over the fall by the wheel. It was only later that to him the
additional reason of the dog's extreme age and general ill-health
presented itself. And the additional reason had not added to his
popularity with the animal's mistress.
He quite saw her point of view: he was annoyed because no one apparently
saw his. And he was far too proud to attempt any explanation--apart
from seeing the futility of it. He could imagine the cold
answer--"Doubtless you were perfectly right. Poor little Toots is dead
now. Shall we consider the incident closed?"
Savagely he kicked the turf on the lawn outside the window where they
were dancing. For three in succession Sybil had had Captain Seymour as
her partner, and Peter had hoped----
"Oh, hang that horrible little dog!" he muttered to himself, striding
viciously away into the garden.
A brilliant moon was shining, flooding the country with a cold white
light, in which things stood out almost as clearly as by day. Half a
mile away an unfinished factory chimney, still with its scaffolding
round it, rose sheer and black against the sky. Around it new works
were being erected, and for a while Peter stood motionless, gazing at
the thin column of bricks and mortar.
Only that morning he had watched men at work on it, with almost a
shudder. They looked like so many flies crawling over the flimsy
boards, and he had waited while one workman had peered nonchalantly over
the edge of his plank and indulged in a wordy warfare with the man
below. It seemed that unless the latter mended his ways he would shortly
receive a brick on his blinking nut; but it was the complete disregard
for their dizzy height that had fascinated Peter. He could imagine few
professions which he would less sooner join than that of steeplejack.
And yet the funny thing was that on the occasions when he had flown he
had not noticed any discomfort at all.
Presumably there was some scientific reason for it--something which
would account for the fact that, though he could fly at twenty times the
height of St. Paul's without feeling giddy, on the occasion when he had
looked over the edge of that great dome from the little platform at the
top he had been overcome with a sort of dreadful nausea and had had to
go back quickly.
"Why, Peter, what are you doing here all alone?" A voice behind him
made him look round.
For a moment the dog episode had gone out of his mind, and, with a quick
smile, he took a step towards the speaker. "Why, Sybil," he said, "how
topping you look! Isn't it a glorious night?" And then suddenly he
remembered, and stopped with a frown.
"Peter," said the girl, quietly, "I want to hear about this afternoon
from you, please."
"Haven't you heard all there is to be heard?" he answered, a little
bitterly. "Miss Saunderson's dog fell into the mill-stream. I failed
to pull it out: to be strictly accurate, I failed to attempt to pull it
out. That's all there is to it."
They faced one another in the moonlight, and after a while the girl
spoke again. "That's not like you. Peter. Why did you let it drown?"
"Because," said the man, deliberately, "I did not consider I was called
on to risk my life to save a dog. Even poor little Toots," he added,
cynically.
"Supposing it had been a child, Peter?" said the girl, gravely.
"My God!" answered the man, very low. "As bad as that, is it? Oh, my
God!"
"They're saying things, Peter: all these people are saying things."
The man thrust his hands into his pockets, and stared with brooding eyes
at the black, lifeless chimney.
"Saying I'm a coward, are they?" He forced the words out. "What do you
think, Sybil?"
The girl bit her lip, and suddenly put her hand on his arm. "Oh,
Peter," she whispered, "it wasn't like you--not a bit!"
"You think," he said, dispassionately, "that I should have been
justified--more, that I ought to have jumped into the mill-stream in
flood to save that dog?"
But the girl made no answer: she only looked miserably at the man's
averted face.
"I don't know," she said at length. "I don't know. It's so--so
difficult to know what to say."
Gently Peter Benton removed her hand from his arm. "That is quite a
good enough answer for me, Sybil." He faced her gravely. "The thing is
unfortunate, because I was going to ask you--to-night----" His jaw set
and he turned away for a moment. Then he faced her again. "But never
mind that now: the situation, as they say in Parliament, does not arise.
I would like you, however, to know that I do not think about the matter
at all. For one brief second this afternoon I did think about it; for
the fraction of a minute I had made up my mind to go in after the dog.
And then I realized how utterly unjustifiable such an action would be.
Since that moment--as I say--I have not thought about the matter at
all."
"And supposing it had been Ruffles?" asked the girl, slowly.
For a while the man hesitated. Then: "My decision would have been the
same," he answered, turning on his heel.
*II*
Inside the house the Celebrated Actor and the Rising Barrister were each
proving to their own satisfaction, if not to their partners', that the
modern dance held no terrors for them. The two boys were getting warmer
and more energetic; Lady Vera, after chatting for a little with the
Great Doctor and the Well-known Soldier, had left them to their own
devices, and had joined the two elderly ladies on the sofa.
In a corner of the room sat Captain Seymour talking to Madge Saunderson,
though, incidentally, she was doing most of the talking; and with them
sat the two other girls. Every now and then Seymour frowned
uncertainly, and shook his head: the invariable signal for all three
girls to lean forward in their most beseeching manner and look adoringly
up into his face.
"I wonder," remarked the Doctor, after watching the quartette for a
while, "what mischief those girls are plotting?"
The Soldier adjusted his eyeglass and looked across the room. "Probably
asking for his autograph," he answered, cynically. "What I want to know
is where my teacher has gone to--Miss Sybil."
"I saw her go out into the garden some time ago," said the Doctor. "By
Gad, but I'm sorry about this afternoon!"
The Soldier pulled at his cigar. "I am not well versed in the family
history," he murmured, "and the connection is a trifle obscure."
"That confounded dog!" answered the Doctor. "Those two are head over
heels in love with one another."
"And you think----?"
"My dear fellow," said the Doctor, "Sybil is one of the dearest girls in
the country. I brought her into the world; in many ways she is like my
own daughter. But--she is a girl. And if I know anything about the
sex, she'd find it easier to forgive him if he'd stolen."
A peal of laughter from the quartette opposite made both men look up.
Seymour was nodding his head resignedly and Madge Saunderson was
clapping her hands together with glee.
"Don't forget," her voice came clearly across the room, "we'll pretend
it's a bet."
It was at that moment that Sybil appeared in the window, and the Soldier
let his eyes dwell on the girl approvingly.
"What a thoroughbred!" he said at length, turning to the Doctor. "I'm
not certain it isn't better--as it is."
"Hang it, man!" said the Doctor, irritably. "The boy is a thoroughbred,
too. What did you say yourself after dinner about the results having to
justify the sacrifice?"
But the Soldier only grunted non-committally.
It would doubtless be an excellent thing if theory and practice never
clashed.
Sybil came slowly into the room, and Madge Saunderson rose with a
meaning glance at Captain Seymour.
"Syb," she cried, "we've got the finest bet on you've ever thought of!
I've betted Captain Seymour six pairs of gloves that he doesn't climb up
Mill Down chimney in the moonlight, and he's betted me five hundred of
his most special cigarettes that he does."
For a moment a silence settled on the room, which was broken by Lady
Vera. "But are you quite sure it's safe, my dear?" she remarked,
searching for a dropped stitch. "It might fall down or something."
Miss Saunderson laughed merrily. "Why, Aunt Vera," she cried, "there
are men working on it every day. It's quite safe--only I bet he'll have
cold feet, and not get to the top--V.C. and all." She flashed a smile
at the flying-man. "And it's a ripping evening for a walk."
The Doctor turned to his companion. "I wonder what that young woman's
game is?" he remarked, thoughtfully.
"I don't know," answered the Soldier. "I suppose you've got a good head
for heights, Seymour?" he called out.
"Pretty fair, sir," replied the airman, with a grin. "I don't mind
twenty thousand feet, so I don't think Mill Down chimney should worry me
much."
"The two things are not quite alike," said a quiet voice from the
window, and everyone turned to see Peter Benton standing there, with his
hands in his pockets. "I've got a shocking head for height myself, but
I never noticed it when I was flying."
"I think I will chance it," answered Seymour with a slight drawl, and
having recently been supplied with Madge Saunderson's version of the dog
accident his tone was understandable.
"Let's all go down and see he doesn't cheat," cried one of the girls,
and there was a general exodus of the younger members of the party for
wraps. Only Sybil, with troubled eyes, stood motionless, staring out
into the brilliant moonlight; while Peter, lighting a cigarette, picked
up an illustrated paper and glanced through it. And to the Doctor,
watching the scene with his shrewd grey eyes, the only person in the
room who seemed ill at ease was the flying-man himself.
"What would the world be like," he remarked to the Soldier, "if woman
lost her power to cause man to make a fool of himself?"
"Good Lord! my dear fellow," said the other, "it's only an after-dinner
prank. That boy will do it on his head."
"I dare say he will," returned the Doctor. "But it's cheap, and he knows
it." He rose. "Shall we go down and witness the feat?"
"Why not?" answered the Soldier. "It may stop Deering telling us again
about his new play."
Half an hour later the whole house-party were grouped round the base of
the chimney. Close to, it seemed to have grown in height, till it
towered above them into the starlit sky. The girls were chattering
gaily, standing around Seymour--except for Sybil, who stood a little
apart; while the two Eton boys were busily engaged hi deciding on the
correct method of ascent. Seated on a pile of bricks sat the four men,
more occupied with a never-ending political argument than the
performance of climbing the chimney; while in the background, standing
by himself, was Peter Benton, with a twisted, bitter smile on his face.
He was under no delusions as to why the bet had been made: just a
further episode, thought out by a spiteful girl, to show his conduct
that afternoon in a blacker light. On the surface, at any rate, it was
more dangerous to the ordinary man to climb this chimney than to go into
the mill-stream. And this was being done merely for sport--as a prank;
while the other might have saved a dog's life.
With a laugh, Seymour swung himself off the ground, and started to
climb. He went up swiftly, without faltering; and after a while even
the political discussion ceased, and the party below stared upwards in
silence. In the cold white light the climber looked like some gigantic
insect, creeping up the brickwork, and gradually as he neared the top
the spectators moved farther away from the base of the chimney, in order
to see him better. At length he reached the limit of the main
scaffolding; only some temporary makeshift work continued for the few
feet that separated him from the actual top. He hesitated for a moment,
apparently reconnoitring the best route; and Madge Saunderson, cupping
her mouth in her hands, shouted up to him:
"Right up, Captain Seymour, or you won't get your cigarettes."
And Seymour looked down.
It would be hard to say the exact moment when the watchers below
realized that something was wrong--all, that is, save Madge Saunderson
and the other two girls who had been in the quartette.
It was the Doctor who rose suddenly and said, "Heavens! he's lost his
head!"
"Don't shout!" said the Soldier, imperatively. "Leave it to me." He
looked up, and his voice rang through the night: "Captain
Seymour--General Hardcastle speaking. Don't look down. Look up--do you
hear me?--look up. At once!" But the face of the aviator still peered
down at them, and it almost seemed as if they could see his wide,
staring eyes.
"My God!" muttered the Soldier. "What are we going to do?"
"Let's all shout together," said the Actor.
"No good," cried the General. "You'll only confuse him."
And it was then that the quiet voice of Peter Benton was heard. He was
talking to Madge Saunderson, who with the other two girls had been
whispering together, ignorant that he was close behind them in the
shadow.
"Do I understand you to say, Miss Saunderson, that Captain Seymour is
only pretending?"
"You had no business to hear what I said, Mr. Benton," she answered,
angrily. "I wasn't talking to you."
But the Doctor appeared interested, and very few of either sex had ever
hesitated for long when he became serious.
"You will kindly tell me at once whether this is a joke," he said,
grimly.
For a moment the girl's eyes flashed mutinously, and then she laughed--a
laugh which rang a little false.
"If you wish to know, it is," she answered, defiantly. "I wanted to
find out if Mr. Benton would consider a human life worth saving."
She laughed again, as the four men with one accord turned their backs on
her.
"Perhaps it would be as well, then," said Peter, calmly, "for you to
tell Captain Seymour that the charming little jest has been discovered,
and that he can come down again."
She looked at him contemptuously; then, raising her voice, she shouted
to the man above: "You can come: down, Captain Seymour: they've found
out our little joke."
But the aviator remained motionless.
"Come down," she cried again. "Can't you hear me?" But Seymour's face,
like a white patch, still peered down, and suddenly a girl started
sobbing.
"It would seem," remarked Peter, "that the plot is going to be
successful after all."
The next moment, before anyone realized what was happening, he was
climbing steadily up towards the motionless man at the top.
There was only one remark made during that second ascent, and it came
from the Doctor.
"You deserve, young woman," he said, quietly, to Madge Saunderson, "to
be publicly whipped through the streets of London."
Then silence reigned, broken only by Peter, as he paused every now and
then to shout some encouraging remark to the man above.
"I'm coming, Seymour. Absolutely all right. Can't you send for one of
your bally machines, and save us both the trouble of climbing down
again?"
Between each remark he climbed steadily on, until at last he was within
a few feet of the aviator.
"Look away from me, Seymour," he ordered, quietly, gazing straight into
the unblinking, staring eyes above. "Look at the brickwork beside you.
Do as I tell you, Seymour. Look at the brickwork beside you."
For what seemed an eternity to those below the two men stayed
motionless; then a great shuddering sigh broke from them--Seymour was no
longer looking down.
It was only the General who spoke, and he was not conscious of doing so.
"By Gad! you're right, Doctor," he muttered. "He's thoroughbred right
enough--he's thoroughbred."
And the Great Doctor, whose iron nerve had earned for him the reputation
of being one of the two finest operating surgeons in Europe, wiped the
sweat from his forehead with a hand that shook like a leaf.
Then began the descent.
"Look at the brickwork the whole time, Seymour--and hold fast with your
hands. Now give me your right foot: give me your right foot, do you
hear? That's it--now the left."
Step by step, with Peter just below him, the aviator came down the
chimney, and he was still thirty feet from the bottom when the onlookers
saw him pause and pass a hand over his forehead. He gazed down at them,
and on his face there was a look of dazed surprise--like a man waking
from a dream. Then he swung himself rapidly down to the ground, where
he stood facing Peter.
"You've saved my life, old man," he said, a little breathlessly, with
the wondering look still in his eyes. "I--don't understand quite what
happened. I seemed to go all queer--when I looked down." He laughed
shakily. "Dashed funny thing--er--thanks, most awfully. Good Lord!
What's the matter, old boy?"
He leant over Peter, who had pitched forward unconscious at his feet.
"I think," remarked the Well-known Soldier to no one in particular, as
they walked back, "that the less said about this little episode the
better. It was a good deal too near a tragedy for my liking."
"A most instructive case," murmured the Great Doctor, "showing, first of
all, the wonderful power of self-hypnotism. I have heard of similar
cases in those old-fashioned London houses, where the light in the hall
has fascinated people leaning over the banisters two or three stories
above it, and caused them to want to throw themselves over."
"And what is your second observation?" murmured the Rising Barrister,
who was always ready to learn.
"The influence of mind over matter," returned the Doctor, briefly, "and
the strain involved in the successful overcoming of intense fear. Young
Benton has never, and will never, do a braver thing in his life than he
did to-night."
"Ah!" murmured the Celebrated Actor, running his hand through his hair.
"What a situation! Magnificent! Superb! But, I fear, unstageable."
They entered the drawing-room, to find the conversation being
monopolized by a newcomer--a captain in the Coldstream. It was perhaps
as well: the remainder of the party seemed singularly indisposed to
talk.
"Climbin' chimneys? Might be in you flying wallahs' line--but not old
Peter. D'you remember, Peter, turnin' pea-green that time we climbed
half-way up Wipers Cathedral, before they flattened it?" The Guardsman
laughed at the recollection. "No--swimming is his stunt," he continued
to everyone at large. "How he ever had the nerve to go overboard--in
the most appalling sea--and rescue that fellow, I dunno. It was a great
effort that, Peter."
But the only answer was the door closing.
"A good swimmer, is he?" remarked the Great Doctor, casually.
"Wonderful," answered the other. "The rougher it is the more he likes
it. He got the Royal Humane Society's medal, you know, for that thing I
was talking about. Leave-boat--off Boulogne."
He rattled on, but no one seemed to be paying very much attention. In
fact, the only other remark of interest was made by the Rising
Barrister, just as the door closed once again--this time behind Sybil.
"That was what I remember hearing about in France," he said, calmly, to
the Great Doctor. "You remember I was mentioning it to you before
dinner. I knew there was something."
"Wonderful!" murmured the Actor. "Quite wonderful!"
The Rising Barrister coughed deprecatingly, and lit a cigarette.
_*VIII -- "Good Hunting, Old Chap"*_
*I*
The Well-known Soldier leaned back in his chair, and thoughtfully held
his glass up to the light.
"Personally," he remarked at length, "I would sooner be sent to prison
for five years for a thing I had done than be let out after two and a
half for a thing I hadn't."
"An interesting point," conceded the Celebrated Actor. "But to the
casual observer, unversed in psychology, it might appear to be merely a
choice between five years of hell and two and a half."
The Celebrated Actor, it may be stated, had recently been dipping into
various "ologies" in the course of studying his newest and greatest
part. Luckily for the sake of the public, the leaves of most of the
treatises were still uncut, which ensured that his rendering of the
strong, silent Napoleon of finance would not differ appreciably from his
own celebrated personality. Incidentally he had never intended that it
should, but the author of the play was a serious young man, and the
Actor was nothing if not tactful.
"I am inclined to disagree, General," said the Eminent Divine. "Surely
the moral support of a clear conscience----"
"Quite," murmured the Actor. "Quite."
"Would cut no ice, Bishop," declared the Soldier. "Two and a half years
is too long a time for such a comparatively frail support as a clear
conscience. Especially a youngster's."
"Exactly," agreed the Actor. "Exactly. Two and a half years of hell
for something one has not done.... Appalling--quite appalling." With
great care he continued the delicate process of peeling a walnut.
But the Bishop was not convinced. "All the time he would know that a
mistake had been made; that sooner or later he would be cleared in the
eyes of the world. Whereas if he was guilty he would know that no such
chance existed, and that when he came out from prison he would be an
outcast--a jail-bird."
The Soldier shook his head and drained his glass. "Right in theory,
Bishop; right in practice, too, if the clearing had been quicker. But
two and a half years is too long. Hope would die: a youngster would
grow bitter."
"Where is he now?" demanded the Celebrated Actor, sweeping back his hair
with the gesture for which he was rightly famous.
"No one knows," said the Soldier, quietly. "He came out a week ago. His
brother met him at the prison gates, but Hugh gave him the slip. And
since then he's hidden himself. Of course, he could be traced, but his
father is wise, I think, in not doing so."
The Bishop nodded. "He will find himself in time; and it's best to
leave him alone till he does. A good boy, too."
For a while the three men were silent while the soft summer breeze
played gently through the old-fashioned garden outside, and the
wonderful scent of the laburnum came fragrant through the open windows.
"I forget exactly what happened," remarked the Actor, at length. "I was
producing 'King Lear' at the time, I remember, and----" He glanced
inquiringly at the General.
"A fairly common story," returned the Soldier, lighting a cigarette
thoughtfully. "The boy had been an ass and owed a lot of money to some
bookmaker. Then he plunged on the Derby--the year Signorinetta won at a
hundred to one--and went down, like most of us did. Two days afterwards
a couple of thousand in cash was missing. Also the books were falsified
over a long period. Everything pointed to him, and they found him
guilty, though he protested his innocence all through. A month ago the
real thief confessed--two and half years too late."
The General shrugged his shoulders, and then suddenly sat motionless,
staring with narrowed eyes into the darkness outside.
"Quaint how one's eyes deceive one at night." He sat back again in his
chair. "For a moment I thought I saw someone moving by the edge of the
lawn."
"And your niece?" pursued the Actor. "Weren't they engaged or
something?"
"Yes. It almost broke Beryl's heart. You know, of course, the dog was
his?"
"I did not," said the Actor. "Ah! that accounts, of course, for her
terrible grief."
"If I had my way," snarled the General, fiercely, "I'd flog that young
swine Parker to within an inch of his worthless life. And then I'd put
a trap on his own leg."
The Actor nodded. "I agree, General. Personally I am no great
dog-lover. They have a way of concealing themselves about the furniture
which is most disconcerting should one inadvertently sit upon them. But
a trap----"
He shuddered, and poured himself out some more port.
"If only we could get hold of the boy," mused the General, returning to
his original theme. "I can guess what he's feeling, and the longer he
goes on without the human touch, the harder and more bitter he'll
become. He wants to be made to shake hands with reality again; to hit
something, if you like--but to get it over. He's bottling it up--I know
it; and it's a bad thing for a youngster to bottle up bitterness."
The Soldier rose and strolled over to the window. For a while he leaned
against the open frame, smoking quietly, and hardly conscious of the
argument which had started in the room behind him. The power of the
stage as a pulpit was an evergreen with the Celebrated Actor, and he
felt in no mood for a discussion on the matter. The youngster, Hugh
Dawnay, was filling his mind, and also Tommy, that morning.
He'd helped the vet. put the little terrier under, with a dose of
prussic acid, and after it was over the two men had stared at one
another, and then looked away, as is the manner of men who are feeling
deeply.
"I hate it, more and more each time," said the vet., gruffly. "Poor
little chap!"
"It's worse than a man," snapped the General. "A dog trusts a fellow
so--so infernally. Damn that young Parker!"
With which explosion he had blown his nose loudly and stalked off for a
long walk.
At length he pitched his cigarette away and turned back into the room.
And at that moment, very clear and distinct from somewhere in the
garden, there came a low whistle.
"Hush! you fellows, listen!" The argument ceased at his abrupt words,
and the two men stared at him, as he stood motionless half-way between
the table and the window. "Did you hear that whistle?"
"Personally, I did not," remarked the Actor, "but at the moment I was
engrossed in other matters. A vulgar habit--whistling--but not, I
regret to say, uncommon."
"There's someone in the garden," said the General. "I thought I saw
something move earlier, and just then I heard a whistle most
distinctly."
"My dear man," said the Actor, with a beneficent wave of his shapely
hand, "are there not maidservants in the house? I fear that soldiering
destroys romance."
The Soldier grunted. "Perhaps you're right. My mind was busy with other
things. I think I'll take a stroll outside, too, for a bit. Give me a
hail when you've finished your discussion."
He moved once more towards the window, only to pause on the threshold.
"Why, Hugh, my dear lad," he said, quietly, "it's good to see you again.
Come in."
And the Celebrated Actor and the Eminent Divine, looking up quickly at
his words, saw a man standing outside on the path, whose face was the
face of one into whose soul the iron had entered.
For a moment or two Hugh Dawnay hesitated. Then, with the faintest
perceptible shrug of his shoulders, he stepped into the room. He
glanced at each man in turn; then his eyes came back to the Soldier's
face and rested there.
"Good evening, General." His voice was quite expressionless. "I must
apologize for intruding like this."
"Apologize!" The Soldier smiled at him. "What the devil is there to
apologize about? I'm just amazingly glad to see you. Do you know the
Bishop of Sussex and Mr. Trayne?"
"I had the pleasure of seeing you act, Mr. Trayne, just before I was so
kindly accommodated at His Majesty's expense." Hugh's voice was as
expressionless as ever. "I suppose you are still charming London with
your art?"
For the first time in his life the Celebrated Actor felt at a loss. Had
some charming woman made the remark to him--and many had--he would have
known his cue. A deprecating wave of his hands--a half-hearted
denial--a delicately turned compliment; it was all too easy. But as he
stared at the boy on the other side of the table--the boy with the tired
face of a man--the cloak of mannerisms which he had worn successfully
for twenty years slipped off, and the soul of the great artist--and he
was that, for all his artificiality--showed in his eyes. More clearly,
perhaps, than either of the other two, he realized the dreadful laughter
which was shaking the boy's soul; realized the bitter cynicism behind
the ordinary words. More clearly than they could he saw himself, he saw
the room, he saw life through the eyes of Hugh Dawnay.
"I still strut my small part," he said, gravely. "I still win a little
brief applause. And if I can help those who see me to forget the
bitterness and sorrow of the day, even though it be only for a while, it
is enough." He rose, and laid both his hands on the boy's shoulders.
"Forgive an old mummer's presumption, my lad. Don't think me an
impertinent fool prating of what I do not know and cannot understand.
You have been in the depths. God knows how deep and bitter they have
been--God and you--unjustly, unfairly--I know that. And to you at the
moment we seem typical of the smug respectability which pushed you
there. Vain words of regret--empty phrases of sorrow, cannot give you
back your two and a half wasted years any more than my playing alters
the realities of the past. But maybe the hour or two of forgetfulness
helps a man to face the realities of the future. Will you not try to
forget, too?"
"And what play will you stage for me, Mr. Trayne," answered Hugh,
quietly, "which will help me to forget? Will you cast me for the
principal part, or am I to be one of the audience?" The boy threw back
his head and laughed silently. "Two and a half years of the same
soul-killing monotony. Why, I became an expert at talking to the man
next to me, who was a 'lifer.' They couldn't prove he'd actually
intended to murder the girl, and his counsel successfully pleaded drink.
A charming fellow." Once again he laughed; then, with a quick movement,
he thrust his hands in his pockets and, stepping back towards the
window, faced the three men for a while in silence.
"For a moment or two you must listen to me," he said, and there was a
harsh commanding ring in his voice. "Each of you is old enough to be my
father in years; I am older than all of you combined in reality. At
least, that is how I feel just now. You, Mr. Trayne, have talked about
forgetfulness; in time, perhaps, I shall forget. But there's something
inside me at the present moment which is numbing me. I can't feel, I
can't think, I can't hate--I'm simply apathetic. I don't want to have
anything to do with men; I want to get right away from them. And I'm
going--I'm going; but I'm not going alone." He swung round and faced
the Soldier. "Do you know why I've come here to-night, General?"
The Soldier looked at him quietly. "To see Beryl? Because she'd like
to see you, Hugh."
But Hugh Dawnay shook his head. "No, not to see Beryl. I'm not fit to
see her--yet. Perhaps in a year or two--if she isn't--married by then.
No, it's not to see any human being; not even her. It's to get Tommy;
and take him with me out into the big spaces where, perhaps, in time one
may see things differently."
Unconscious of the effect of his words on his listeners, he had turned
and was staring into the soft summer night.
"All the time that I've been in prison"--and his voice had lost its
harshness--"I've thought, of that little chap. I've sat on my stool in
the cell, and I've felt his cold, wet muzzle thrust into my hand: I've
seen his eyes--those great brown eyes--staring up at me, asking for a
hunt. But there's no hunting in prison--no rabbits: and I used to
promise him that when I came out we'd go off together, just he and I--on
to the moors somewhere--and be alone. He wouldn't mind even if I'd done
it--even if I had stolen the money. That's the wonder of a dog: where
he's so infinitely better than a man." The boy gave a little sigh, and
for the first time a genuine smile flickered round his lips. "I've been
all round the house, whistling and looking for him--but I expect he's in
the drawing-room somewhere. With Beryl, perhaps. I wonder, General, if
you'd get him for me?"
He glanced at the Soldier, and slowly his eyes dilated, as he saw the
look on the older man's face. He glanced at the Bishop, who was staring
at the cloth; he glanced at the Actor, who was staring at the Bishop,
and suddenly he gave a little choking cry.
"My God!" he muttered, brokenly, "don't tell me that! Don't say that
Tommy is--dead!"
It was the Soldier who answered, and his voice was suspiciously gruff.
"The little fellow was mauled in a trap this morning, old chap: and we
had--to put him out of the way."
"Mauled in a trap?" The boy's voice was dead. "Tommy mauled in a trap?
Who laid the trap?"
And it was the Actor who sat up, with a sudden light in his eyes, and
supplied the information.
"Young Parker, who is farming the bit of ground next to here," he said,
with almost unnecessary distinctness. "You can see his house through
the trees."
"Young Parker? I remember young Parker." Covertly the Celebrated Actor
watched the boy's face, and what he saw there seemed to afford him
satisfaction.
"Where is the little dog buried?" asked the boy, quietly.
"Underneath the old yew tree," said the General. "Beryl put a ring of
stones around his grave this afternoon."
"I see," said the boy. "Thank you. I'm sorry to have troubled you."
The next instant he was gone, and it was the Actor who stopped the
Soldier as he was on the point of going after him.
"The boy has got his part," he remarked, cryptically. "At present he
requires no prompting."
"What the deuce are you talking about?" demanded the General, irritably.
But the Celebrated Actor was himself once more.
"Leave it to me, my dear fellow," he murmured, magnificently, throwing
back his head in another of those famous gestures which were the pride
and delight of countless multitudes. "Leave it entirely to me. The
stage is set: very soon the curtain will ring up." He stalked to the
window, and stood for a moment on the path outside, while the other two
looked at one another and shrugged their shoulders.
"Can't feel, can't think, can't hate. That boy feels and thinks and
hates--hates, I tell you, at this moment."
With which Parthian shot the Celebrated Actor vanished into the night.
"What on earth is the fellow driving at?" said the Soldier, peevishly.
But the answer to that question was apparently beyond the scope of the
Eminent Divine, and in silence the two men listened to the scrunch of
the Actor's footsteps on the gravel, growing fainter and fainter in the
distance.
*II*
Half an hour later they were still sitting at the table. The Actor had
not returned: there had been no further sign of Hugh, and the inaction
was getting on the Soldier's nerves. Twice had he risen and gone to the
window: twice had he taken a few steps into the darkness outside, only
to return and hover undecidedly by the fireplace.
"I feel I ought to go and look for the boy," he remarked for the
twentieth time. "Trayne's such an ass."
And for the twentieth time the Bishop counselled patience.
"In some ways he is," he agreed: "in others he's very shrewd. He's got
more imagination, General, than both of us put together, and real
imagination is akin to genius. Leave him alone: he can't do any harm."
With a non-committal grunt, the Soldier sat down, only to rise again
immediately as a tall, slight girl in white came in through the open
window. There was a misty look in her eyes, and her lips were faintly
tremulous, but she came straight up to the General and put a hand on his
arm. The other hand, with a piece of paper clutched in it, she held
behind her back.
"Hugh has come back, Uncle Jim," she said. "Did you know?"
"Yes, old lady, I knew. Have you seen him?"
"No, I haven't seen him. Did he--did he come for Tommy?"