A hot day a month later Charley Steele sat in his office staring before
him into space, and negligently smoking a cigarette. Outside there was a
slow clacking of wheels, and a newsboy was crying “La Patrie! La
Patrie! All about the War in France! All about the massacree!”
Bells--wedding-bells--were ringing also, and the jubilant sounds, like
the call of the newsboy, were out of accord with the slumberous feeling
of the afternoon. Charley Steele turned his head slowly towards the
window. The branches of a maple-tree half crossed it, and the leaves
moved softly in the shadow they made. His eye went past the tree and
swam into the tremulous white heat of the square, and beyond to where in
the church-tower the bells were ringing-to the church doors, from
which gaily dressed folk were issuing to the carriages, or thronged
the pavement, waiting for the bride and groom to come forth into a
new-created world--for them.
Charley looked through his monocle at the crowd reflectively, his head
held a little to one side in a questioning sort of way, on his lips the
ghost of a smile--not a reassuring smile. Presently he leaned forward
slightly and the monocle dropped from his eye. He fumbled for it,
raised it, blew on it, rubbed it with his handkerchief, and screwed it
carefully into his eye again, his rather bushy brow gathering over it
strongly, his look sharpened to more active thought. He stared straight
across the square at a figure in heliotrope, whose face was turned to a
man in scarlet uniform taller than herself two glowing figures towards
whom many other eyes than his own were directed, some curiously, some
disdain fully, some sadly. But Charley did not see the faces of those
who looked on; he only saw two people--one in heliotrope, one in
scarlet.
Presently his white firm hand went up and ran through his hair
nervously, his comely figure settled down in the chair, his tongue
touched the corners of his red lips, and his eyes withdrew from the
woman in heliotrope and the man in scarlet, and loitered among the
leaves of the tree at the window. The softness of the green, the cool
health of the foliage, changed the look of his eye from something cold
and curious to something companionable, and scarcely above a whisper two
words came from his lips:
“Kathleen! Kathleen!”
By the mere sound of the voice it would have been hard to tell what the
words meant, for it had an inquiring cadence and yet a kind of distant
doubt, a vague anxiety. The face conveyed nothing--it was smooth, fresh,
and immobile. The only point where the mind and meaning of the man
worked according to the law of his life was at the eye, where the
monocle was caught now as in a vise. Behind this glass there was a
troubled depth which belied the self-indulgent mouth, the egotism
speaking loudly in the red tie, the jewelled finger, the ostentatiously
simple yet sumptuous clothes.
At last he drew in a sharp, sibilant breath, clicked his tongue--a
sound of devil-may-care and hopelessness at once--and turned to a little
cupboard behind him. The chair squeaked on the floor as he turned, and
he frowned, shivered a little, and kicked it irritably with his heel.
From the cupboard he took a bottle of liqueur, and, pouring out a small
glassful, drank it off eagerly. As he put the bottle away, he said
again, in an abstracted fashion, “Kathleen!”
Then, seating himself at the table, as if with an effort towards energy,
he rang a bell. A clerk entered. “Ask Mr. Wantage to come for a moment,”
he said. “Mr. Wantage has gone to the church--to the wedding,” was the
reply.
“Oh, very well. He will be in again this afternoon?”
“Sure to, sir.”
“Just so. That will do.”
The clerk retired, and Charley, rising, unlocked a drawer, and taking
out some books and papers, laid them on the table. Intently, carefully,
he began to examine them, referring at the same time to a letter which
had lain open at his hand while he had been sitting there. For a quarter
of an hour he studied the books and papers, then, all at once, his
fingers fastened on a point and stayed. Again he read the letter lying
beside him. A flush crimsoned his face to his hair--a singular flush
of shame, of embarrassment, of guilt--a guilt not his own. His breath
caught in his throat.
“Billy!” he gasped. “Billy, by God!”