THE END
Tony wished for no mention of the word. He had not brought her to that
house that he might forgive her, but because he wanted her there. If
forgiveness was in question, there was much to be said upon her side
too. He was to blame, as Pamela had written. He had during the last
few months begun to realise the justice of that sentence more clearly
than he had done even when the letter was fresh within his thoughts.
"I have learnt something," he said to Millie, "which I might have
known before, but never did. It is this. Although a man may be content
to know that love exists, that is not the case with women. They want
the love expressed, continually expressed, not necessarily in words,
but in a hundred little ways. I did not think of that. There was the
mistake I made: I left you alone to think just what you chose. Well,
that's all over now. I bought this house not merely to please you, but
as much to please myself; for as soon as I understood that after all
the compromise which I dreaded need not be our lot--that after all the
life together of which I used to dream was possible, was within arm's
reach if only one would put out an arm and grasp it, I wanted you
here. As soon as I was sure, quite sure that I had recaptured you, I
wanted you here."
He spoke with passion, holding her in his arms. Millie remained quite
still for a while, and then she asked--
"Do you miss the Legion? As much as you thought you would--as much as
you did that night at Eze?"
He answered, "No"; and spoke the truth. On that night at Eze he had
not foreseen the outcome of his swift return, of his irruption into
the gaily lighted room murmurous with the sea. On that night he had
revealed himself to Millie, and the revelation had been the beginning
of love in her rather than its resumption. This he had come to
understand, and, understanding, could reply with truth that he did not
miss the Legion as he had thought he would. There were moments, no
doubt, when the sound of a bugle on a still morning would stir him to
a sense of loss, and he would fall to dreaming of Tavernay and
Barbier, and his old comrades, and the menacing silence of the Sahara.
At times, too, the yapping of dogs in the street would call up vividly
before his mind the picture of some tent village in Morocco where he
had camped. Or the wind roaring amongst trees on a night of storm
would set his mind wondering whether the ketch _Perseverance_ was
heading to the white-crested rollers, close-reefed between the Dogger
and the Fisher Banks; and for a little while he would feel the savour
of the brine sharp upon his lips, and longing would be busy at his
heart--for the Ishmaelite cannot easily become a stay-at-home. These,
however, were but the passing moods.
Of one other character who took an important if an unobtrusive part in
shaping the fortunes of the Truants a final word may be said. A
glimpse of that man, of the real man in him, was vouchsafed to
Warrisden two summers later. It happened that Warrisden attended a
public dinner which was held in a restaurant in Oxford Street. He left
the company before the dinner was over, since he intended to fetch his
wife Pamela, who was on that June evening witnessing a performance of
"Rigoletto" at the Opera House in Covent Garden. Warrisden rose from
the table and slipped out, as he thought at eleven o'clock, but on
descending into the hall he found that he had miscalculated the time.
It was as yet only a quarter to the hour, and having fifteen minutes
to spare, he determined to walk. The night was hot; he threw his
overcoat across his arm, and turning southwards out of Oxford Street,
passed down a narrow road in the neighbourhood of Drury Lane. In those
days, which were not, after all, so very distant from our own, the
great blocks of model dwellings had not been as yet erected; squalid
courts and rookeries opened on to ill-lighted passages; the houses had
a ruinous and a miserable look. There were few people abroad as
Warrisden passed through the quarter, and his breast-plate of white
shirt-front made him a conspicuous figure. He had come about half the
way from Oxford Street when he saw two men suddenly emerge from the
mouth of a narrow court a few yards in front of him. The two men were
speaking, or rather shouting, at one another; and from the violence of
their gestures no less than from the abusive nature of the language
which they used, it was plain that they were quarrelling. Words and
gestures led to blows. Warrisden saw one man strike the other and fell
him to the ground.
In an instant a little group of people was gathered about the
combatants, people intensely silent and interested--the sightseers of
the London streets who spring from nowhere with inconceivable
rapidity, as though they had been waiting in some secret spot hard by
for just this particular spectacle in this particular place.
Warrisden, indeed, was wondering carelessly at the speed with which
the small crowd had gathered when he came abreast of it. He stopped
and peered over the shoulders of the men and women in front of him
that he might see the better. The two disputants had relapsed
apparently into mere vituperation. Warrisden pressed forward, and
those in front parted and made way for him. He did not, however, take
advantage of the deference shown to his attire; for at that moment a
voice whispered in his ear--
"You had better slip out. This row is got up for you."
Warrisden turned upon his heel. He saw a short, stout, meanly dressed
man of an elderly appearance moving away from his side; no doubt it
was he who had warned him. Warrisden took the advice, all the more
readily because he perceived that the group was, as it were, beginning
to reform itself, with him as the new centre. He was, however, still
upon the outskirts. He pushed quickly out into the open street,
crossed the road, and continued on his way. In front of him he saw the
stout, elderly man, and, quickening his pace, he caught him up.
"I have to thank you," he said, "for saving me from an awkward
moment."
"Yes," replied the stout man; and Warrisden, as he heard his voice,
glanced at him with a sudden curiosity. But his hat was low upon his
brows, and the street was dark. "It is an old trick, but the old
tricks are the tricks which succeed. There was no real quarrel at all.
Those two men were merely pretending to quarrel in order to attract
your attention. You were seen approaching--that white shirt-front
naturally inspired hope. In another minute you would have been hustled
down the court and into one of the houses at the end. You would have
been lucky if, half an hour later, you were turned out into the street
stripped of everything of value you possess, half naked and half dead
into the bargain. Good night!"
The little man crossed the road abruptly. It was plain that he needed
neither thanks nor any further conversation. It occurred, indeed, to
Warrisden that he was deliberately avoiding conversation. Warrisden
accordingly walked on to the Opera House, and, meeting his wife in the
vestibule, told her this story while they waited for their brougham.
As they drove together homewards, he added--
"That is not all, Pamela. I can't help thinking--it is absurd, of
course--and yet, I don't know; but the little stout man reminded me
very much of some one we both know."
Pamela turned suddenly towards her husband--
"Mr. Mudge?" she said.
"Yes," replied Warrisden, with some astonishment at the accuracy of
her guess. "He reminded me of Mudge."
"It was Mr. Mudge," she said. For a moment or two she was silent; then
she let her hand fall upon her husband's: "He was a very good friend
to us," she said gently--"to all of us."
THE END
* * * * *
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.