CHAPTER I

E-text prepared by Al Haines

'THE POMP OF YESTERDAY'

by

JOSEPH HOCKING

Author of 'All for a Scrap of Paper,' 'Dearer than Life,'

'The Curtain of Fire,' etc.

"Far famed our Navies melt away,

On dune and headland sinks the fire,

Lo, all the pomp of yesterday

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre.

God of the Nations, spare us yet!

Lest we forget, lest we forget."

RUDYARD KIPLING.

Hodder and Stoughton

London ---- New York ---- Toronto

_JOSEPH HOCKING'S GREAT WAR STORIES_

ALL FOR A SCRAP OF PAPER

THE CURTAIN OF FIRE

DEARER THAN LIFE

THE PRICE OF A THRONE

THE PATH OF GLORY

'THE POMP OF YESTERDAY'

TOMMY

TOMMY AND THE MAID OF ATHENS

OTHER STORIES BY JOSEPH HOCKING

Facing Fearful Odds

O'er Moor and Fen

The Wilderness

Rosaleen O'Hara

The Soul of Dominic Wildthorne

Follow the Gleam

David Baring

The Trampled Cross

"Let us never forget in all that we do, that the measure

of our ultimate success will be governed, largely if not mainly,

by the strength with which we put our religious convictions

into our action and hold fast firmly and fearlessly to the faith

of our forefathers."

_Extract of speech by General Sir William Robertson._

_March 2, 1918._

CONTENTS

CHAP.

I THE MAN WITHOUT A PAST

II SIR ROGER GRANVILLE'S SUGGESTION

III THE STRANGE BBHAVIOUR OF GEORGE ST. MABYN

IV I MEET CAPTAIN SPRINGFIELD

V HOW A MAN WORKED A MIRACLE

VI PAUL EDGECUMBE'S MEMORY

VII A CAUSE OF FAILURE

VIII I BECOME AN EAVESDROPPER

IX EDGECUMBE is MISSING

X THE STRUGGLE IN THE TRENCHES

XI EDGECUMBE'S STORY

XII THE STRUGGLE ON THE SOMME

XIII EDGECUMBE'S MADNESS

XIV EDGECUMBE'S LOGIC

XV DEVONSHIRE

XVI LORNA BOLIVICK'S HOME

XVII A NEW DEVELOPMENT

XVIII A TRAGIC HAPPINESS

XIX A MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS

XX A STRANGE NIGHT

XXI COLONEL MCCLURE'S VERDICT

XXII EDGECUMBE'S RESOLVE

XXIII SPRINGFIELD'S PROGRESS

XXIV A STRANGE LOVE-MAKING

XXV 'WHY IS VICTORY DELAYED?'

XXVI 'WHERE DOES GOD COME IN?'

XXVII SEEING LONDON

XXVIII SUNSHINE AND SHADOW

XXIX CROSS CURRENTS

XXX THE MARCH OF EVENTS

XXXI EDGECUMBE'S RETURN

XXXII THE GREAT MEETING

XXXIII THE LIFTED CURTAIN

XXXIV MEMORY

XXXV AFTERWARDS

XXXVI EDGECUMBE'S RESOLUTION

XXXVII MAURICE ST. MABYN

XXXVIII A BOMBSHELL

XXXIX SPRINGFIELD AT BAY

XL MAURICE ST. MABYN'S GENEROSITY

XLI THE NEW HOPE

XLII AN UNFINISHED STORY

FOREWORD

It is now fast approaching four years since our country at the call of

duty, and for the world's welfare entered the great struggle which is

still convulsing the nations of the earth. What this has cost us, and

what it has meant to us, and to other countries, it is impossible to

describe. Imagination reels before the thought. Still the ghastly

struggle continues, daily comes the story of carnage, and suffering,

and loss; and still the enemy who stands for all that is basest, and

most degraded in life, stands firm, and proudly vaunts his prowess.

Why is Victory delayed?

That is the question which has haunted me for many months, and I have

asked myself whether we, and our Allies, have failed in those things

which are essential, not only to Victory, but to a righteous and,

therefore, lasting peace.

In this story, while not attempting a full and complete answer to the

question, I have made certain suggestions which I am sure the Nation,

the Empire, ought to consider; for on our attitude towards them depends

much that is most vital to our welfare.

Let it not be imagined, however, that _The Pomp of Yesterday_ is

anything in the nature of a polemic, or a treatise. It is first and

foremost a story--a romance if you like--of incident, and adventure.

But it is more than a story. It deals with vital things, and it deals

with them--however inadequately--sincerely and earnestly. The

statements, moreover, which will probably arouse a great deal of

antagonism in certain quarters, are not inventions of the Author, but

were related to him by those in a position to know.

Neither are the descriptions of the Battle of the Somme the result of

the Author's imagination, but transcripts from the experiences of some

who passed through it. Added to this, I have, since first writing the

story, paid a Second Visit to the Front, during which I traversed the

country on which Thiepval, Goomecourt, La Boiselle, Contalmaison; and a

score of other towns and villages once stood. Because of this, while

doubtless a military authority could point out technical errors in my

descriptions, I have been able to visualize the scenes of the battle,

and correct such mistakes as I made at the time of writing.

One other word. More than once, the chief character in the narrative

anticipates what has taken place in Russia. While I do not claim to be

a prophet, it is only fair to say that I finished writing the story in

August, 1917, when very few dreamt of the terrible chaos which now

exists in the once Great Empire on which we so largely depended.

JOSEPH HOCKING.

_March_, 1918.

CHAPTER I

THE MAN WITHOUT A PAST

My first meeting with the man whose story I have set out to relate was

in Plymouth. I had been standing in the harbour, hoping that the

friends I had come to meet might yet appear, even although the chances

of their doing so had become very small. Perhaps a hundred passengers

had landed at the historic quay, and practically all of them had rushed

away to catch the London train. I had scrutinized each face eagerly,

but when the last passenger had crossed the gangway I had been

reluctantly compelled to assume that my friends, for some reason or

other, had not come.

I was about to turn away, and go back to the town, when some one

touched my arm. 'This is Plymouth, isn't it?'

I turned, and saw a young man. At that time I was not sure he was

young; he might have been twenty-eight, or he might have been

forty-eight. His face was marked by a thousand lines, while a look

suggestive of age was in his eyes. He spoke to me in an apologetic

sort of way, and looked at me wistfully.

I did not answer him for a second, as his appearance startled me. The

strange admixture of youth and age gave me an eerie feeling.

'Yes,' I replied, 'this is Plymouth. At least, this is Plymouth

Harbour.'

He turned toward the vessel, and looked at it for some seconds, and

then heaved a sigh.

'Have you friends on board?' I asked.

'Oh, no,' he replied. 'I have just left it. I thought I remembered

Plymouth, and so I got off.'

'Where have you come from?'

'From India.'

'Where did you come from?'

'From Bombay. It was a long journey to Bombay, but it seemed my only

chance.' Then he shuddered.

'Aren't you well?' I asked.

'Oh, yes, I am very well now. But everything seems difficult to

realize; you, now, and all this,' and he cast his eyes quickly around

him, 'seem to be something which exists in the imagination, rather than

objective, tangible things.'

He spoke perfect English, and his manner suggested education,

refinement.

'You don't mind my speaking to you, do you?' he added somewhat

nervously.

'Not at all,' and I scrutinized him more closely. 'If you did not

speak English so well,' I said, 'I should have thought you were an

Indian,'--and then I realized that I had been guilty of a _faux pas_,

for I saw his face flush and his lips tremble painfully.

'You were thinking of my clothes,' was his reply. 'They were the best

I could get. When I realized that I was alive, I was half naked; I was

very weak and ill, too. I picked up these things,' and he glanced at

his motley garments, 'where and how I could. On the whole, however,

people were very kind to me. When I got to Bombay, my feeling was that

I must get to England.'

'And where are you going now?' I asked.

'I don't know. Luckily I have a little money; I found it inside my

vest. I suppose I must have put it there before----' and then he

became silent, while the strange, wistful look in his eyes was

intensified.

'What is your name?' I asked.

'I haven't the slightest idea. It's very awkward, isn't it?' and he

laughed nervously. 'Sometimes dim pictures float before my mind, and I

seem to have vague recollections of things that happened ages and ages

ago. But they pass away in a second. I am afraid you think my conduct

unpardonable, but I can hardly help myself. You see, having no memory,

I act on impulse. That was why I spoke to you.'

'The poor fellow must be mad,' I said to myself; 'it would be a

kindness to him to take him to a police station, and ask the

authorities to take care of him.' But as I looked at him again, I was

not sure of this. In spite of his strange attire, and in spite, too,

of the wistful look in his eyes, there was no suggestion of insanity.

That he had passed through great trouble I was sure, and I had a

feeling that he must, at some time, have undergone some awful

experiences. But his eyes were not those of a madman. In some senses

they were bold and resolute, and suggested great courage; in others

they expressed gentleness and kindness.

'Then you have no idea what you are going to do, now you have landed at

Plymouth?'

'I'm afraid I haven't. Perhaps I ought not to have got off here at

all. But again I acted on impulse. You see, when I first saw the

harbour, I had a feeling that I had been here before, so seeing the

others landing, I followed them. My reason for speaking to you was, I

think, this,'--and he touched my tunic. 'Besides, there was something

in your eyes which made me trust you.'

'Are you a soldier, then?' I asked.

'I don't know. You see, I don't know anything. But I rather think I

must have been interested in the Army, because I am instinctively drawn

to any one wearing a soldier's uniform. You are a captain, I see.'

'Yes,' I replied. 'I'm afraid my position in the Army is somewhat

anomalous, but there it is. When the war broke out, I was asked by the

War Office to do some recruiting, and thinking that I should have more

influence as a soldier, a commission was given me. I don't know much

about soldiering, although I have taken a great deal of interest in the

Army all my life.'

He looked at me in a puzzled sort of way. 'War broke out?' he queried.

'Is England at war?'

'Didn't you know?'

He shook his head pathetically. 'I know nothing. All the way home I

talked to no one. I didn't feel as though I could. You see, people

looked upon me as a kind of curiosity, and I resented it somewhat.

But, England at war! By Jove, that's interesting!'

His eyes flashed with a new light, and another tone came into his

voice. 'Who are we at war with?' he added.

'Principally with Germany,' I replied, 'but it'll take a lot of

explaining, if you've heard nothing about it. Roughly speaking,

England, France, and Russia are at war with Germany, Austria and

Turkey.'

'I always said it would come--always. The Germans have meant it for

years.'

'The fellow is contradicting himself; he begins to have a memory in a

remarkable manner,' I thought. 'When did you think it would come?' I

asked.

He looked at me in a puzzled way as if he were trying to co-ordinate

his thoughts, and then, with a sigh, gave it up as if in despair. 'It

is always that way,' he said with a sigh, 'sometimes flashes of the

past come to me, but they never remain. But what is England at war

about?'

'I am afraid it would take too long to tell you. I say,' and I turned

to him suddenly, 'have you done anything wrong in India, that you come

home in this way?'

I was sorry the moment I had spoken, for I knew by the look in his eyes

that my suspicion was unjust.

'Not that I know of,' he replied. 'I am simply a fellow who can't

remember. You don't know how I have struggled to recall the past, and

what a weary business it is.'

I must confess I felt interested in him. That he had been educated as

a gentleman was evident from every word he spoke, and in spite of his

motley garb, no one would take him for an ordinary man. I wanted to

know more about him, and to look behind the curtain which hid his past

from him.

'I'm afraid I must be an awful nuisance to you,' he said. 'I'm taking

up a lot of your time, and doubtless you have your affairs to attend

to.'

'No, I'm at a loose end just now. If you like, I'll help you to get

some other clothes, and then you'll feel more comfortable.'

'It would be awfully good of you if you would.'

Two hours later, he sat with me in the dining-room of a hotel which

faced The Hoe. His nondescript garments were discarded, and he was now

clothed in decent British attire. That he had a good upbringing, and

was accustomed to the polite forms of society, was more than ever

evidenced while we were together at the hotel. There was no suggestion

of awkwardness in his movements, and everything he did betrayed the

fact that he had been accustomed to the habits and associations of an

English gentleman.

After dinner, we went for a walk on The Hoe.

'It would be really ever so much easier to talk to you,' I said with a

laugh, 'if you had a name. Have you no remembrance of what you were

called?'

'Not the slightest. In a vague way I know I am an Englishman, and

that's about all. Months ago I seemed to awake out of a deep sleep,

and I realized that I was in India. By a kind of intuition, I found my

way to Bombay, and hearing that a boat was immediately starting for

England, I came by it. It was by the merest chance that I was able to

come. I had walked a good way, and was foot-sore. I had a bathe in a

pond by the roadside, and on examining a pocket inside my vest I found

several £5 notes.'

'And you knew their value?' I asked.

'Oh, yes, perfectly,' he replied.

'Did you not realize that they might not belong to you?'

'No, I was perfectly sure that they belonged to me, and that I had put

them there before I lost my memory, I can't give you any reason for

this, but I know it was so. I have just another remembrance,' he

added, and he shuddered as he spoke.

'What is that?'

'That I had been with Indians. Even now I dream about them, and I wake

up in the night sometimes, seeing the glitter of their eyes, and the

flash of their knives. I think they tortured me, too. I have curious

scars on my body. Still, I don't think about that if I can help it.'

'And you have no recollection of your father or mother?'

He shook his head.

'No memories of your boyhood?'

'No.'

'Then I must give you a name. What would you like to be called?'

He laughed almost merrily. 'I don't know. One name is as good as

another. What a beautiful place!' and he pointed to one of the

proudest dwellings in that part of the country. 'What is it called?'

'That is Mount Edgecumbe,' I said.

'Mount Edgecumbe,' he repeated, 'Edgecumbe? That sounds rather nice.

Call me Edgecumbe.'

'All right,' I laughed; 'but what about your Christian name?'

'I don't mind what it is. What do you suggest?'

'There was a scriptural character who had strange experiences, called

Paul.'

'Paul Edgecumbe,--that wouldn't sound bad, would it?'

'No, it sounds very well.'

'For the future, then, I'll be Paul Edgecumbe, until--my memory comes

back;--if ever it does,' he added with a sigh. 'Paul Edgecumbe, Paul

Edgecumbe,--yes, I shall remember that.'

'And what are you going to do?' I asked. 'Your little store of money

will soon be gone. Have you any idea what you are fit for?'

'Not the slightest. Stay though----' A group of newly-made soldiers

passed by as he spoke, and each of them, according to the custom of

soldiers, saluted me. 'Strapping lot of chaps, aren't they?' he said,

like one talking to himself; 'they'll need a lot of licking into shape,

though. By Jove, that'll do.'

'What'll do?'

'You say England is at war, and you've been on a recruiting stunt.

That will suit me. Recruit me, will you?'

'Do you know anything about soldiering?'

'I don't think so. I remember nothing. Why do you ask?'

'Because when those soldiers saluted me just now, you returned the

salute.'

'Did I? I didn't know. Perhaps I saw you doing so and I unconsciously

followed your lead. But I don't think I do know anything about

soldiering. I remember nothing about it, anyhow.'

This conversation took place in the early spring of 1915, just as

England began to realize that we were actually at war. The first flush

of recruiting had passed, and hundreds of thousands of our finest young

men had volunteered for the Army. But a kind of apathy had settled

upon the nation, and fellows who should have come forward willingly

hung back.

I had been fairly successful in my recruiting campaign; nevertheless I

was often disappointed at the lack of enthusiasm manifested. I found

that young men gave all sorts of foolish excuses as reasons for not

joining; and when this stranger volunteered, as it seemed to me,

unthinkingly, and without realizing the gravity of the step he was

taking, I hesitated.

'Of course you understand that you are doing a very important thing?' I

said. 'We are at war, and fellows who volunteer know that they are

possibly volunteering for death.'

'Oh yes, of course.' He said this in what seemed to me such a casual

and matter-of-fact way that I could not believe he realized what war

was.

'The casualty list is already becoming very serious,' I continued.

'You see, we are having to send out men after a very short training,

and thus it comes about that the lads who, when war broke out, never

dreamed of being soldiers, are now, many of them, either maimed and

crippled for life, or dead. You quite realize what you are doing?'

'Certainly,' he replied, 'but then, although I have forgotten nearly

everything else, I have not forgotten that I am an Englishman, and of

course, as an Englishman, I could do no other than offer myself to my

country. Still, I'd like to know the exact nature of our quarrel with

Germany.'

'You've not forgotten there is such a country as Germany, then?'

'Oh, no.' And then he sighed, as if trying to recollect something. 'I

say,' he went on, 'my mind is a curious business. I know that Germany

is a country in Europe. I can even remember the German language. I

know that Berlin is the capital of the country, and I can recall the

names of many of their big towns,--Leipzig, Frankfurt, Munich,

Nuremburg; I have a sort of fancy that I have visited them; but I know

nothing of the history of Germany,--that is all a blank. Funny, isn't

it?' and then he sighed again.

'As it happens,' I said, 'I have to speak at a recruiting meeting

to-night, here in Plymouth. Would you like to come? I am going to

deal with the reasons for the war, and to show why it is every chap's

duty to do his bit.'

'I'd love to come. My word! what's that?'

Away in the distance there was a sound of martial music, and as the

wind was blowing from the south-west the strains reached us clearly.

Evidently some soldiers were marching with a band.

'It's fine, isn't it!' he cried. He threw back his shoulders, stood

perfectly erect, and his footsteps kept perfect time to the music. I

felt more than ever convinced that he had had some former association

with the Army.

On our way to the recruiting meeting, however, he seemed to have

forgotten all about it. He was very listless, and languid, and

depressed. He was like a man who wanted to hide himself from the

crowd, and he slunk along the streets as though apologizing for his

presence.

'That's the hall,' I said, pointing to a big building into which the

people were thronging.

'I shall not be noticed, shall I? If you think I should, I'd rather

not go.'

'Certainly not. Who's going to notice you? I'll get you a seat on the

platform if you like.'

'Oh, no, no. Let me slink behind a pillar somewhere. No, please don't

bother about me, I'll go in with that crowd. I'll find you after the

meeting.' He left me as he spoke, and a minute later I had lost sight

of him.

I am afraid I paid scanty attention to what was said to me in the

anteroom, prior to going into the hall. The man interested me more

than I can say. I found myself wondering who he was, where he came

from, and what his experiences had been. More than once, I doubted

whether I had not been the victim of an impostor. The story of his

loss of memory was very weak and did not accord with the spirit of the

men in the anteroom, who were eagerly talking about the war; or with

the purposes of the meeting. And yet I could not help trusting in him,

he was so frank and manly. In a way, he was transparent, too, and

talked like a grown-up child.

When I entered the hall, which was by this time crowded with, perhaps,

two thousand people, I scanned the sea of faces eagerly, but could

nowhere see the man who had adopted the name of Paul Edgecumbe. I

doubted whether he was there at all, and whether I should ever see him

again. Still, I did not see what purpose he could have had in

deceiving me. He had received nothing from me, save his dinner at the

hotel, which I had persisted in paying for in spite of his protests.

The clothes he wore were paid for by his own money, and he showed not

the slightest expectation of receiving any benefits from me.

Just as I was called upon to speak, I caught sight of him. He was

sitting only a few rows back from the platform, close to a pillar, and

his eyes, I thought, had a vacant stare. When my name was mentioned,

however, and I stood by the table on the platform, waiting for the

applause which is usual on such an occasion to die down, the vacant

look had gone. He was eager, alert, attentive.

Usually I am not a ready speaker, but that night my work seemed easy.

After I had sketched the story of the events which led to the war, the

atmosphere became electric, and the cause I had espoused gripped me as

never before, and presently, when I came to the application of the

story I had told, and of our duty as a nation which pretended to stand

for honour and truth, and Christianity, my heart grew hot, and the

meeting became wild with enthusiasm.

Just as I was closing, I looked toward the pillar by which Paul

Edgecumbe sat, and his face had become so changed that I scarcely knew

him. There were no evidences of the drawn, parchment-like skin;

instead, his cheeks were flushed, and looked youthful. His eyes were

no longer wistful and sad, but burned like coals of fire. He was like

a man consumed by a great passion. If he had forgotten the past, the

present, at all events, was vividly revealed to him.

Before I sat down, I appealed for volunteers. I asked the young men,

who believed in the sacredness of promises, in the honour of life, in

the sanctity of women, to come on to the platform, and to give in their

names as soldiers of the King.

There was no applause, a kind of hush rested on the audience; but for

more than a minute no one came forward. Then I saw Paul Edgecumbe make

his way from behind the pillar, and come towards the platform, the

people cheering as he did so. He climbed the platform steps, and

walked straight toward the chairman, who looked at him curiously.

'Will you take me, sir?' he said, and his voice rang out clearly among

the now hushed audience.

'You wish to join, do you?'

'Join!' he said passionately, 'how can a man, who is a man, do anything

else?'

What I have related describes how I first met Paul Edgecumbe, and how

he joined the Army. At least a hundred other volunteers came forward

that night, but I paid little attention to them. The man whose history

was unknown to me, and whose life-story was unknown even to himself,

had laid a strong hand upon me.

As I look back on that night now, and as I remember what has since

taken place, I should, if power had been given me to read the future,

have been even more excited than I was.