PAUL EDGECUMBE'S MEMORY
'You!' I exclaimed.
He stood like a soldier on parade, and saluted me.
'Yes, Captain Luscombe. I hope you are well, sir.'
He spoke as though nothing out of the ordinary had taken place.
'But--but--this is great!' I gasped. 'Tell me, how did you do it?'
But he had no time to answer the question, as at that moment orders
came for us to report ourselves.
Never had I seen a man so excited as the colonel was when the story was
told to him. First of all he stared at us as though we were madmen,
then laughter overcame his astonishment, and he fairly roared with
merriment.
'The brigadier and the divisional general must hear of it at once!' he
cried. 'Why, it is the greatest thing since the war began! And you
did nothing, Luscombe?'
'Nothing,' I said; 'this man did it all.' And I enlarged upon the
difficulties of the situation, and the way Paul Edgecumbe had overcome
them.
'Well, Edgecumbe,' I said, when at length I had an opportunity of
speaking to him alone, 'give me an account of yourself. Where have you
been? what have you been doing? and how have things been going with
you?'
'All right, sir. As to where I have been, and what I have been doing,
it's not worth telling about.'
'You don't mind my asking you awkward questions, do you?'
'Not a bit. Ask what you like, sir.'
'Has your memory come back?'
A shadow passed over his face, and a suggestion of the old yearning
look came into his eyes.
'No,--no, nothing. Strange, isn't it? Ever since that day when I
found myself a good many miles away from Bombay, and realized that I
was alive, everything stands out plainly in my memory; but before
that,--nothing. I could describe to you in detail almost everything
that has taken place since then. But there seems to be a great, black
wall which hides everything that took place before. I shudder at it
sometimes because it looks so impenetrable. Now and then I have
dreams, the same old dreams of black, evil faces, and flashing knives,
and cries of agony; but they are only dreams,--I remember nothing.'
'During the time you were in England training,' I said, 'you went to
various parts of the country?'
'Yes, I was in Exeter, Swindon, Bramshott, Salisbury Plain.'
'And you recognized none of them, you'd no feeling that you had seen
those places before?'
'No.'
'Faces, now,' I urged; 'do you ever see faces which suggest people you
have known in the past?'
He was silent for two or three seconds.
'Yes, and no,' he replied. 'I see faces sometimes which, while they
don't cause me to remember, give me strange fancies and
incomprehensible longings. Sometimes I hear names which have the same
effect upon me.'
'And your memory has been good for ordinary things?'
He laughed gaily. 'I think that whatever I went through has increased
my powers of memory,--that is, those things that took place since I
woke up. If you will ask the sub., or the drill sergeant who gave me
my training, they will tell you that there was never any need to tell
me anything twice. I forget nothing, I never have to make an effort to
remember. When I hear a thing, or see a man's face, I never forget it.
I worked hard, too. I have read a good deal. I found that I knew
nothing of mathematics, and that my knowledge of German and French was
very hazy. It is not so now. Things like _that_ have come to me in a
miraculous way.'
'Have you tried for a commission?'
'No. I have been offered one, but I wouldn't have it. Something, I
don't know what, told me not to. I wouldn't even have a corporal's
stripe.'
'And you have no more idea of who you really are than you had when I
saw you first?'
'No, not a bit.'
'Let me see if I can help your memory,' I said. 'Devonshire, think of
that word, now, and what it represents,--does it bring back anything to
you?'
'Nothing, except that yearning. I have a feeling that I know something
about it,--a great longing to--to--I hardly know what.'
I tried him a little farther. 'Granitelands,--does that mean anything
to you?'
Again he hesitated. 'No, nothing.'
'Can you ever recall any remembrance of, or has the name of Maurice St.
Mabyn any interest for you?'
I asked this because, even in spite of what Captain Springfield had
told me, vague fancies had come to me that perhaps there might be some
mistake, and--and----but I dared not bring my thoughts to a conclusion.
'Maurice St. Mabyn,' he repeated, 'Maurice St. Mabyn. It might be a
name I heard when I was a kiddy, but--no.'
'Norah Blackwater.' I uttered the name suddenly, impressively, and I
thought I saw his lips tremble, and certainly his eyes had a far-away
look. He was like a man trying to see in a great darkness, trying to
outline objects which were invisible to the natural eye.
'That seems like a dream name. Who is she? Why do you ask about her?'
'I am trying to help you,' I said. 'She is a lady I met at the house
of Sir Roger Granville. She must be about twenty-five, perhaps not
quite so old, a tall, stylish-looking girl. I expect by this time she
is engaged to a fellow called George St. Mabyn. He is a brother to
Maurice, who was killed in Egypt.'
'Maurice killed in Egypt!' he repeated.
'Yes. I think Maurice had a friend called Springfield.'
'I remember that,--Springfield. Springfield,--Springfield.'
For a moment there was a change in his voice, a change, too, in the
look of his eyes. At least I thought so. I could fancy I detected
anger, contempt; but perhaps it was only fancy, and it was only for a
moment.
'A tall, dark fellow. He has rather a receding forehead, black hair
streaked with grey, a thin, somewhat cadaverous-looking face, deep-set
eyes, a scar on his cheek, just below his right temple.'
He laughed again. 'By Jove, sir,' he said, 'you might be describing a
man I know. I seem to see his face as plainly as I see yours. I don't
think I like him, either, but--but--no, it has gone, gone! Have you
any suspicions about me? Have _you_ found out anything?'
'No,' I said, 'I have found out nothing. But I have a hundred
suspicions. You see, you interested me tremendously when I saw you
first, and I wondered greatly about you. I was awfully disappointed
when I could not find you.'
'Why should you want to find me?' he asked.
'Because I told some one about you, and she got tremendously
interested. She got angry with me because I had lost sight of you.'
'Who was she, sir?'
'Her name is Lorna Bolivick, and, I say,--I have something to show
you.' And I searched in my tunic until I had found the previous year's
diary in which I had written the promise.
'There,' I said, and opened the diary at May 29.
'And this girl was interested in me, was she?'
Our conversation suddenly terminated at that moment, as an urgent
message reached me that my colonel wanted to see me. A few minutes
later I learnt that little short of a calamity had befallen us; that
the Germans had broken into some trenches which had lately been taken,
and that there was imminent danger of some of our best positions
falling into their hands.
Twelve hours later, the danger was averted; but it was at a frightful
cost. It was reported to me that a battalion was largely decimated,
and the positions which we ought to have gained remained in the hands
of the enemy.
I saw that the colonel looked very perturbed; indeed his face, which
was usually ruddy and hopeful, was haggard and drawn.
'Anything serious the matter?' I asked.
'Serious!' he replied, 'it is calamitous!'
'But we've cleared them out, haven't we?'
'Cleared them out! Why, man!' and he walked to and fro like one
demented. 'There's sure to be an inquiry,' he said at length, 'and
there'll be no end of a row; there ought to be, too. But what could
one do?'
'What is the trouble, then?' for the look in his eyes had made me very
anxious.
He made no reply, but I could see that his mind was busily at work.
'You remember that chap who got you out of that hole the day before
yesterday?' he asked.
'What, Edgecumbe? I should think I do!'
'I hear he is missing.'
'Edgecumbe missing? Taken prisoner, you mean?'
'I don't know. I have not heard particulars yet. I should not have
heard anything about him at all, but for the way he brought himself
into prominence over that affair. But it seems he was last seen
fighting with two Huns, so I expect he is done for. Terrible pity,
isn't it? I was going to recommend him for decoration, and--and other
things.'
In a way I could not understand, my heart grew heavy; I felt as though
I were responsible for it, and that I had failed in my duty. And I had
a sort of feverish desire to know what had become of him.
'Good night, colonel,' I said suddenly, and I hurried away into the
darkness. I felt that at all costs I must find out the truth about
Paul Edgecumbe.