Colonel Agnew was furious, splutteringly, dementedly furious, and at the
same time coldly, and determinedly furious. No one ever had seen him so
angry before. Kathleen, who ruled and teased and mocked him openly,
poured out his coffee, and passed him the ginger-jam silently and
abjectly. And a few moments after breakfast she fled from his
presence—her own Daddy darling’s—determined to avoid it for the rest
of that day.
When Satan, his four-footed pal, sat up and begged for his
after-breakfast lump the master had refused it, and thundered, “Go to
hell!” No one ever had known Agnew to lose his temper with Satan, and
the terrier flounced down on all paws, and slunk sugarless out of the
room.
“Prayers, Daddy?” Kathleen said, as naturally as she could, when they’d
pushed back their chairs. The Colonel was a staunch churchman, but no
cut-and-dried one; usually he read a chapter to his girl after
breakfast, and they said “Our Father” together, and then, if it wasn’t
too late, he’d bid her sing some hymn her mother had loved and
sung—usually, but not always, and it was Kathleen Agnew’s daily
duty—almost her only enforced one—to ask if it was a “prayers” day,
and to follow him into his den, and find the place in the Bible, if it
was.
“Prayers, Daddy?” she asked gently.
“Prayers be damned!” was the terrible reply she got, and all she
got—not even a glance—as the Colonel stalked prayerless out of the
room.
It was then she’d beaten her retreat “Poor Daddy!” she thought. “How
terribly he’s feeling it!” She shook her pretty, yellow head sadly after
his grim, gaunt gray one, and then smiled rather brokenly. For she
thought there had been a lump in his throat—of course Daddy couldn’t
read prayers with a lump in his throat, poor dear. And Kathleen knew
what it all was about. It was early morning yet, but all the regiment
knew, and by tiffin all the station would know. And Whitehall would know
by the very next mail home.
It was all up with Major Crespin now. He’d have to send in his papers
this time. Every man in the regiment knew it, every native regimental
servant. Every servant in the Colonel-sahib’s bungalow knew it. Native
women filling their jars at the wells were talking it over. Iris and
Ronald’s ayah and bearer had known it hours ago. The Parsi money changer
who lived near the native bazaar, in the old house off of whose thick
walls most of the magenta paint had cracked and gone, and Ali Lal, the
melon-seller who drove his best trade in the despised Eurasian quarter,
knew it too. Such news is no laggard in India; it flies faster than
kites.
It was this:
At mess the night before Major Crespin had befouled and disgraced the
regiment. And it had been guest night. A bishop from Bangalore, a
general (almost a commander-in-chief) from the Madras Presidency, and—a
thousand times worse, more bitter—an American officer of high rank, and
Dr. Traherne had been the guests.
Crespin had had a fagging day, the Adjutant had looked at him
suspiciously once or twice, and when the dinner hour came Major Crespin
had had almost enough. When sweetbreads followed the fish he had had
enough. And he grew offensive before the game. He came dangerously near
contradicting the General twice. He mentioned a woman’s name—one of the
regimental ladies—and, in what he said, quite unobjectionably, but a
woman’s name is not mentioned in the officers’ mess. You may think of
her there—subalterns have owned to having done it—but you may not
voice her name. It isn’t done. He had spilled claret, and he had offered
the Bishop a warm letter of personal introduction to the première
danseuse of a French Company crowding a Calcutta theater just then—an
artiste notoriously as frail of virtue as she was shameless in posture
and skilful of feet. He had made—to the American—an unpardonable
remark about Lee and Grant. It was all covered up, or attempted to be.
The affronted guests all were not only gentlemen but jolly good fellows,
and two of them had met Mrs. Crespin. It was smothered, talked under and
shunted; and Traherne, the American officer, and the Bishop more than
half hoped that Agnew, at the other end of the table from Crespin, had
not noticed or realized. He had given no sign, and Crespin had purred
his impertinences a little thickly, not shouted them, or pronounced them
too clearly.
But at “Gentlemen, the King,” as Agnew lifted his glass, Major Crespin,
swaying a little on his feet, clutched at the back of the chair,
hiccuped painfully, looked about him with a bleary smile, and collapsed
half onto his chair, half onto the table.
There was nothing to be hoped then. There was nothing that could be
done.
No more need be said.
It was final.
* * * * *
And now it was the next morning, that terrible, pitiless next morning
that always comes, and always must, unless God grants the mercy of Death
before the dawn.
It was the next morning and Antony Crespin, twitching and sick, lay wide
awake on Traherne’s bed.
He was suffering exquisite bodily torture. Traherne had done what he
could. But that debt has to be paid. And it’s an I.O.U. that no friend’s
purse can take up. The debtor himself has to pay.
But his mental torment was more than his quivering of fevered flesh and
frightened trembling of sick, circling stomach. And his sorrow and shame
of spirit were more than his wife’s were, lying tearless, face down on
her own bed. And Doctor Traherne—glass in hand—sensed that it was so,
and pitied Crespin even more than he pitied Lucilla, even more than he
pitied unconscious, happy Iris and Ronald.
But an ounce of help is worth more than a pound of pity any day—and
most especially is this true “the next morning.” Traherne slid his
strong arm carefully under Crespin’s head, and held the glass deftly to
his mouth. The champagne was vintage and extra sec.
In spite of himself, in spite of his despair—it was almost absolute
despair this time—the wine tasted good. Champagne usually does taste
good to those who relish it. Perhaps it stands as firmest friend and
kindest nurse to the very desperately seasick, but its second-best play
of its magic trick probably is made “the next morning.”
Crespin drained the glass, and even put up a trembling hand to tilt it
farther and longer that he should miss no last drop. And he looked
around to see where the bottle was.
There was no bottle in sight.
“You’ve had it all, old chap,” Traherne told him, “a pint of it. Now try
to rest a bit.”
“Rest!” Crespin moaned.
“Lie perfectly still. That will help. I won’t be long.”
“You’re not going to leave me!”
“Must,” Traherne told him, pulling the _chick_ a little closer. “Sorry,
but must. I’ve something to see to that won’t keep. I’ll be back as soon
as I can. And I’ll tell Abdul what to do for you, and to see that you’re
not disturbed.”
“Traherne, you must not leave me.” There’s never a time so miserable
that the sound and sight of a friend—the right friend—cannot ease it.
“Look here,” Traherne said with his hand on the other’s arm, “I must. I
wouldn’t, if any one else could do what I’ve got to, but no one can. I
must attend to it myself, and I must attend to it now. Keep quiet—that
will help you most. And I’ll get back as soon as I can.”
Crespin called weakly after him as he was leaving the room.
“I suppose—my wife—knows.”
Traherne evaded, as doctors sometimes must.
“She knows you slept here last night. I sent her a chit when we came
in.”
“Came in, I supporting your staggering steps, I suppose,” Crespin said,
with the sick attempt at humor that often comes with the stale
after-fumes.
“We came in together,” Traherne said affectionately.
“O Lord,” Crespin told him, “you’re the real stuff, Traherne!”
“Of course I am—to you. Now I _am_ off. So long!”
But he was not off just yet.
“I say,” Crespin pleaded anxiously, “can I have another drink?”
“Not yet,” Traherne told him. “You shall, when I get back, with
something to eat——”
“Don’t!” the sick man groaned. “Give me a smoke then, before you go, and
for God’s sake don’t be long.”
Traherne found him the cigarettes, and took him the matches.
“Smoke if you like,” he said, “but I wouldn’t smoke yet, if I were you.”
Crespin put his hand out for a cigarette, but even his hand was sick,
and fell back from the effort.
Doctor Traherne put a cigarette in his hand, and struck a match and held
it. But Major Crespin couldn’t smoke.
Traherne left him then, closing the door of the darkened room with
careful quiet.
And Antony Crespin was alone with his creditor.