Six days later Manton found himself once more in Lymington, alone in
Treves's lodgings, in the crowded room, littered with that young man's
desirable possessions. Those possessions were, for the time being, his
own; even Treves's name was his, for, carrying out his bargain, Treves
had vanished from the scene. Again Manton fell to wondering why the
other had been so anxious to dispossess himself of name and identity.
There was nothing criminal in the matter, he was assured of that,
otherwise Captain Gilbert would not have had a hand in it. The idea
that the Lieutenant had suffered from shell-shock, and desired to hide
himself from all who knew him for a time until he had recovered, came to
Manton, and struck him as feasible. He had himself known quite a number
of peculiar manifestations of this particularly mysterious disease. In
any case, whatever Treves's reasons, it mattered little to Manton at
that moment.
"I have simply got to make myself act as Treves, and to do the best I
can in Treves's shoes for the time being."
A few days earlier the young man had written him a letter in which he
had said: "Use everything of mine as if it were your own. It is only
fair if you get the kicks meant for me, you should get the ha'pence as
well. I have few relations, and none of them are likely to bother you.
When we shall meet again I do not know, but, in the meantime, _au
revoir_. I wonder what you will feel like this time next year?"
Manton, in the quiet of the room, took some considerable time trying to
realise his new circumstances, and gradually the sense of strangeness
and mystery that enveloped him began to fade away. In all his life
Manton had been used to the buffets and hard knocks of Fate; he began to
wonder what his immediate future in Treves's shoes held for him. Both
parents having died in India, he had been educated from a small fund in
the hands of a guardian, first in Germany, and later at Rugby. After
that he spent two years at Bonn. His resources were at an end, and the
guardian, feeling that he had done his duty, left him to fend for
himself. A period of hard going had followed, until the war broke out,
whereupon he precipitately enlisted in the first hundred thousand. If he
had waited a little longer a commission would have been thrust upon him
as it was upon all public school men in any way eligible. Treves's
past, Manton surmised, had not been of that nature, for despite the
poorness of the young man's lodgings, all his belongings were of the
costliest order. And all these belongings were now his, Manton's, to do
with as he liked. The idea came to him to write to Captain Gilbert,
thanking him for the amicable intervention that had wrought this change
in his circumstances. He sat down, drew forth a sheet of Treves's
notepaper, and had taken up a pen when a knock came at the door, and the
landlady appeared.
"You'd like some tea, sir, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, thank you," answered the young man.
"I've dusted the room every day, sir, since you've been away," said the
landlady.
"It's exactly as I left it," responded he truthfully. She was looking at
him across the width of the little room, but there was no doubt or
curiosity in her gaze; she had accepted him instantly on his arrival
that day as Bernard Treves, and even now, looking at him full and
closely, no thought of deception entered her mind. "I wonder what she'd
think," he pondered inwardly, "if Treves were to come in behind her
now."
But no such dramatic event occurred; the landlady brought up his tea,
and later furnished him with a bottle of whisky, a siphon of soda, and a
glass.
Next morning, when she cleared these things away, she was surprised to
find that no more than one peg of whisky had been taken.
"Wasn't you feeling well, sir, last night?" she asked.
"Quite," answered Manton, who was busy with an excellent breakfast.
She went away wondering. Until that day she had never known Mr. Treves
to drink less than half a bottle of whisky in the course of an evening.
During the morning John went for a stroll in the town, and on his return
the landlady handed him a letter which had arrived by the post in his
absence. Manton took it up to his room, and noticed that the
handwriting was sprawling and shaky. Twice he read the superscription,
"Bernard Treves, Esq., 15, Sade Road, Lymington." He hesitated several
minutes before breaking open the envelope. He felt as though he were
stepping beyond the pale of decency in opening the letter addressed to
another man, then he recalled Treves's admonition, "Everything that is
mine is yours." He tore open the envelope. Within was a single sheet
of paper headed, "Heatherfield Grange, Freshwater." Manton quickly
scanned the contents.
"_Dear Bernard,--They tell me you are in hiding, as well you may be, but
if you have a spark of decency left in you, you will come here to me at
the first opportunity. There are things I have to say to you_.
"_You have dishonoured and disgraced the family name, but I have still a
faint hope that you will retrieve yourself at the last moment.--Your
affectionate father,_
"R.T."
For many minutes John Manton sat staring at this letter, staring from
the stiff, sprawling writing out into the little street and back again.
All that day he pondered upon the missive he had received from Treves's
father. He wondered what it was Treves had done, and why he should have
been skulking in hiding at that address? A sense of uneasiness swept
over him, and was succeeded by a violent curiosity. For the first time
he felt vividly interested in Treves and Treves's history, and at the
same time doubtful and uneasy. Unpleasant and difficult situations
presented themselves to his mind.
Next morning, as a result of a decision he had taken, he was on his way
to Freshwater by midday. At three o'clock in the afternoon he walked
through the town and out to Heatherfield Grange, which he discovered to
be a large, many-chimneyed, many-windowed Elizabethan mansion, standing
in a spacious, heavily-wooded park. The mansion itself was approached by
a long carriage drive, too much overshadowed by trees, and when Manton
reached the lodge gates a bent old man, who was sweeping leaves from the
path, hurried forward and drew open the gate for him to enter. The man
drew himself up and saluted.
"Good day, Master Bernard."
Manton nodded and smiled. As he walked along the drive towards the
grand old house, his pulse-beat quickened. After all, had he a right to
act the part; was it honourable and fair that he should thus step into
another man's shoes? The under-gardener had taken him for Bernard
Treves; the whole world evidently was prepared to believe in the
deception. But there was Treves's father to face. Naturally Treves's
father would detect an impostor in a moment. But was he an impostor;
was it not probable that the elder Treves also was aware of what had
occurred?
The broad front door of the mansion was opened to him. A white-haired
butler, with pouches under his eyes, and a general air of
world-weariness, looked at him from the threshold, and slowly lifted his
eyes in surprise.
"Good afternoon, sir," said the butler. He took Manton's hat and stick,
and deferentially stood aside. "Your father will indeed be pleased and
surprised to see you, sir," he said, as he closed the door. His manner
was studiously civil, and yet somehow Manton felt a lack of cordiality
towards himself in the butler's tone.
"Possibly he's a privileged servant," he thought, "and does not like Mr.
Bernard."
"Where is--is the Colonel?" he asked after a moment's hesitation.
"In the library, sir, as usual. Will you go up at once?"
"Yes." He wondered consumedly where the Colonel's room might be, and
experienced a pleasant thrill of impending event. He attempted a little
harmless finesse to discover the way. "Perhaps you will go first and
tell him I am here."
"Very good, sir." The butler looked at him meditatively for a moment,
then went to a side-table and took up a silver salver containing three
letters and a telegram. Manton seized the moment to survey the heavy
splendour of the dark antique furniture, the wide spaces of the hall and
the richness of the rugs scattered over the polished floor. High above
the mantelshelf hung a portrait in oils of a personage in eighteenth
century costume. Descending to the middle of the hall was a wide oak
balustraded staircase, carpeted in scarlet, a single flight ascended to
the first floor, then branched to right and left.
"Your letters, sir." The butler was standing at Manton's elbow with the
silver salver extended. John took up the three letters and the
telegram. A renewed and intensified disinclination to pry into Bernard
Treves's affairs seized him. He was about to put letters and telegram
into his pocket when the butler spoke in his firm, polite voice. There
was a note of reproach in his tone, however, "The telegram came two days
ago, sir."
"Oh!" exclaimed Manton. And under the bleak eye of the butler he
disinterred it from his pocket, tore open the envelope, and read the
contents. The telegram had been dispatched from Camden Town, and ran:
"_Wire when you can come. Of course I will forgive you._--ELAINE."
He was conscious, as he read the words, that the butler's eyes were
fixed steadily upon him.
Then the old servant turned and preceded him towards the broad
staircase. They ascended to the first landing, and here the butler
wheeled to the right and halted before a double green baize door. The
elderly man knocked, paused for a moment, then pushed open the door, and
stepped into a room lined with books, a spacious, luxuriously furnished
apartment, with two mullioned windows overlooking the park. John,
following him, saw him cross to a deep, high-backed arm-chair near the
hearth.
"Mr. Bernard's here, sir," he announced, standing before this chair.
There was a movement in the chair, then a tall, soldierly, grey-haired
man revealed himself, leaning on a stick, and looked across at Manton.
He looked at him with a cold, inimical gaze, and until the butler had
closed the door and departed, did not utter a word, Then he spoke:
"So you've come, you dog, have you!" The almost savage intensity of
dislike and contempt in his tone struck the young man like a blow in the
face.
"I got your letter----" he began.
"Oh, yes, I found out where you were. Well," he went on, harshly,
"there is no need for us to waste compliments on each other. We will
settle the business that is to be settled at once."
He moved shakily towards a desk in the middle of the room, using his
stick as a support. Manton, seeing his frailty, hurried forward to
assist him, but the old man drew himself erect, raised his stick, and
flashed a look at him of utter repulsion.
"Do not dare to lay a hand on me," he said violently.
When he reached his desk he seated himself in a big swivel-chair, drew
out a drawer, and flung certain documents on the table. From under his
eyebrows he glowered at Manton.
"Sit down," he commanded.
John moved to the table side and occupied a chair near his elbow. Among
a pile of documents Colonel Treves searched for a certain typewritten
sheet. He found it at length, a long, yellow piece of official paper.
"Listen to this," he commanded. From the table beside him he took up a
square reading glass, and deciphered the typewritten paper with faded
grey eyes. "This," he vouchsafed, raising his eyes, "is from my old,
good friend, General Whiston." He paused a moment, and John seized the
opportunity to intervene, "May I say a word, sir?"
"No," thundered Treves. Then he read aloud in a voice vibrant with
emotion:
"_My dear Treves,--Your boy had every chance.... It was the merest
fluke in the world that he escaped as easily as he did. He is not of
the right stuff, and my condolences are with you. I wish I could
suggest something, but I cannot. I know, old friend, what a tragedy
this must be to you----_"
The Colonel stopped abruptly, flung down his reading glass, and looked
into Manton's face. "Well?" he demanded. "What do you think of that?"
Manton said nothing.
"Can you read between the lines?" questioned the elder man.
"It suggests," said John, after a moment's hesitation, "that the
punishment meted out to--to me, was a light one."
"I see you are as evasive as ever," retorted Colonel Treves. He turned
and smote the open letter twice with the back of his hand. "In this
letter, General Whiston," he measured his words slowly, "tells me, by
implication, that you are guilty of cowardice in the face of the
enemy--you, a Treves!" Then in a moment the anger that had vivified him
seemed to fade; he appeared to Manton to become suddenly old, bowed, and
pitiful, the expression on his face was one of anguish. The dishonour
that had befallen his name was no less than torture to him, but once
again he recovered himself, and gripped the arms of his chair with both
white-knuckled hands.
"You know the just punishment for cowardice in the face of the enemy?"
He was leaning towards Manton now; his mouth twitched, but there was a
blaze in the old grey eyes.
"I know it, sir," said John quietly.
The Colonel drew in his breath slowly and sat erect.
"Ah, you know. And, having escaped that punishment, and knowing
yourself to be guilty, you skulk in hiding! You fail to seize the one
chance that is open to you to redeem the past!"
"What is the chance?" inquired Manton, forgetting himself for a moment.
The Colonel stared at him in astonishment.
"The chance of re-enlistment, of course. Instead of doing that," he
went on, "you write me a whining letter, saying you can't stand the
trenches, you can't face it, your nerves--bah! nerves, my God, and you a
Treves!" He hurled these words forth with a contempt and loathing that
was like a blow in the face. But Manton noticed that he was breathing
heavily. The emotional intensity of his feelings was wearing on him,
and the younger man felt a sudden tenderness towards this old, stricken,
bitterly disappointed father.
"Is it too late now, sir?" he asked quietly.
"Eh?"
"Is it too late for me to make good?"
"Talk!" exclaimed the Colonel, in bitter derision; "always talk with
you. You don't mean that any more than you meant any of the lying
promises you made to me in the past. You have always been a liar! A
liar, a spendthrift, and a fool--and now, added to all these things, to
your gambling and your profligacy, you've finished as a----"
He paused, and Manton ventured:
"In regard to a way out, sir?"
The Colonel looked at him with renewed ferocity, then his expression
slowly changed. For some seconds he was silent, and, without a glance
at Manton, he began to fumble at a drawer. He drew it open at length,
and groped in its interior. His hand shook visibly, but there was
something in his attitude, some strange intensity of purpose, that
riveted Manton's attention. Presently the Colonel discovered the object
he sought, and revealed from the depths of the drawer an automatic
pistol.
"If you have a shred of honour left you will know what to do," he said
grimly. He reached out, and laid the weapon on the corner of the desk
at the young man's side.