Book V

GEORGE GREEN

chapter 1

In the yard of the county hotel in Wiltsbury two chauffeurs were busy

with cars. George Green finished his work on the interior of the big

Daimler, wiped his hands on a bit of oily rag, and stood upright with

a sigh of satisfaction. He was a cheerful young fellow and was smiling

now because he was pleased with himself for locating the trouble and

dealing with it. He strolled along to where his fellow chauffeur was

completing the toilet of a Minerva.

The latter looked up.

"Hullo, George. You through? Your boss is a Yank, isn't he? What's he

like?"

"He's all right. Fussy, though. Won't go more than forty."

"Well, thank your stars you don't drive for a woman," said the other.

His name was Evans. "Always changing their minds. And no idea of the

proper times for meals. Picnic lunches as often as not--and you know

what that means, a hard-boiled egg and a leaf of lettuce."

Green sat down on an adjacent barrel.

"Why don't you chuck it?"

"Not so easy to get another job these days," said Evans.

"No, that's true," said Green. He looked thoughtful.

"And I've got a missus and two kids," went on the other. "What's the

rot that was talked about a country fit for heroes? No, if you've got a

job--any kind of a job--it's better to freeze on to it in 1920."

He was silent for a minute, and then went on.

"Funny business--the war. I was hit twice--shrapnel. Makes you go a

bit queer afterward. My missus says I frighten her--go quite batty

sometimes. Wake up in the middle of the night hollering and not knowing

where I am."

"I know," said Green. "I'm the same. When my guvnor picked me up--in

Holland that was--I couldn't remember a thing about myself except my

name."

"When was that? After the war?"

"Six months after the armistice. I was working in a garage there. Some

chaps who were drunk ran me down one night in a lorry. Fairly scared

'em sober. They picked me up and took me along with them. I'd got a

whacking great bash on the head. They looked after me and got me a

job. Good chaps they were. I'd been working there two years when Mr.

Bleibner came along. He hired a car from our place once or twice and I

drove him. He talked to me a good bit and finally he offered to take me

on as chauffeur."

"Mean to say you never thought of getting back home before that?"

"No--I didn't want to, somehow. I'd no folks there as far as I could

remember, and I've an idea I'd had a bit of trouble there of some kind."

"I shouldn't associate trouble with you, mate," said Evans with a laugh.

George Green laughed, too. He was indeed a most cheerful looking young

man, tall and dark with broad shoulders and an ever-ready smile.

"Nothing much ever worries me," he boasted. "I was born the

happy-go-lucky kind, I guess."

He moved away, smiling happily. A few minutes later he was reporting to

his employer that the Daimler was ready for the road.

Mr. Bleibner was a tall thin dyspeptic-looking American with pure

speech.

"Very good. Now, Green, I am going to Lord Datchet's for luncheon.

Abingworth Friars. It's about six miles from here."

"Yes, sir."

"After luncheon I am going to a place called Abbots Puissants.

Abbotsford is the village. Do you know it?"

"I've heard of it, I think, sir. But I don't know exactly where it is.

I'll look it up on the map."

"Yes, please do so. It cannot, I think, be more than twenty miles--in

the direction of Ringwood, I fancy."

"Very good, sir."

Green touched his cap and withdrew.

_2_

Nell Chetwynd stepped through the French window of the drawing room and

came out upon the terrace at Abbots Puissants.

It was one of those still early autumn days when there seems

no stirring of life anywhere, as though Nature herself feigned

unconsciousness. The sky was pale, not a deep, blue and there was a

very faint haze in the atmosphere.

Nell leaned against a big stone urn and gazed out over the silent

prospect. Everything was very beautiful and very English. The formal

gardens were exquisitely kept. The house itself had been very

judiciously and carefully repaired.

Not habitually given to emotion, as Nell looked up at the rose-red

brick of the walls she felt a sudden swelling of the heart. It was all

so perfect. She wished that Vernon could know--could see.

Four years of marriage had dealt kindly with Nell, but they had changed

her. There was no suggestion of the nymph about her now. She was a

beautiful woman instead of a lovely girl. She was poised, assured. Her

beauty was a very definite kind of beauty--it never varied or altered.

Her movements were more deliberate than of old, she had filled out a

little--there was no suggestion of immaturity. She was the perfect

full-blown rose.

A voice called her from the house.

"Nell!"

"I'm here, George, on the terrace."

"Right. I'll be out in a minute."

What a dear George was! A little smile creased her lips. The perfect

husband! Perhaps that was because he was an American. You always heard

that Americans made perfect husbands. Certainly, George had been one

to her. The marriage had been a complete success. It was true that she

had never felt for George what she had felt for Vernon, but almost

reluctantly she had admitted that perhaps that was a good thing. These

tempestuous emotions that tore and rent one--they couldn't last. Every

day you had evidence that they _didn't_ last.

All her old revolt was quelled now. She no longer questioned

passionately the reason why Vernon should have been taken from her. God

knew best. One rebelled at the time, but one came at last to realize

that whatever happened was really for the best.

They had known supreme happiness, she and Vernon, and nothing could

ever mar or take away from it. It was there for ever--a precious secret

possession, a hidden jewel. She could think of him now without regret

or longing. They had loved each other and had risked everything to be

together. Then had come that awful pain of separation--and then peace.

Yes, that was the predominant factor in her life now--peace. George had

given her that. He had wrapped her round with comfort, with luxury,

with tenderness. She hoped that she was a good wife to him, even if she

didn't care as she had cared for Vernon. But she _was_ fond of

him--of course she was! The quiet affectionate feeling she had for him

was by far the safest emotion to go through life with.

Yes, that expressed exactly what she felt--safe and happy. She wished

that Vernon knew. He would be glad, she was sure.

George Chetwynd came out and joined her. He wore English country

clothes and looked very much the country squire. He had not aged at

all--indeed, he looked younger. In his hand he held some letters.

"I've agreed to share that shooting with Drummond. I think we'll enjoy

it."

"I'm so glad."

"We must decide who we want to ask."

"Yes, we'll talk about it to-night. I'm rather glad the Hays couldn't

come and dine. It will be nice to have an evening to ourselves."

"I was afraid you were overdoing it in town, Nell."

"We _did_ rush about, rather. But I think it's good for one

really. And anyway, it's been splendidly peaceful down here."

"It's wonderful." George threw an appreciative glance over the

landscape. "I'd rather have Abbots Puissants than any place in England.

It's got an atmosphere."

Nell nodded.

"I know what you mean."

"I should hate to think of it in the hands of--well, people like the

Levinnes, for instance."

"I know. One would resent it. And yet Sebastian is a dear--and his

taste, at any rate, is perfect."

"He knows the taste of the public all right," said George dryly. "One

success after another--with occasionally a _succès d'estime_,

just to show he's not a mere money maker. He's beginning to look the

part though--getting not exactly fat, but sleek. Adopting all sorts of

mannerisms. There's a caricature of him in _Punch_ this week. Very

clever."

"Sebastian would lend himself to caricaturing," said Nell smiling.

"Those enormous ears, and those funny high cheek bones. He was an

extraordinary-looking boy."

"It's odd to think of you all playing together as children. By the way,

I've got a surprise for you. A friend you haven't seen for some time is

coming to lunch to-day."

"Not Josephine."

"No. Jane Harding."

"Jane Harding! But how on earth----"

"I ran into her at Wiltsbury yesterday. She's on tour, acting in some

company or other."

"Jane! Why, George, I didn't even realize you knew her!"

"I came across her when we were both doing relief work in Serbia. I saw

a lot of her. I wrote to you about it."

"Did you? I don't remember."

Something in her tone seemed to strike him and he said anxiously: "It's

all right, isn't it, dear? I thought it would be a pleasant surprise

for you. I always thought she was a great friend of yours. I can put

her off in a minute if----"

"No, no. Of course, I'll be delighted to see her. I was only surprised."

George was reassured.

"That's all right then. By the way, she told me that a man called

Bleibner, a man I knew very well in New York, is also in Wiltsbury. I'd

like him to see the Abbey ruins--that sort of thing is a specialty of

his. Do you mind if I ask him to lunch, too?"

"No, of course not. Do ask him."

"I'll see if I can get him on the phone now. I meant to do it last

night, but it slipped my memory."

He went indoors again. Nell was left on the terrace frowning slightly.

George in this had been right. For some reason or other, she was

not pleased at the thought of Jane's coming to lunch. She felt very

definitely that she didn't want to see Jane. Already, the mere mention

of Jane seemed to have disturbed the serenity of the morning. She

thought: "I was so peaceful and now----"

Annoying--yes, it was annoying. She was, had always been, afraid of

Jane. Jane was the kind of person you could never be sure about.

She--how could one put it?--she upset things. She was disturbing, and

Nell didn't want to be disturbed.

She thought unreasonably: "Why on earth did George have to meet her in

Serbia? How trying things are."

But it was absurd to be afraid of Jane. Jane couldn't hurt her--now.

Poor Jane, she must have made rather a mess of things, to have come

down to acting in a touring company.

One must be loyal to one's old friends. Jane was an old friend. She

should see how loyal Nell could be. And with a glow of self-approval

she went upstairs and changed into a dress of dove-coloured georgette

with which she wore one very beautifully matched string of pearls that

George had given her on the last anniversary of their marriage. She

took particular pains over her toilet, satisfying thereby some obscure

female instinct.

"At any rate," she thought, "the Bleibner man will be there and that

will make things easier."

Though why she expected things to be difficult she could not have

explained.

George came up to fetch her just as she was applying a final dusting of

powder.

"Jane's arrived," he said. "She's in the drawing room."

"And Mr. Bleibner?"

"He's engaged for lunch, unfortunately. But he's coming along this

afternoon."

"Oh!"

She went downstairs slowly. Absurd to feel so apprehensive. Poor

Jane--one simply must be nice to her. It was such terribly bad luck to

have lost her voice and come down to this.

Jane, however, did not seem aware of bad luck. She was sprawling back

on the sofa in an attitude of easy unconcern, looking round the room

with keen appreciation.

"Hullo, Nell," she said. "Well, you seem to have dug yourself in pretty

comfortably."

It was an outrageous remark. Nell stiffened. She couldn't think for a

moment of what to say. She met Jane's eyes, which were full of mocking

maliciousness. They shook hands and Nell said at the same time: "I

don't know what you mean."

Jane subsided on the sofa again.

"I meant all this. Palatial dwelling, well-proportioned footmen, highly

paid cook, soft-footed servants, possibly a French maid, baths prepared

for one with the latest unguents and bath salts, five or six gardeners,

luxurious limousines, expensive clothes, and, I perceive, genuine

pearls! Are you enjoying it all frightfully? I am sure you are."

"Tell me about yourself," said Nell, seating herself beside Jane on the

sofa.

Jane's eyes narrowed.

"That's a very clever answer. And I fully deserved it. Sorry, Nell. I

was a beast. But you were being so queenly and so gracious. I never can

stand people being gracious."

She got up and began to stroll round the room.

"So this is Vernon's home," she said softly. "I've never seen it

before--only heard him talk about it."

She was silent for a minute, then asked abruptly: "How much have you

changed?"

Nell explained that everything had been left as it was, as far as

possible. Curtains, covers, carpets, and so forth, had all been

renewed. The old ones were too shabby. And one or two priceless pieces

of furniture had been added. Whenever George came across anything that

was in keeping with the place he bought it.

Jane's eyes were fixed on her while she made this explanation, and Nell

felt uneasy because she couldn't read the expression in them.

George came in before she had finished talking and they went in to

lunch.

The talk was at first of Serbia, of a few mutual friends out there.

Then they passed on to Jane's affairs. George referred delicately to

Jane's voice--the sorrow he had felt, that everyone must feel. Jane

passed it off carelessly enough.

"My own fault," she said. "I would sing a certain kind of music and my

voice wasn't made for it."

Sebastian Levinne, she went on to say, had been a wonderful friend. He

was willing now to star her in London, but she had wished to learn her

trade first.

"Singing in opera is, of course, acting too. But there are all sorts of

things to learn--to manage one's speaking voice, for instance. And then

one's effects are all different--they must be more subtle, less broad."

Next autumn, she explained, she was to appear in London in a dramatized

version of _Tosca_.

Then, dismissing her own affairs, she began to talk of Abbots

Puissants. She led George on to discuss his plans, his ideas about the

estate. He was made to display himself the complete country squire.

There was, apparently, no mockery in Jane's eyes or her voice, but

nevertheless Nell felt acutely uncomfortable. She wished George would

stop talking. It was a little ridiculous, the way he spoke as though

he and his forefathers before him had lived for centuries at Abbots

Puissants.

After coffee they went out on the terrace again, and here George was

summoned to the telephone and left them with a word of excuse. Nell

suggested a tour through the gardens and Jane acquiesced.

"I'd like to see everything," she said.

Nell thought: "It's Vernon's home she wants to see. That's why she's

come. But Vernon never meant to her what he meant to me!"

She had a passionate desire to vindicate herself, to make Jane

see----See what? She didn't quite know herself, but she felt that Jane

was judging her--condemning her, even.

She stopped suddenly as they were walking down a long herbaceous

border, gay with Michaelmas daisies against the old rose-coloured brick

wall behind it.

"Jane. I want to tell you--to explain----"

She paused, gathering herself together. Jane merely looked at her

inquiringly.

"You must think it--very dreadful of me--marrying again so soon."

"Not at all," said Jane. "It was very sensible."

Nell didn't want that. That wasn't the point of view at all.

"I adored Vernon--_adored_ him. When he was killed it nearly broke

my heart. I mean it. But I knew so well that he himself wouldn't wish

me to grieve. The dead don't want us to grieve----"

"Don't they?"

Nell stared at her.

"Oh! I know you're voicing the popular idea," said Jane. "The dead want

us to be brave and bear up and carry on as usual. They hate us being

unhappy about them. That's what everybody goes about saying--but I

never have seen that they've any foundation for that cheering belief.

I think they've invented it themselves to make things easier for them.

The living don't all want exactly the same thing, so I don't see why

the dead should either. There must be heaps of selfish dead. If they

exist at all, they must be very much the same as they were in life.

They can't be full of beautiful and unselfish feelings all at once. It

always makes me laugh when I see a bereaved widower tucking into his

breakfast the day after the funeral and saying solemnly: 'Mary wouldn't

wish me to grieve!' How does he know? Mary may be simply weeping and

gnashing her teeth (astral teeth, of course) at seeing him going on as

usual, just as though she had never existed. Heaps of women like a fuss

made over them. Why should they change their characters when they're

dead?"

Nell was silent. She couldn't for the moment collect her thoughts.

"Not that I mean Vernon was like that," went on Jane. "He may really

have wished you not to grieve. You'd know best about that, because you

knew him better than anyone else."

"Yes," said Nell eagerly. "That's just it. I know he would want me to

be happy. And he wanted me to have Abbots Puissants. I know he'd love

to think of my being here."

"He wanted to live here with you. That's not quite the same thing."

"No, but it isn't as though I were living here with George as--as it

would have been with him. Oh! Jane, I want to make you understand.

George is a dear, but he isn't--he can never be--what--what Vernon was

to me."

There was a long pause and then Jane said: "You're lucky, Nell."

"If you think I really love all this luxury! Why, for Vernon I'd give

it up in a minute!"

"I wonder."

"Jane! You----"

"You think you would, but--I wonder."

"I did before."

"No--you only gave up the prospect of it. That's different. It hadn't

eaten into you as it has now."

"Jane!"

Nell's eyes filled with tears. She turned away.

"My dear, I'm being a beast. There's no harm in what you've done. I

dare say you're right--about Vernon wishing it. You need kindness and

protection--but all the same, soft living does eat into one. You'll

know what I mean some day. By the way, I didn't mean what you thought

when I said just now that you were lucky. By lucky, I meant that you'd

had the best of both worlds. If you'd married your George when you

originally intended, you'd have gone through life with a secret regret,

a longing for Vernon, a feeling that you'd been cheated out of life

through your own cowardice. And if Vernon had lived you might have

grown away from each other, quarrelled, come to hate each other. But

as it is, you've had Vernon, made your sacrifice. You've got him where

nothing can ever touch him. Love will be a thing of beauty to you for

ever. And you've got all the other things as well. This!"

She swept her arm around in a sudden embracing gesture.

Nell had hardly paid any attention to the end part of the speech. Her

eyes had grown soft and melting.

"I know. Everything turns out for the best. They tell you so when

you're a child and later you find it out for yourself. God does know

best."

"What do you know about God, Nell Chetwynd?"

There was a savagery in the question that brought Nell's eyes to Jane

in astonishment. She looked menacing--fiercely accusing. The gentleness

of a minute ago was gone.

"The will of God! Would you be able to say that, if God's will didn't

happen to coincide with Nell Chetwynd's comfort, I wonder? You don't

know anything about God or you couldn't have spoken like that, gently

patting God on the back for making life comfortable and easy for you.

Do you know a text that used to frighten me in the Bible? _This night

shall thy soul be required of thee._ When God requires _your_

soul of you, be sure you've got a soul to give him!"

She paused and then said quietly: "I'll go now. I shouldn't have come.

But I wanted to see Vernon's home. I apologize for what I've said.

But you're so damned smug, Nell. You don't know it, but you are.

Smug--that's the word. Life to you means yourself, and yourself only.

What about Vernon? Was it best for him? Do you think _he_ wanted

to die--right at the beginning of everything he cared for?"

Nell flung her head back defiantly.

"I made him happy."

"I wasn't thinking of his happiness. I was thinking of his music. You

and Abbots Puissants--what do you matter? Vernon had genius. That's the

wrong way of putting it--he _belonged_ to his genius. And genius

is the hardest master there is--everything has got to be sacrificed to

it. Your trumpery happiness, even, would have had to go if it stood in

the way. Genius has got to be served. Music wanted Vernon--and he's

dead. That's the crying shame, the thing that matters, the thing you

never even consider. I know why--because you were afraid of it, Nell.

It doesn't make for peace and happiness and security. But I tell you,

_it's got to be served_."

Suddenly her face relaxed, the old mocking light that Nell hated came

back to her eyes. She said:

"Don't worry, Nell. You're much the strongest of us all. Protective

colouring! I told Sebastian so long ago, and I was right. You'll endure

when we've all perished. Good-bye. I'm sorry I've been a devil, but I'm

made that way."

Nell stood staring after her retreating figure. She clenched her hands

and said under her breath:

"I hate you. I've always hated you."

_3_

The day had begun so peacefully--and now it was spoilt. Tears came into

Nell's eyes. Why couldn't people let her alone? Jane and her horrid

sneering. Jane was a beast--an uncanny beast. She knew where things

hurt you most.

Why, even Joe had said that she, Nell, was quite right to marry

George! Joe had understood perfectly. Nell felt aggrieved and hurt.

Why should Jane be so horrid? And saying things like that about the

dead--irreligious things--when everyone knew that the dead liked one to

be brave and cheerful.

The impertinence of Jane to hurl a text at her head! A woman like Jane,

who had lived with people and done all kinds of immoral things. Nell

felt a glow of superior virtue. In spite of everything that was said

nowadays, there were two kinds of women. She belonged to one kind and

Jane to the other. Jane was attractive--that kind of woman always was

attractive. That was why in the past she had felt afraid of Jane. Jane

had some queer power over men--she was bad through and through.

Thinking these thoughts, Nell paced restlessly up and down. She felt

disinclined to go back to the house. In any case, there was nothing

particular to do this afternoon. There were some letters that must be

written sometime, but she really couldn't settle to them at present.

She had forgotten about her husband's American friend, and was quite

surprised when George joined her with Mr. Bleibner in tow. The American

was a tall thin man, very precise. He paid her grave compliments on the

house. They were now, he explained, going to view the ruins of the

Abbey. George suggested she should come with them.

"You go on," said Nell. "I'll follow you presently. I must get a hat.

The sun is so hot."

"Shall I get it for you, dear?"

"No, thanks. You and Mr. Bleibner go on. You'll be ages pottering about

there, I know."

"Why, I should say that is very certain to be the case, Mrs. Chetwynd.

I understand your husband has some idea of restoring the Abbey. That is

very interesting."

"It's one of our many projects, Mr. Bleibner."

"You are fortunate to own this place. By the way, I hope you've no

objection. I told my chauffeur (with your husband's assent, naturally)

that he might stroll round the grounds. He is a most intelligent young

man of quite a superior class."

"That's quite all right. And if he'd like to see the house the butler

can take him over it later."

"Now I call that very kind of you, Mrs. Chetwynd. What I feel is that

we want beauty appreciated by all classes. The idea that's going to

weld together the League of Nations----"

Nell felt suddenly that she couldn't bear to hear Mr. Bleibner's views

on the League of Nations. They were sure to be ponderous and lengthy.

She excused herself on the plea of the hot sun.

Some Americans could be very boring. What a mercy George was not like

that! Dear George--really, he was very nearly perfect. She experienced

again that warm happy feeling that had surged over her earlier in the

day.

What an idiot she was to have let herself be upset by Jane! _Jane_

of all people! What did it matter what Jane said or thought? It didn't,

of course, but there was something about Jane--she had the power

of--well--upsetting one.

But that was all over now. The old tide of reassurance and safety

welled up again. Abbots Puissants, George, the tender memory of Vernon.

Everything was all right.

She ran down the stairs happily, hat in hand. She paused a minute to

adjust it in front of the mirror. She would go now and join them at the

Abbey. She would make herself absolutely charming to Mr. Bleibner.

She went down the steps of the terrace and along the garden walk.

It was later than she thought. The sun was not far from setting--a

beautiful sunset with a crimson sky.

By the goldfish pond a young man in chauffeur's livery was standing

with his back to her. He turned at her approach and civilly raised a

finger to his cap.

She stopped stock still, and slowly an unconscious hand crept up to her

heart as she stood there staring.

_4_

George Green stared.

Then he ejaculated to himself: "Well, that's a rum go!"

On arrival at their destination his master had said to him: "This is

one of the oldest and most interesting places in England, Green. I

shall be here at least an hour--perhaps longer. I will ask Mr. Chetwynd

if you may stroll about the grounds."

A kind old buffer, Green thought indulgently, but terribly keen on

what was called "uplift." Couldn't let one alone. And he had that

extraordinary American reverence for anything that was hallowed by

antiquity.

Certainly, this was a nice old place, though. He looked up at it

appreciatively. He'd seen pictures of it somewhere, he was sure. He

wouldn't mind having a stroll round as he'd been told to do so.

It was well kept up, he noticed that. Who owned it? Some American chap?

These Americans, they had all the money. He wondered who had owned it

originally. Whoever it was must have been sick at having to let it go.

He thought wistfully: "I wish I'd been born a toff. I'd like to own a

place like this."

He wandered some way through the gardens. In the distance he noticed a

heap of ruins and amongst them two figures, one of which he recognized

as being that of his employer. Funny old josser--always poking about

ruins.

The sun was setting, there was a wonderful lurid sky, and against it

Abbots Puissants stood out in all its beauty.

Funny, the way you thought of things as having happened before! Just

for a minute Green could have sworn that he had once stood just where

he was standing now and seen the house outlined against a red sky.

Could swear, too, that he had felt just that same keen pang as of

something that hurt. But it wanted something else--a woman with red

hair like the sunset.

There was a step behind him and he started and turned. For a minute he

felt a vague pang of disappointment. For standing there was a young

slender woman, and her hair, escaping each side from under her hat, was

golden, not red.

He touched his cap respectfully.

A queer sort of lady, he thought. She stared at him with every bit of

colour draining slowly from her face. She looked absolutely terrified.

Then, with a sudden gasp, she turned and almost ran down the path.

It was then that he ejaculated: "Well, that's a rum go!"

She must, he decided, be a bit queer in the head.

He resumed his aimless strolling.

chapter 2

Sebastian Levinne was in his office going into the details of a

ticklish contract when a telegram was brought to him. He opened it

carelessly, for he received forty or fifty telegrams a day. After he

had read it he held it in his hand, looking at it.

Then he crumpled it up, slipped it into his pocket, and spoke to Lewis,

his right-hand man.

"Get on with this thing as best you can," he said curtly. "I'm called

out of town."

He took no heed of the protestations that arose, but left the room.

He paused to tell his secretary to see to the cancelling of various

appointments and then went home, packed a bag, and took a taxi to

Waterloo. There he unfolded the telegram again and read it:

Please come at once if you can very urgent Jane Wilts Hotel

Wiltsbury.

It was a proof of his confidence and respect for Jane that he never

hesitated. He trusted Jane as he trusted no one else in the world. If

Jane said a thing was urgent, it was urgent. He obeyed the summons

without wasting a thought of regret on the necessary complications it

would cause. For no one else in the world, be it said, would he have

done that.

On arriving at Wiltsbury he drove straight to the hotel and asked

for her. She had engaged a private room, and there she met him with

outstretched hands.

"Sebastian, my dear, you've been marvellously quick."

"I came at once." He slipped off his coat and threw it over the back of

a chair. "What is it, Jane?"

"It's Vernon."

Sebastian looked puzzled.

"What about him?"

"_He's not dead. I've seen him._"

Sebastian stared at her for a minute, then drew a chair to the table

and sat down.

"It's not like you, Jane, but I think, for once in your life, you must

have been mistaken."

"I wasn't mistaken. It's possible, I suppose, for the War Office to

have made an error?"

"Errors have been made more than once--but they've usually been

contradicted fairly soon. It stands to reason that they must be. If

Vernon's alive, what's he been doing all this time?"

She shook her head.

"That I can't say. But I'm as sure about its being Vernon as I am that

it's you here now."

She spoke curtly but very confidently.

He stared at her very hard, then nodded.

"Tell me," he said.

Jane spoke quietly and composedly.

"There's an American here, a Mr. Bleibner. I met him out in Serbia.

We recognized each other in the street. He told me he was staying at

the County Hotel and asked me to lunch to-day. I went. Afterward it

was raining. He wouldn't hear of my walking back. His car was there

and would take me. His car did take me. Sebastian, the chauffeur was

Vernon--_and he didn't know me_."

Sebastian considered the matter.

"You're sure you weren't deceived by some strong resemblance?"

"Perfectly sure."

"Then why didn't Vernon recognize you? He was pretending, I suppose."

"No, I don't think so--in fact, I'm sure he wasn't. He would be

bound to give some sign--a start--something. He couldn't have been

_expecting_ to see me. He couldn't have controlled his first

surprise. Besides, he looked--different."

"How different?"

Jane considered.

"It's hard to explain. Rather happy and jolly and--just faintly--like

his mother."

"Extraordinary," said Sebastian. "I'm glad you sent for me. If it

_is_ Vernon--well, it's going to be the devil of a business. Nell

having married again and everything. We don't want reporters coming

down like wolves on the fold. I suppose there'll have to be _some_

publicity." He got up, walked up and down. "The first thing is to get

hold of Bleibner."

"I telephoned to him, asking him to be here at six-thirty. I didn't

dare leave, though I was afraid you wouldn't be able to get here so

soon. Bleibner will be here any minute."

"Good for you, Jane. We must hear what he's got to say."

There was a knock at the door and Mr. Bleibner was announced. Jane rose

to meet him.

"It's very good of you to come, Mr. Bleibner," she began.

"Not at all," said the American. "Always delighted to oblige a lady.

And you said that the matter you wanted to see me about was urgent."

"It is. This is Mr. Sebastian Levinne."

"_The_ Mr. Sebastian Levinne? I'm very pleased to meet you, sir."

The two men shook hands.

"And now, Mr. Bleibner," said Jane. "I'll come straight to what I want

to talk to you about. How long have you had your chauffeur, and what

can you tell us about him?"

Mr. Bleibner was plainly surprised and showed it.

"Green? You want to know about Green?"

"Yes."

"Well----" The American reflected. "I've no objections to telling you

what I know. I guess you wouldn't ask without a good reason. I know

you well enough for that, Miss Harding. I picked up Green in Holland

not long after the Armistice. He was working in a local garage. I

discovered he was an Englishman and began to take an interest in him.

I asked him his history and he was pretty vague about it. I thought at

first he had something to conceal, but I soon convinced myself that he

was genuine enough. The man was in a kind of mental fog. He knew his

name and where he came from, but very little else."

"Lost memory," said Sebastian softly. "I see."

"His father was killed in the South African war, he told me. He

remembered his father singing in the village choir, and he remembered a

brother whom he used to call Squirrel."

"And he was quite sure about his own name?"

"Oh! yes. As a matter of fact, he'd got it written down in a small

pocketbook. There was an accident, you know. He was knocked down by a

lorry. That's how they knew who he was. They asked him if his name was

Green and he said Yes--George. He was very popular at the garage, he

was so sunny and light-hearted. I don't believe I've ever seen Green

out of temper.

"Well, I took a fancy to the young chap. I've seen a few shell-shocked

cases and his state wasn't any mystery to me. He showed me the entry

in his pocketbook and I made a few inquiries. I soon found the

reason--there always is a reason, you know--for his loss of memory.

Corporal George Green, London Fusiliers, was a deserter.

"There, you have it. He'd funked things--and being a decent young

fellow really, he couldn't face the fact. I explained it all to him.

He said, rather wonderingly: 'I shouldn't have thought I could ever

desert--not _desert_.' I explained to him that that point of view

was just the reason he couldn't remember. He couldn't remember because

he didn't want to remember.

"He listened but I don't think he was very convinced. I felt, and still

feel, extremely sorry for him. I didn't think there was any obligation

on my part to report his existence to the military authorities. I

took him into my service and offered him a chance to make good. I've

never had cause to regret it. He's an excellent chauffeur--punctual,

intelligent, a good mechanic, and always sunny-tempered and obliging."

Mr. Bleibner paused and looked inquiringly at Jane and Sebastian. Their

pale serious faces impressed him.

"It's frightening," said Jane in her low voice. "It's one of the most

frightening things that could happen."

Sebastian took her hand and squeezed it.

"It's all right, Jane."

Jane roused herself with a slight shiver and spoke to the American.

"I think it's our turn to explain. You see, Mr. Bleibner, in your

chauffeur I recognized an old friend--and he didn't recognize me."

"In--deed!"

"But his name wasn't Green," said Sebastian.

"No? You mean he enlisted under another name?"

"No. There's something there that seems incomprehensible. I suppose

we shall get at it some day. In the meantime, I will ask you, Mr.

Bleibner, not to repeat this conversation to _anyone_. There's a

wife in the matter, and--oh! many other considerations."

"My dear sir," said Mr. Bleibner, "you can trust me to be absolutely

silent. But what next? Do you want to see Green?"

Sebastian looked at Jane and she bowed her head.

"Yes," said Sebastian slowly. "I think perhaps that would be the best

plan."

The American rose.

"He's below now. He brought me here. I'll send him up right away."

_2_

George Green mounted the stairs with his usual buoyant step. As he did

so he wondered what had happened to upset the old josser--by that term

meaning his employer. Very queer the old buffer had looked.

"The door at the top of the stairs," Mr. Bleibner had said.

George Green rapped on it sharply with his knuckles and waited. A voice

called "Come in" and he obeyed.

There were two people in the room--the lady he had driven home to-day

(whom he thought of in his own mind as a tip-topper) and a big, rather

fat man with a very yellow face and projecting ears. His face seemed

vaguely familiar to the chauffeur. For a moment he stood there while

they both stared at him. He thought: "What's the matter with everybody

this evening?"

He said, "Yes, sir?" in a respectful voice to the yellow gentleman. He

went on: "Mr. Bleibner told me to come up."

The yellow gentleman seemed to recover himself.

"Yes, yes," he said. "That's right. Sit down--er--Green. That's your

name, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. George Green."

He sat down respectfully in the chair indicated. The yellow gentleman

handed him a cigarette case and said, "Help yourself." And all the

time, his eyes, small piercing eyes, never left Green's face. That

intent burning gaze made the chauffeur uneasy. What _was_ up with

everyone to-night?

"I wanted to ask you a few questions. To begin with, have you ever seen

me before?"

Green shook his head.

"No, sir."

"Sure?" persisted the other.

A faint trace of uncertainty crept into Green's voice.

"I--I don't think so," he said doubtfully.

"My name is Sebastian Levinne."

The chauffeur's face cleared.

"Of course, sir, I've seen your picture in the papers. I thought it

seemed familiar somehow."

There was a pause, and then Sebastian Levinne asked casually: "Have you

ever heard the name of Vernon Deyre?"

"Vernon Deyre," Green repeated the name thoughtfully. He frowned

perplexedly. "The name seems somehow familiar to me, sir, but I can't

quite place it." He paused, the frown deepening. "I think I've heard

it." And then added, "The gentleman's dead, isn't he?"

"So that's your impression, is it? That the gentleman is dead."

"Yes, sir, and a good----"

He stopped suddenly, crimsoning.

"Go on," said Levinne. "What were you going to say?" He added shrewdly,

perceiving where the trouble lay. "You need not mince your words. Mr.

Deyre was no relation of mine."

The chauffeur accepted the implication.

"I was going to say a good job, too--but I don't know that I ought to

say it, since I can't remember anything about him. But I've got a kind

of impression that--well, that he was best out of the way, so to speak.

Made rather a mess of things, hadn't he?"

"You knew him?"

The frown deepened in an agony of attempted recollection.

"I'm sorry, sir," the chauffeur apologized. "Since the war things

seemed to have got a bit mixed up. I can't always recollect things

clearly. I don't know where I came across Mr. Deyre, and why I disliked

him, but I do know that I'm thankful to hear that he's dead. He was no

good--you can take my word for that."

There was a silence, only broken by something like a smothered sob from

the other occupant of the room. Levinne turned to her.

"Telephone to the theatre, Jane," he said. "You can't appear to-night."

She nodded and left the room. Levinne looked after her and then said

abruptly:

"You've seen Miss Harding before?"

"Yes, sir. I drove her home to-day."

Levinne sighed. Green looked at him inquiringly.

"Is--is that all, sir? I'm sorry to have been so little use. I know

I've been a bit--well, queer since the war. My own fault. Perhaps Mr.

Bleibner told you--I--didn't do my duty as I should have done."

His face flushed but he brought out the words resolutely. Had the old

josser told them or not? Better to say that anyway. At the same time, a

pang of shame pierced him keenly. He was a deserter, a man who had run

away! A rotten business.

Jane Harding came back into the room and resumed her place behind the

table. She looked paler than when she had gone out, Green thought.

Curious eyes she had--so deep and tragic. He wondered what she was

thinking about. Perhaps she had been engaged to this Mr. Deyre. No, Mr.

Levinne wouldn't have urged him to speak out if that had been the case.

It was probably all to do with money. A will, or something like that.

Mr. Levinne began questioning him again. He made no reference to the

last sentence.

"Your father was killed in the Boer War, I believe?"

"Yes, sir."

"You remember him?"

"Oh! yes, sir."

"What did he look like?"

Green smiled. The memory was pleasant to him.

"A burly sort of chap. Mutton-chop whiskers. Very bright blue eyes. I

remember him as well as anything singing in the choir. Baritone voice

he had."

He smiled happily.

"And he was killed in the Boer War?"

A sudden look of doubt crept into Green's face. He seemed

worried--distressed. His eyes looked pathetically across the table like

a dog at fault.

"It's queer," he said. "I never thought of that. He'd be too old.

He--and yet I'd swear--I'm sure----"

The look of distress in his eyes was so acute that the other said,

"Never mind," and went on: "Are you married, Green?"

"No, sir."

The answer came with prompt assurance.

"You seem very certain about that," said Mr. Levinne, smiling.

"I am, sir. It leads to nothing but trouble--mixing yourself up with

women." He stopped abruptly and said to Jane: "I beg your pardon."

She smiled faintly and said: "It doesn't matter."

There was a pause. Levinne turned to her and said something so quickly

that Green could not catch it. It sounded like:

"Extraordinary likeness to Sydney Bent. Never imagined it was there."

Then they both stared at him again.

And suddenly he was afraid--definitely childishly afraid--in the same

way that he remembered being afraid of the dark when he was a baby.

There was something up--that was how he put it to himself--and these

two knew it. Something about him.

He leaned forward, acutely apprehensive.

"What's the matter?" he said sharply. "There's something...."

They didn't deny it--just continued to look at him.

And his terror grew. Why couldn't they tell a chap? They knew something

that he didn't. Something dreadful. He said again, and this time his

voice was high and shrill:

"_What's the matter?_"

The lady got up--he noticed in the background of his mind as it were

how splendidly she moved. She was like a statue he'd seen somewhere.

She came round the table and laid a hand on his shoulder. She said

comfortingly and reassuringly: "It's all right. You mustn't be

frightened."

But Green's eyes continued to question Levinne. This man knew--this man

was going to tell him. What was this horrible thing that they knew and

he didn't?

"Very odd things have happened in this war," began Levinne. "People

have sometimes forgotten their own names."

He paused significantly, but the significance was lost on Green. He

said with a momentary return to cheerfulness:

"I'm not as bad as that. I've never forgotten my name."

"But you _have_." He stopped, then went on: "Your real name is

Vernon Deyre."

The announcement ought to have been dramatic, but it wasn't. The words

seemed to Green simply silly. He looked amused.

"I'm Mr. Vernon Deyre? You mean I'm his double or something?"

"I mean you _are_ him."

Green laughed frankly.

"I can't monkey about with that stuff, sir. Not even if it means a

title or a fortune! Whatever the resemblance, I'd be bound to be found

out."

Sebastian Levinne leaned forward over the table and rapped out each

word separately, with emphasis.

"You--are--Vernon--Deyre."

Green stared. The emphasis impressed him.

"You're kidding me?"

Levinne slowly shook his head. Green turned suddenly to the woman who

stood beside him. Her eyes, very grave and absolutely assured, met his.

She said very quietly:

"You are Vernon Deyre. We both know it."

There was dead silence in the room. To Green, it seemed as though the

whole world were spinning round. It was like a fairy story, fantastic

and impossible. And yet something about these two compelled credence.

He said uncertainly:

"But--but things don't happen like that. You couldn't forget your own

name!"

"Evidently--since you have done so."

"But--but, look here, sir, I _know_ I'm George Green. I--well, I

just know it!"

He looked at them triumphantly, but slowly and remorselessly Sebastian

Levinne shook his head.

"I don't know how that's come about," he said. "A doctor would probably

be able to tell you. But I do know this--that you are my friend Vernon

Deyre. There is no possible doubt of that."

"But--but, if that's true, I ought to know it."

He felt bewildered, horribly uncertain. A strange sickening world

where you couldn't be sure of anything. These were kindly sane people,

he trusted them. What they said must be so--and yet something in him

refused to be convinced. They were sorry for him--he felt that. And

that frightened him. There was something more yet--something that he

hadn't been told.

"Who is he?" he said sharply. "This Vernon Deyre, I mean."

"You come from this part of the world. You were born and spent most of

your childhood at a place called Abbots Puissants----"

Green interrupted him in astonishment.

"Abbots Puissants? Why, I drove Mr. Bleibner there yesterday. And you

say it's my old home, and I never recognized it!"

He felt suddenly buoyed up and scornful. The whole thing was a pack of

lies! Of course it was! He had known it all the time. These people were

honest, but they were mistaken. He felt relieved--happier.

"After that you went to live near Birmingham," continued Levinne. "You

went to school at Eton and from there you went on to Cambridge. After

that you went to London and studied music. You composed an opera."

Green laughed outright.

"There you're quite wrong, sir. Why, I don't know one note of music

from another."

"The war broke out. You obtained a commission in the yeomanry. You were

married--" he paused, but Green gave no sign--"and went out to France.

In the spring of the following year you were reported Killed in Action."

Green stared at him incredulously. What sort of a rigmarole was this?

He couldn't remember a thing about any of it.

"There must be some mistake," he said confidently. "Mr. Deyre must have

been what they call my 'double.'"

"There is no mistake, Vernon," said Jane Harding.

Green looked from her to Sebastian. The confident intimacy of her tone

had done more to convince him than anything else. He thought: "This is

awful. A nightmare. Such things can't happen." He began to shake all

over, unable to stop.

Levinne got up, mixed him a stiff drink from materials that stood on a

tray in the corner and brought it back to him.

"Swallow this," he said, "And you'll feel better. It's been a shock."

Green gulped down the draught. It steadied him. The trembling ceased.

"Before God, sir," he said, "is this true?"

"Before God, it is," said Sebastian.

He brought a chair forward, sat down close by his friend.

"Vernon, dear old chap--don't you remember me at all?"

Green stared at him--an anguished stare. Something seemed to stir

ever so faintly. How it hurt, this trying to remember! There was

_something_--what was it. He said doubtfully:

"You--you've grown up." He stretched out a hand and touched Sebastian's

ear. "I seem to remember----"

"He remembers your ears, Sebastian," cried Jane, and going over to the

mantelpiece she laid her head down upon it and began to laugh.

"Stop it, Jane." Sebastian rose, poured out another drink and took it

to her. "Some medicine for you."

She drank it, handed the glass back to him, smiled faintly, and said:

"I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

Green was going on with his discoveries.

"You're--you're not a brother, are you? No, you lived next door. That's

it--you lived next door."

"That's right, old chap." Sebastian patted him on the shoulder. "Don't

worry to think--it'll come back soon. Take it easy."

Green looked at Jane. He said timidly and politely: "Were you--are

you--my sister? I seem to remember something about a sister."

Jane shook her head, unable to speak. Green flushed.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have----"

Sebastian interrupted.

"You didn't have a sister. There was a cousin who lived with you. Her

name was Josephine. We called her Joe."

Green pondered.

"Josephine--Joe. Yes, I seem to remember something about that." He

paused and then reiterated pathetically: "Are you _sure_ my name

isn't Green?"

"Quite sure. Do you still feel it is?"

"Yes.... And you say I made up music--music of my own? Highbrow

stuff--not ragtime?"

"Yes."

"It all seems--well, mad. Just that--mad!"

"You mustn't worry," said Jane gently. "I dare say we have been wrong

to tell you all this the way we have."

Green looked from one to the other of them. He felt dazed.

"What am I to do?" he asked helplessly.

Sebastian gave an answer with decision.

"You must stay here with us. You've had a great shock, you know. I'll

go and square things with old Bleibner. He's a very decent chap and

he'll understand."

"I shouldn't like to put him out in any way. He's been a thundering

good boss to me."

"He'll understand. I've already told him something."

"What about the car? I don't like to think of another chap driving that

car. She's running now as sweetly----"

He was once again the chauffeur, intent on his charge.

"I know. I know." Sebastian was impatient. "But the great thing, my

dear fellow, is to get you right as soon as possible. We want to get a

first-class doctor on to you."

"What's a doctor got to do with it?" Green was slightly hostile. "I'm

perfectly fit."

"Perhaps a doctor ought to see you all the same. Not here--in London.

We don't want any talk down here."

Something in the tone of the speaker's voice attracted Green's

attention. The flush came over his face.

"You mean the deserting business."

"No, no. To tell the truth, I can't get the hang of that. I mean

something quite different."

Green looked at him inquiringly.

Sebastian thought: "Well, I suppose he's got to know sometime." Aloud

he said:

"You see, thinking you were dead, your wife has--well--married again."

He was a little afraid of the effect of those words. But Green seemed

to see the matter in a humorous light.

"That _is_ a bit awkward," he said with a grin.

"It doesn't upset you in any way?"

"You can't be upset by a thing you don't remember." He paused, as

though really considering the matter for the first time. "Was Mr.

Deyre--I mean, was I--fond of her?"

"Well--yes."

But again the grin came over Green's face.

"And I to be so positive I wasn't married. All the same"--his face

changed--"it's rather frightening--all this!"

He looked suddenly at Jane, as though seeking assurance.

"Dear Vernon," she said, "it will be all right."

She paused, and then said in a quiet casual tone: "You drove Mr.

Bleibner over to Abbots Puissants, you say. Did you--did you see anyone

there? Any of the people of the house?"

"I saw Mr. Chetwynd--and I saw a lady in the sunk gardens. I took her

to be Mrs. Chetwynd, fair-haired and good-looking."

"Did--did she see you?"

"Yes. Seemed--well, scared. Went dead-white and bolted like a rabbit."

"Oh, God!" said Jane, and bit off the exclamation almost before it was

uttered.

Green was cogitating quietly over the matter.

"Perhaps she thought she knew me," he said. "She must have been one of

them who knew him--me--in the old days, and it gave her a turn. Yes,

that must have been it."

He was quite happy with his solution.

Suddenly he asked: "Had my mother got red hair?"

Jane nodded.

"Then that was it." He looked up apologetically. "Sorry. I was just

thinking of something."

"I'll go and see Bleibner now," said Sebastian. "Jane will look after

you."

He left the room. Green leaned forward in his chair, his head

held between his hands. He felt acutely uncomfortable and

miserable--especially with Jane. Clearly he ought to know her--and he

didn't. She had said "Dear Vernon" just now. It was terribly awkward

when people knew you and you felt they were strangers. If he spoke to

her he supposed he ought to call her Jane--but he couldn't. She was a

stranger. Still, he supposed he'd have to get used to it. They'd have

to be Sebastian and George and Jane together--no, not George--Vernon.

Silly sort of name, Vernon. Probably he'd been a silly sort of chap.

"I mean," he thought, trying desperately to force the realization upon

himself, "_I_ must have been a silly sort of chap."

He felt horribly lonely--cut off from reality. He looked up to find

Jane watching him, and the pity and understanding in her eyes made him

feel a shade less forlorn.

"It's rather terrible just at first, isn't it?" she said.

He said politely: "It is rather difficult. You don't--you don't know

where you are with things."

"I understand."

She said no more, just sat there quietly beside him. His head jerked

forward. He began to doze. In reality he only slept for a few minutes,

but it seemed to him hours. Jane had turned all the lamps out but one.

He woke with a start. She said quickly:

"It's all right."

He stared at her, his breath coming in gasps. He was still in the

nightmare then, he hadn't wakened. And there was something worse to

come--something he didn't know yet. He was sure of it. That was why

they all looked at him so pityingly.

Jane got up suddenly. Wildly, he cried out:

"Stay with me. Oh! please stay with me."

He couldn't understand why her face should suddenly twist with pain.

What was there in what he had said to make her look like that? He said

again: "Don't leave me. Stay with me."

She sat down again beside him and took his hand in hers. She said very

gently:

"I won't go away."

He felt soothed, reassured. After a minute or two he dozed again. He

woke quietly this time. The room was as before and his hand was still

in Jane's. He spoke diffidently:

"You--you aren't my sister? You were--you are, I mean--a friend of

mine?"

"Yes."

"A great friend?"

"A great friend."

He paused. Yet the conviction in his mind was growing stronger and

stronger. He blurted out suddenly:

"You're--you're my wife, aren't you?"

He was sure of it.

She drew her hand away. He wouldn't understand the look in her face. It

frightened him. She got up.

"No," she said. "I'm not your wife."

"Oh! I'm sorry. I thought----"

"It's all right."

And at that minute Sebastian came back. His eyes went to Jane. She

said, with a little twisted smile:

"I'm glad you've come.... I'm--glad you've come."

_3_

Jane and Sebastian talked long into the night. What was to be done? Who

was to be told?

There was Nell and Nell's position to consider. Presumably Nell should

be told first of all. She was the one most vitally concerned.

Jane agreed. "If she doesn't know already."

"You think she knows?"

"Well, evidently she met Vernon yesterday face to face."

"Yes, but she must have thought it just a very strong resemblance."

Jane was silent.

"Don't you think so?"

"I don't know."

"But hang it all, Jane, if she said she'd recognized him, she'd have

done something--got hold of him or Bleibner. It's nearly two days ago

now."

"I know."

"She can't have recognized him. She just saw Bleibner's chauffeur, and

his likeness to Vernon gave her such a shock that she couldn't stand it

and rushed away."

"I suppose so."

"What's in your mind, Jane?"

"_We_ recognized him, Sebastian."

"You mean you did. I'd been told by you."

"But you would have known him anywhere, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, I would.... But then, I know him so well."

Jane said in a hard voice: "So does Nell."

Sebastian looked sharply at her and said: "What are you getting at,

Jane?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do. What do you really think happened?"

Jane paused before speaking.

"I think Nell came upon him suddenly in the garden and thought it was

Vernon. Afterward she persuaded herself that it had only been a chance

resemblance that had upset her so."

"Well, that's very much what I said."

He was a little surprised when she said meekly: "Yes, it is."

"What's the difference?"

"Practically none, only----"

"Yes?"

"You and I would have wanted to believe it was Vernon even if it

wasn't."

"Wouldn't Nell? Surely she hasn't come to care for George Chetwynd to

such an extent----"

"Nell is very fond of George, but Vernon is the only person she's ever

been in love with."

"Then that's all right. Or is it worse that way? It's the deuce of a

tangle. What about his people?--Mrs. Deyre and the Bents."

Jane said decidedly: "Nell must be told before they are. Mrs. Deyre

will broadcast it over England as soon as she knows, and that will be

very unfair to both Vernon and Nell."

"Yes, I think you're right. Now my plan is this: to take Vernon up to

town to-morrow and go and see a specialist--then be guided by what he

advises."

Jane said Yes, she thought that would be the best plan. She got up to

go to bed. On the stairs she paused and said to Sebastian:

"I wonder if we're right. Bringing him back, I mean. He looked so

happy. Oh! Sebastian, he looked so happy...."

"As George Green, you mean?"

"Yes. Are you sure we're right?"

"Yes, I'm pretty sure. It can't be right for anyone to be in that

unnatural sort of state."

"I suppose it _is_ unnatural. The queer thing is he looked so

normal and commonplace. And happy--that's what I can't get over,

Sebastian--_happy_.... We're none of us very happy, are we?"

He couldn't answer that.

chapter 3

Two days later Sebastian came to Abbots Puissants. The butler was not

sure that Mrs. Chetwynd could see him. She was lying down.

Sebastian gave his name and said he was sure Mrs. Chetwynd would see

him. He was shown into the drawing room to wait. The room seemed

empty and silent but unusually luxurious--very different from what

it had looked in his childish days. He thought to himself, "It was a

_real_ house then," and wondered what exactly he meant by that. He

got it presently. Now it suggested, very faintly, a museum. Everything

was beautifully arranged, and harmonized perfectly. Every piece that

was not perfect had been replaced by one that was. All the carpets and

covers and hangings were new.

"And they must have cost a pretty penny," thought Sebastian

appreciatively, and priced them with a fair degree of accuracy. He

always knew the cost of things.

He was interrupted in this salutary exercise by the door opening. Nell

came in, a pink colour in her cheeks and her hand outstretched.

"Sebastian! What a surprise! I thought you were too busy ever to leave

London except at a week-end--and not often then!"

"I've lost just twenty thousand pounds in the last two days," said

Sebastian gruffly as he took her hand. "Simply from gadding about and

letting things go anyhow. How are you, Nell?"

"Oh! I'm feeling splendid."

She didn't look very splendid, though, he thought, now that the flush

of surprise had died away. Besides, hadn't the butler said she was

lying down, not feeling well? He fancied that her face looked a little

strained and haggard.

She went on: "Sit down, Sebastian. You look as though you were on the

point of going off to catch a train. George is away--in Spain. He had

to go on business. He'll be away a week at least."

"Will he?"

That was a good thing anyway. A damned awkward business. Nell had

simply no idea....

"You're very glum, Sebastian. Is anything the matter?"

She asked the question quite lightly, but he seized upon it eagerly. It

was the opening he needed.

"Yes, Nell," he said gravely. "As a matter of fact, there is."

He heard her draw in her breath with a sudden catch. Her eyes looked

watchful.

"What is it?" she said.

Her voice sounded different--hard and suspicious.

"I'm afraid what I'm going to say will be a great shock to you. It's

about Vernon."

"What about Vernon?"

Sebastian waited a minute. Then he said: "Vernon--is alive, Nell."

"Alive?" she whispered. Her hand crept up to her heart.

"Yes."

She didn't do any of the things he expected her to do--didn't faint, or

cry out, or ask eager questions. She just stared straight ahead of her.

And a sudden quick suspicion came into his shrewd Jewish mind.

"You knew it?"

"No, no."

"I thought perhaps you saw him, the other day, when he came here?"

"Then it _was_ Vernon!"

It broke from her like a cry. Sebastian nodded his head. It was as he

thought and said to Jane. She had not trusted her eyes.

"What did you think--that it was a very close resemblance?"

"Yes--yes, that's what I thought. How could I think it was Vernon? He

looked at me and didn't know me."

"He's lost his memory, Nell."

"Lost his memory?"

"Yes."

He told her the story, giving the details as carefully as possible. She

listened but paid less attention than he expected. When he had finished

she said: "Yes, but what's to be done about it all? Will he get it

back? What are we to do?"

He explained that Vernon was having treatment from a specialist.

Already, under hypnosis, part of the lost memory had returned. The

whole process would not be long delayed. He did not enter into the

technical details, judging rightly that these would have no interest

for her.

"And then he'll know--everything?"

"Yes."

She shrank back in her chair. He felt a sudden rush of pity.

"He can't blame you, Nell. You didn't know--nobody could know. The

report of his death was absolutely definite. It's an almost unique

case. I've heard of one other. In most cases, of course, a report of

death was contradicted almost immediately. Vernon loves you enough to

understand and forgive."

She said nothing but she put up both hands to cover her face.

"We think--if you agree--that everything had better be kept quiet for

the present. You'll tell Chetwynd, of course. And you and he and Vernon

can--well, thrash it out together."

"Don't! Don't! Don't go into details. Just let's leave it for the

present--till I've seen Vernon."

"Do you want to see him at once? Will you come up to town with me?"

"No--I can't do that. Let him come here--to see me. Nobody will

recognize him. The servants are all new."

Sebastian said slowly: "Very well.... I'll tell him."

Nell got up.

"I--I--you must go away now, Sebastian. I can't bear any more. I can't

indeed. It's all so dreadful. And only two days ago I was so happy and

peaceful...."

"But Nell, surely to have Vernon back again----"

"Oh! yes, I didn't mean _that_. You don't understand. That's

wonderful, of course. Oh! do go, Sebastian. It's awful of me turning

you out like this, but I can't bear any more. You must go."

Sebastian went. On the way back to town he wondered a good deal.

_2_

Left alone, Nell went back to her bedroom and lay down on her bed,

pulling the silk eiderdown tightly over her.

So it was true after all. It _had_ been Vernon. She had told

herself that it couldn't be--that she had made a ridiculous mistake.

But she'd been uneasy ever since.

What was going to happen? What would George say about it all? Poor

George! He'd been so good to her.

Of course there were women who'd married again, and then had found

their first husbands were alive. Rather an awful position. She had

never really been George's wife at all.

Oh! it couldn't be true. Such things didn't happen. God wouldn't let----

But perhaps she had better not think of God. It reminded her of those

very unpleasant things that Jane had said the other day. That very same

day.

She thought with a rush of self pity: "I was so happy!"

Was Vernon going to understand? Would he--perhaps--blame her? He'd

want her, of course, to come back. Or wouldn't he, now that she and

George.... What _did_ men think?

There could be a divorce, of course, and then she could marry George.

But that would make a lot of talk. How difficult everything was.

She thought with a sudden shock: "But I _love_ Vernon. How can I

contemplate a divorce and marrying George when I love Vernon? He's been

given back to me--from the dead."

She turned over restlessly on the bed. It was a beautiful Empire

bed. George had bought it out of an old château in France. It was

perfect and quite unique. She looked round the room: a charming room,

everything in harmony--perfect taste, perfect unostentatious luxury.

She remembered suddenly the horsehair sofa and the antimacassars in

the furnished rooms at Wiltsbury.... Dreadful! But they had been happy

there.

But now? She looked round the room with new eyes. Of course, Abbots

Puissants belonged to George. Or didn't it, now that Vernon had come

back? Anyway, Vernon would be just as poor as ever. They couldn't

afford to live here. There were all the things that George had done to

it.... Thought after thought raced confusedly through her brain.

She must write to George--beg him to come home. Just say it was

urgent--nothing more. He was so clever. He might see a way.

Or perhaps she wouldn't write to him--not till she had seen Vernon.

Would Vernon be very angry? How terrible it all was.

The tears came to her eyes. She sobbed: "It's unfair--it's unfair. I've

never done anything. Why should this happen to me? Vernon will blame

me, and I couldn't know. How could I know?"

And again the thought flitted across her mind: "I _was_ so happy!"

_3_

Vernon was listening, trying to understand what the doctor was saying

to him. He looked across the table at him. A tall thin man, with eyes

that seemed to see right into the centre of you and to read there

things that you didn't even know about yourself.

And he made you see all the things you didn't want to see. Made you

bring things up out of the depths. He was saying:

"Now that you have remembered, tell me again exactly how you saw the

announcement of your wife's marriage."

Vernon cried out: "Must we go over it again and again? It was all so

horrible. I don't want to think of it any more."

And then the doctor explained, gravely and kindly, but very

impressively. It was because of that desire not to "think of it any

more" that all this had come about. It must be faced now--thrashed out.

Otherwise the loss of memory might return.

They went all over it again.

And then, when Vernon felt he could bear no more, he was told to lie

down on a couch. The doctor touched his forehead and his limbs, told

him that he was resting--was rested--that he would become strong and

happy again....

A feeling of peace came over Vernon.

He closed his eyes....

_4_

Vernon came down to Abbots Puissants three days later. He came in

Sebastian Levinne's car. To the butler he gave his name as Mr. Green.

Nell was waiting for him in the little white-panelled room where his

mother had sat in the mornings. She came forward to meet him, forcing

a conventional smile to her lips. The butler shut the door behind him

just in time for her to stop short before offering him her hand.

They looked at each other. Then Vernon said:

"Nell...."

She was in his arms. He kissed her--kissed her--kissed her....

He let her go at last. They sat down. He was quiet, rather tragic,

very restrained, but for that one wild greeting. He'd gone through so

much--so much in these last few days.

Sometimes he wished they'd left him alone--as George Green. It had been

jolly being George Green.

He said stammeringly: "It's all right, Nell. You mustn't think I blame

you. I understand. Only it hurts. It hurts like hell! Naturally."

She said: "I didn't mean----"

He interrupted her.

"I _know_, I tell you----I _know_! Don't talk about it. I

don't want to hear about it. I don't want to think about it even." He

added in a different tone: "They say that's my trouble. That's how it

happened."

She said, rather eagerly: "Tell me about it--about everything."

"There isn't much to tell." He spoke without interest, abstractedly.

"I was taken prisoner. How I got to be reported killed, I don't

know. At least, I have a sort of vague idea. There was a fellow very

like me--one of the Huns. I don't mean a double, or anything of that

sort, but just a general superficial resemblance. My German's pretty

rotten but I heard them commenting on it. They took my kit and my

identification disc. I think the idea was for him to penetrate into

our lines as me--we were being relieved by Colonial troops, and they

knew it. The fellow would pass muster for a day or so and would gain

the information he wanted. That's only an idea, but it explains why I

wasn't returned in the list of prisoners and I was sent to a camp that

was practically all French and Belgians. But none of that matters,

does it? I suppose the Hun was killed getting through our lines and

was buried as me. I had a pretty bad time in Germany--nearly died with

some kind of fever on top of being wounded. Finally I escaped----Oh!

it's a long story. I'm not going into all that now. I had the hell of

a time--without food and water sometimes for days at a stretch. It was

a sort of miracle that I came through--but I did. I got into Holland.

I was exhausted and at the same time all strung up. And I could only

think of one thing--getting back to you."

"Yes?"

"And then I saw it--in a beastly illustrated paper. Your marriage.

It--it finished me. But I wouldn't face it. I kept on saying that it

couldn't be true. I went out--I don't know where I went. Things got all

mixed up in my mind.

"There was a whacking great lorry coming down the road. I saw my

chance--end it all, get out of it. I stepped out in front of it."

"Oh, Vernon!" she shuddered.

"And that _was_ the end. Of me as Vernon Deyre, I mean. When I

came to there was just one name in my head--George. That lucky chap,

George. George Green."

"Why Green?"

"A sort of fancy of mine when I was a child. And then the Dutch girl at

the inn had asked me to look up a pal of hers whose name was Green and

I'd written it down in a little book."

"And you didn't remember anything?"

"No."

"Weren't you very frightened?"

"No, not at all. I didn't seem to be worrying about anything." He added

with lingering regret: "I was awfully happy and jolly."

Then he looked across at her.

"But that doesn't matter now. Nothing matters--but you."

She smiled at him, but her smile was flickering and uncertain. He

barely noticed it at the moment, but went on.

"It's been rather hell--getting back, remembering things. All such

beastly things. All the things that--really--I didn't want to face. I

seem to have been a most awful coward all my life. Always turning away

from things I didn't want to look at. Refusing to admit them."

He got up suddenly and came across to her, dropping his head upon her

knees.

"Darling Nell, it's all right. I know I come first. I do, don't I?"

She said: "Of course."

Why did her voice sound so mechanical in her own ears? He did come

first. Just now, with his lips on hers, she had been swept back again

to those wonderful days at the beginning of the war. She had never felt

about George like that ... drowned, carried away.

"You say that so strangely--as though you didn't mean it."

"Of course I mean it."

"I'm sorry for Chetwynd--rotten luck for him. How has he taken it? Very

hard?"

"I haven't told him."

"What?"

She was moved to vindicate herself.

"He's away--in Spain. I haven't got his address."

"Oh! I see...."

He paused.

"It'll be rather rotten for you, Nell. But it can't be helped. We'll

have each other."

"Yes."

Vernon looked around.

"Chetwynd will have this place, anyway. I'm such an ungenerous beggar

that I even grudge him that. But, damn it all, it _is_ my home.

It's been in the family five hundred years. Oh! what does it all

matter? Jane told me once that I couldn't get everything. I've got

you--that's all that matters. We'll find some place. Even if it's only

a couple of rooms, it will do."

His arms stole up, closing round her. Why did she feel that cold dismay

at those words, "A couple of rooms"?

"Damn these things! They get in my way!"

Impetuously, half laughing, he held up the string of pearls she wore.

He switched them off--flung them on the floor. Her lovely pearls! She

thought: "Anyway, I suppose I'll have to give them back." Another cold

feeling. All those lovely jewels that George had given her.

What a brute she was to go on thinking of things like that.

He had seen something at last. He was kneeling upright, looking at her.

"Nell, is--is anything the matter?"

"No--of course not."

She couldn't meet his eyes. She felt too ashamed.

"There is something. Tell me."

She shook her head.

"It's nothing."

She couldn't be poor again. She couldn't--she couldn't.

"Nell, you must tell me."

He mustn't know--he must never know what she was really like. She was

so ashamed.

"Nell, you do love me, don't you?"

"Oh, yes!" The words came eagerly. _That_ at any rate was true.

"Then what is it? I know there's something.... Ah!"

He got up. His face had gone white. She looked up at him inquiringly.

"Is it that?" he asked in a low voice. "It must be. You're going to

have a child."

She sat as though carved in stone. She had never thought of that. If it

were true, it solved everything. Vernon would never know.

"It _is_ that?"

Again it seemed as though hours passed. Thoughts went whirling round in

her brain. It was not herself, but something outside herself that at

last made her bow her head ever so slightly.

He moved a little away. He spoke in a hard dry voice.

"That alters everything.... My poor Nell! You can't--_we_

can't.... Look here, nobody knows--about me, I mean--except the doctor

and Sebastian and Jane. They won't split. I was reported dead. I

_am_ dead."

She made a movement, but he held up a hand to stop her and backed away

toward the door.

"Don't say anything--for God's sake, don't say anything. Words will

make it worse, I'm going. I daren't touch you or kiss you. I--good-bye."

She heard the door open, made a movement as if to call out--but no

sound came from her throat. The door shut again.

There was still time. The car hadn't started.

But still she didn't move.

She had one moment of searing bitterness when she looked into herself

and thought: "So that's what I'm really like."

But she made no sound or movement.

Four years of soft living fettered her will, stifled her voice, and

paralyzed her body.

chapter 4

"Miss Harding to see you, madam."

Nell started. Twenty-four hours had elapsed since her interview with

Vernon. She had thought it was finished. And now Jane!

She was afraid of Jane.

She might refuse to see her.

She said: "Show her up here."

It was more private up here in her own sitting room.

What a long time it was waiting. Had Jane gone away again? No, here she

was.

She looked very tall. Nell cowered down on the sofa. Jane had a wicked

face--she had always thought so. There was a look on her face now as of

an avenging Fury.

The butler left the room. Jane stood towering over Nell. Then she flung

back her head and laughed.

"Don't forget to ask me to the christening," she said.

Nell flinched. She said haughtily:

"I don't know what you mean?"

"It's a family secret at present, is it? Nell, you damned little liar,

you're not going to have a child. I don't believe you ever will have a

child--too much risk and pain. What made you think of telling Vernon

such a peculiarly damnable lie?"

Nell said sullenly: "I never told him. He--he guessed."

"That's even more damnable."

"I don't know what you mean, coming here and--and saying things like

this."

Her protest sounded weak--spiritless. For the life of her she couldn't

put the necessary indignation into it. With anyone else--not with Jane.

Jane had always been disagreeably clear-eyed. It was awful! If only

Jane would go away.

She rose to her feet, trying to sound decisive.

"I don't know why you have come here. If it is only to make a scene...."

"Listen, Nell. You're going to hear the truth. You chucked Vernon once

before. He came to me. Yes--to me. He lived with me for three months.

He was living with me when you came to my flat that day. Ah! that hurts

you. You've still got a bit of raw womanhood left in you, I'm glad to

see.

"You took him from me then. He went to you and never gave me a thought.

He's yours now if you want him. But I tell you this, Nell, if you let

him down a second time, he'll come to me again. Oh! yes, he will.

You've thought things about me in your mind--turned up your nose at me

as 'a certain kind of woman.' Well, because of that, perhaps, I've got

power. I know more about men than you will ever learn. I can get Vernon

if I want him. And I do want him. I always have."

Nell shuddered. She turned her face away, digging her nails into the

palms of her hands.

"Why do you tell me all this? You're a devil."

"I tell it to you to hurt you! To hurt you like hell before it's too

late. No, you shan't turn your head away. You shan't shrink away from

what I'm telling you. You've got to look at me and see--yes, see--with

your eyes and your heart and your brain.... You love Vernon with the

last remaining corner of your miserable little soul. Think of him in my

arms--think of his lips on mine, of his kisses burning my body.... Yes,

you shall think of it.

"Soon you won't mind even that. But you mind now.... Aren't you enough

of a woman to jib at handing over the man you love to another woman? To

a woman you hate? 'A present for Jane with love from Nell.'"

"Go away," said Nell faintly. "Go away."

"I'm going. It's not too late. You can undo the lie you told."

"Go away.... Go away."

"Do it soon--or you'll never do it." Jane paused at the door, looking

back over her shoulder. "I came for Vernon's sake--not mine. I want

him back. And I shall have him ..." she paused, "unless...."

She went out.

Nell sat with her hands clenched.

She murmured fiercely: "She shan't have him. She shan't."

She wanted Vernon. She wanted him. He had loved Jane once. He would

love her again. What had she said? "... his lips on mine ... his kisses

burning my...." Oh! God, she couldn't bear it. She started up--moved

toward the telephone.

The door opened. She turned slowly. George came in. He looked very

normal and cheerful.

"Hullo, sweetheart." He crossed the room and kissed her. "Here I

am--back again. A nasty crossing, I'd rather have the Atlantic than the

Channel any day."

She had completely forgotten that George was coming home to-day! She

couldn't tell him this minute--it would be too cruel. And besides, it

was so difficult--to burst in with tragic news in the middle of a flow

of banalities. This evening--later. In the meantime she would play her

part.

She returned his embrace mechanically, sat down and listened while he

talked.

"I've got a present for you, honey. Something that reminded me of you."

He took a velvet case from his pocket.

Inside, on a bed of white velvet, lay a big rose-coloured

diamond--exquisite, flawless--depending from a long chain. Nell gave a

little gasp of pleasure.

He lifted the jewel from the case and slipped the chain over her

head. She looked down. The exquisite rose-coloured stone blinked up

at her from its resting place between her breasts. Something about it

hypnotized her.

He led her to the glass. She saw a golden-haired beautiful woman, very

calm and elegant. She saw the waved and shingled hair, the manicured

hands, the foamy negligee of soft lace, the cobweb-silk stockings

and little embroidered mules. She saw the hard cold beauty of the

rose-coloured diamond.

And behind them she saw George Chetwynd--kindly, generous, deliciously

safe.

Dear George, she couldn't hurt him....

Kisses.... What, after all, were kisses? You needn't think about them.

Better not to think of them.

Vernon ... Jane....

She wouldn't think of them. For good or evil, she'd made her choice.

There would be bad moments sometimes, but on the whole it would be for

the best. Better for Vernon, too. If she weren't happy she couldn't

make him happy.

She said gently: "You are a dear to bring me such a lovely present.

Ring for tea. We'll have it up here."

"That will be fine. But weren't you going to telephone to someone? I

interrupted you."

She shook her head.

"No," she said. "I've changed my mind."

_2_

LETTERS FROM VERNON DEYRE TO SEBASTIAN LEVINNE

_Moscow._

Dear Sebastian:

Do you know that there was once a legend in Russia that concerned a

"nameless beast" that was coming?

I mention this not because of any political significance (by the

way, the Antichrist hysteria is curious, isn't it?) but because it

reminded me of my own terror of "the Beast." I've thought about the

Beast a great deal since coming to Russia--trying to get at its

true significance.

Because there's more in it than just being afraid of a piano. That

doctor in London opened my eyes to a great many things. I've begun

to see that all through my life I've been a coward. I think you've

known that, Sebastian. You wouldn't put it in that offensive way,

but you hinted as much to me once. I've run away from things....

Always I've run away from things.

And thinking it all over now, I see the Beast as something

symbolical--not a mere piece of furniture composed of wood and

wires. Don't mathematicians say that the future exists at the

same time as the past?--that we travel through time as we travel

through space?--from a thing that is to another thing that is?

Don't some even hold that remembering is a mere habit of the

mind--that we could remember forward as well as back if we had only

learned the trick of it? It sounds nonsense when I say it, but I

believe there is some theory of that kind.

I believe that there is some part of us that _does_ know the

future, that is always intimately aware of it.

That explains, doesn't it, why we should shrink sometimes? The

burden of our destiny is going to be heavy and we recoil from its

shadow. I tried to escape from music--but it got me. It got me at

that concert, in the same way that religion got those people at the

Salvation Army meeting.

It's a devilish thing--or is it godlike? If so it's an Old

Testament jealous God--all the things I've tried to cling to have

been swept away. Abbots Puissants ... Nell....

And, damn it all, what's left? Nothing. Not even the cursed thing

itself. I've no wish to write music. I hear nothing--feel nothing.

Will it ever come back. Jane says it will. She seems very sure. She

sends her love to you, by the way.

Yours,

Vernon.

_3_

_Moscow._

You're an understanding devil, Sebastian. You don't complain that I

ought to have written you a description of samovars, the political

situation, and life in Russia generally. The country, of course,

is in a bloody muddle. What else could it be in? But it's jolly

interesting.... Love from Jane.

Vernon.

_4_

_Moscow._

Dear Sebastian:

Jane was right to bring me here. Point No. 1, no one is likely to

come across me here and joyously proclaim my resurrection from

the dead. Point No. 2, this is about the most interesting place

in the world to be from my point of view. A kind of free-and-easy

laboratory where everyone is trying experiments of the most

dangerous kind. The whole world seems concerned with Russia from a

purely political point of view. Economic, starvation, morals, lack

of liberty, diseased and decadent children ... _etc._

But, amazing things are sometimes born out of vice and filth

and anarchy. The whole trend of Russian thought in art is

extraordinary--part of it the most utter childish drivel you ever

heard, and yet wonderful gleams peeping through, like shining flesh

through a beggar's rags.

The Nameless Beast--Collective Man. Did you ever see that plan for

a monument to the Communist Revolution? The Colossus of Iron? I

tell you, it stirs the imagination.

Machinery--an Age of Machinery.... How the Bolsheviks worship

anything to do with machinery--and how little they know about

it! That's why it's so wonderful to them, I suppose. Imagine a

real mechanic of Chicago composing a dynamic poem describing his

city as "... built upon a screw! Electro dynamo mechanical city!

Spiral-shaped on a steel disc. At every stroke of the hour Turning

round itself--Five thousand skyscrapers...." Anything more alien

from the spirit of America!

And yet, do you ever see a thing when you're too close to it?

It's the people who don't know machinery who see its soul and its

meaning. The Nameless Beast.... My Beast?... I wonder.

Collective Man--forming himself in turn into a vast machine. The

same herd instinct that saved the race of old coming out again in a

different form.

Life's becoming too difficult--too dangerous--for the individual.

What was it Dostoevsky says in one of his books?

"The flock will collect again and submit once more, and then it

will be for ever, for ever. We will give them a quiet modest

happiness."

Herd instinct.... I wonder.

Yours,

Vernon.

_5_

_Moscow._

I have found the other passage in Dostoevsky. I think it is the one

you mean:

"And we alone, we who guard the mystery, we alone shall be unhappy.

There will be thousands of millions of happy children and only a

hundred thousand martyrs who have taken on themselves the curse of

good and evil."

You mean, and Dostoevsky meant, that there must always be

individualists. It is the individualists who carry on the torch.

Men welded into a vast machine must ultimately perish. For the

machine is soulless and will end as scrap iron.

Men worshipped stone and built Stonehenge--and to-day the men who

built it have perished and are unknown and Stonehenge stands.

And yet, by a paradox, the men are alive in you and me, their

descendants, and Stonehenge and what it stood for is dead. The

things that die endure, and the things that endure perish.

It is Man that goes on for ever. (Does he? Isn't that unwarrantable

arrogance? Yet we believe it!) And so, there must be individualists

behind the Machine. So Dostoevsky says and so you say. But then,

you're both Russians. As an Englishman I'm more pessimistic.

Do you know what that passage from Dostoevsky reminds me of?

My childhood. Mr. Green's hundred children--_and_ Poodle,

Squirrel, and Tree. Representatives of the hundred thousand.

Yours,

Vernon.

_6_

_Moscow._

Dear Sebastian:

I suppose you're right. I never have thought much before. It seemed

to me an unprofitable exercise. In fact, I'm not sure I don't still

regard it as such.

The trouble is, you see, that I can't "say it in music." Damn it

all, why _can't_ I say it in music? Music's my job. I'm more

sure of that than ever. And yet--nothing doing.

It's hell.

Vernon.

_7_

Dear Sebastian:

Haven't I mentioned Jane? What is there to say about her? She's

splendid. We both know that. Why don't you write to her yourself?

Yours ever,

Vernon.

_8_

Dear old Sebastian:

Jane says you may be coming out here. I wish to God you would. I'm

sorry I haven't written for six months--I never was one of the

world's ready letter writers.

Have you seen anything of Joe? I'm glad Jane and I looked her up

passing through Paris. Joe's staunch, she'll never split on us,

and I'm glad she at any rate knows. We never write to each other,

she and I, we never have. But I wondered if you'd heard anything.

I didn't think she looked awfully fit. Poor old Joe! She's made a

mess of things.

Have you heard anything of Tatlin's scheme for a monument to the

Third Internationale? To consist of a union of three great glass

chambers connected by a system of vertical axes and spirals. By

means of special machinery they would be kept in perpetual motion

but at different rates of speed.

And inside, I suppose, they'd sing hymns to a Holy Acetylene

Blowpipe!

Do you remember, one night, we were motoring back to town, and we

took the wrong turning somewhere amongst the tramlines of Lewisham,

and instead of making for the haunts of civilization we turned up

somewhere among the Surrey docks and through an opening in the

frowsy houses we saw a queer kind of cubist picture of cranes and

cloudy steam and iron girders? And immediately your artistic soul

bagged it for a drop scene--or whatever the technical term is.

My God, Sebastian! What a magnificent spectacle of machinery you

could build up--sheer effects and lighting, and masses of humans

with inhuman faces--mass, not individuals. You've something of the

kind in mind, haven't you?

The architect, Tatlin, said something that I think good and yet a

lot of nonsense:

"Only the rhythm of the metropolis, of factories and machines

together with the organization of the masses, can give the impulse

to the new art----"

And he goes on to speak of the "monument of the machine" the only

adequate expression of the pression.

You know, of course, all about the modern Russian theatre. That's

your job. I suppose Mayerhold is as marvellous as they say he is.

But can one mix up drama and propaganda?

All the same, it's exciting to arrive at a theatre and be compelled

at once to join a marching crowd--up and down, in strict step,

till the performance begins--and the scenery, composed of rocking

chairs and cannons and revolving bays and God knows what! It's

babyish--absurd--and yet one feels that baby has got hold of a

dangerous and rather interesting toy that in other hands....

_Your_ hands, Sebastian--you're a Russian. But thank heaven

and geography, no propagandist--just a showman pure and simple.

_The Rhythm of the metropolis_--made pictorial.

My God!--if I could give you the music. It's the music that's

needed.

Lord--their "noise orchestras"--their symphonies of factory sirens!

There was a show at Baku in 1922--batteries of artillery, machine

guns, choirs, naval fog horns. Ridiculous! Yes, but if they had a

composer....

No woman ever longed for a child as I long to produce music.

And I'm barren--sterile.

Vernon.

_9_

Dear Sebastian:

It seems like a dream, your having come and gone. Will you really

do _The Tale of the Rogue Who Outwitted Three Other Rogues_? I

wonder.

I'm only just beginning to recognize what a howling success

you've made of things. I've at last grasped that you're simply

IT nowadays. Yes, found your National Opera House--God knows

it's time we had one. But what do you want with opera? It's

archaic--dead--ridiculous individual love affairs.

Music up to now seems to me like a child's drawing of a house--four

walls, a door, two windows, and a chimney pot. There you are--and

what more do you want?

At any rate Feinberg and Prokofiev do more than that.

Do you remember how we used to jeer at the cubists and futurists?

At least, I did. Now that I come to think of it, I don't believe

you agreed.

And then one day--at a cinema--I saw a view of a big city from the

air. Spires turning over, buildings bending--everything behaving as

one simply knew concrete and steel and iron couldn't behave! And

for the first time I got a glimmering of what old Einstein meant

when he talked about relativity.

We don't know anything about the shape of music. We don't know

anything about the shape of anything, for that matter--because

there's always one side open to space.

Some day you'll know what I mean--what music can mean--what I've

always known it meant.

What a mess that opera of mine was. All opera is a mess. Music

was never intended to be representational. To take a story and

write descriptive music to it is as wrong as to write a passage of

music--in the abstract so to speak--and then find an instrument

capable of playing it! When Stravinsky wrote a clarionet passage,

you can't even conceive of it as being played by anything else!

Music should be like mathematics--a pure science, untouched by

drama, or romanticism, or any emotion other than the pure emotion

which is the result of _sound_ divorced from ideas.

I've always known that in my heart. Music must be Absolute.

Not, of course, that I shall realize my ideal. To create pure sound

untouched by ideas is a counsel of perfection.

My music will be the music of machinery. I leave the dressing

of it to you. It's an age of choreography, and choreography will

reach heights we don't as yet dream of. I can trust you with the

visual side of my masterpiece as yet unwritten--and which in all

probability never will be written.

Music must be four dimensional--timbre, pitch, relative speed, and

periodicity.

I don't think even now we appreciate Schönberg enough. That clean

remorseless logic that is the spirit of to-day. He and he alone had

the courage to disregard tradition--to get down to bed rock, and

discover Truth.

He's the one man to my mind who matters. Even his scheme of score

writing will have to be adopted universally. It's absolutely

necessary if scores are going to be intelligible.

The thing I have against him is scorn of his instruments. He's

afraid of being a slave to them. He makes them serve him whether

they will or no.

I'm going to glorify my instruments. I'm going to give them what

they want--what they've always wanted.

Damn it all, Sebastian, _what is this strange thing, music_? I

know less and less.

Yours,

Vernon.

_10_

I know I haven't written. I've been busy. Making experiments. Means

of expression for the Nameless Beast. In other words, instrument

making. Metals are jolly interesting. I'm working with alloys just

at present.

What a fascinating thing sound is.

Jane sends her love.

In answer to your question--No, I don't suppose I shall ever leave

Russia--not even to attend at your newly planned opera house,

disguised in my beard!

It's even more barbarous and beautiful now than when you saw it!

Full and flowing, the perfect temperamental Slav Beaver!

But in spite of the forest camouflage, here I am and here I stay,

till I am exterminated by one of the bands of wild children.

Yours ever,

Vernon.

* * * * *

TELEGRAM FROM VERNON DEYRE TO SEBASTIAN LEVINNE

Just heard Joe dangerously ill feared dying stranded in New York

Jane and I sailing _Resplendent_ hope see you London.

chapter 5

"Sebastian!"

Joe started up in bed, then fell back weakly. She stared unbelievingly.

Sebastian, big, fur-coated, calm, and omniscient, smiled placidly down

at her.

There was no sign in his face of the sudden pang her appearance had

given him. Joe--poor little Joe!

Her hair had grown--it was arranged in two short plaits, one over each

shoulder. Her face was horribly thin, with a high hectic flush on

each cheek bone. The bones of her shoulders showed through her thin

nightdress.

She looked like a feverish child. There was something childlike in her

surprise, in her pleasure, in her eager questioning. The nurse had left

them.

Sebastian sat down by the bed and took Joe's thin hand in his.

"Vernon wired me. I didn't wait for him. I caught the first boat."

"To come to me?"

"Of course."

"Dear Sebastian!"

Tears came into her eyes. Sebastian was alarmed and went on hastily:

"Not that I shan't do a bit of business while I am over. I often come

over on business, and as a matter of fact I can do one or two good

deals just now."

"Don't spoil it."

"But it's true," said Sebastian, surprised.

Joe began to laugh, but coughed instead. Sebastian watched anxiously,

ready to call the nurse. He had been warned. But the fit passed.

Joe lay there contentedly, her hand creeping into Sebastian's again.

"Mother died this way," she whispered. "Poor Mother! I thought I was

going to be so much wiser than she was, and I've made such a mess of

things. Oh! such a mess of things."

"Poor old Joe!"

"You don't know what a mess I've made of things, Sebastian."

"I can imagine it," said Sebastian. "I always thought you would."

Joe was silent a minute, then she said: "You don't know what a comfort

it is to see you, Sebastian. I have seen and known so many rotters. I

didn't like your being strong and successful and cocksure--it annoyed

me. But now--oh, it's wonderful!"

He squeezed her hand.

"There's no one else in the world who would have come--as you've

come--miles--at once. Vernon, of course, but then he's a relation--a

kind of brother. But you----"

"I'm just as much a brother--more than a brother. Ever since Abbots

Puissants I've been--well, ready to stand by if you wanted me."

"Oh! Sebastian." Her eyes opened wide--happily. "I never dreamt that

you'd feel like that still."

He started ever so slightly. He hadn't meant that exactly. He had meant

something that he couldn't explain--not at any rate to Joe. It was a

feeling peculiarly and exclusively Jewish. The undying gratitude of

the Jew who never forgets a benefit conferred. As a child he had been

an outcast and Joe had stood by him--she had been willing to defy her

world. The child Sebastian had never forgotten--would never forget. He

would, as he had said, have gone to the ends of the earth if she had

wanted him.

She went on.

"They moved me into this place--from that horrible ward. Was that you?"

He nodded.

"I cabled."

Joe sighed.

"You're so terribly efficient, Sebastian."

"I'm afraid so."

"But there's nobody like you--nobody. I've thought of you so often

lately."

"Have you?"

He thought of the lonely years--the aching longing--the baffled desire.

Why did things always come to you at the wrong time?

She went on.

"I never dreamt you'd still think about me. I always fancied that some

day you and Jane----"

A queer pang shot through him. _Jane_....

He and Jane....

He said gruffly: "Jane, to my mind, is one of the finest things God

ever made. But she belongs body and soul to Vernon and always will."

"I suppose so. But it's a pity. You and she are the strong ones. You

belong together."

They did, in a curious way. He knew what she meant.

Joe said with a flickering smile: "This reminds me of the books one

reads as a child. Edifying death-bed scenes. Friends and relations

gathering round. Wan smiles of heroine."

Sebastian had made up his mind. Why had he felt this wasn't love? It

was. This passion of pure disinterested pity and tenderness--this deep

affection lasting through the years. A thousand times better worth

while than those stormy or tepid affairs that occurred with monotonous

regularity--that punctuated his life without ever touching any real

depths.

His heart went out to the childlike figure. Somehow, he'd bring it off.

He said gently: "There aren't going to be any death-bed scenes, Joe.

You're going to get well and marry me."

"Darling Sebastian! Tie you to a consumptive wife? Of course not."

"Nonsense! You'll do one of two things--either get well or die. If you

die you die, and there's an end of it. If you get cured you marry me.

And no expense will be spared to cure you."

"I'm pretty bad, Sebastian dear."

"Possibly. But nothing is more uncertain than tubercle--any doctor

will tell you so. You've been just letting yourself go. I think myself

you'll get well. A long weary business, but it can be done."

She looked at him. He saw the colour rising and falling in her thin

cheeks. He knew then that she loved him, and a queer little stir of

warmth woke round his heart. His mother had died two years ago. Since

then no one had really cared.

Joe said in a low voice: "Sebastian, do you really need me? I--I've

made such a mess of things."

He said with sincerity: "Need you? I'm the loneliest man on earth."

And suddenly he broke down. It was a thing he had never done in his

life--never thought he would do. He knelt by Joe's bed, his face

buried, his shoulders heaving.

Her hand stroked his head. He knew she was happy--her proud spirit

appeased. Dear Joe--so impulsive, so warm-hearted, so wrong-headed. She

was dearer to him than anyone on earth. They could help one another.

The nurse came in--the visitor had been there long enough. She withdrew

again for Sebastian to say good-bye.

"By the way," he said, "That French fellow--what's his name?"

"François? He's dead."

"That's all right. You could have got a divorce, of course. But being a

widow makes it easier."

"You _do_ think I shall get well?"

Pathetic, the way she said that!

"Of course."

The nurse reappeared and he took his departure. He called on the

doctor--had a long talk. The doctor was not hopeful. But he agreed

that there was a chance. They decided on Florida.

Sebastian left the home. He walked along the street deep in thought. He

saw a placard with "Terrible Disaster to _Resplendent_" on it, but

it conveyed nothing to his mind.

He was too busy with his own thoughts. What was really best for Joe? To

live or to die? He wondered.

She'd had such a rotten life. He wanted the best for her.

He went to bed and slept heavily.

_2_

He awoke to a vague uneasiness. There was something--something. For the

life of him he couldn't put a name to it.

It wasn't Joe. Joe was in the foreground of his mind. This was

something in the background--shoved away--something that he hadn't been

able to give consideration to at the time.

He thought: "I shall remember presently." But he didn't.

As he dressed he thought out the problem of Joe. He was all for moving

her to Florida as soon as possible. Later, perhaps, Switzerland. She

was very weak, but not too weak to be moved. As soon as she had seen

Vernon and Jane....

They were arriving--when? The _Resplendent_, wasn't it? The

_Resplendent_....

The razor he was holding dropped from his hand. He'd got it now! Before

his eyes rose the vision of a newspaper placard.

The _Resplendent_--Terrible Disaster.

Vernon and Jane were on the _Resplendent_.

He rang furiously. A few minutes later he was scanning the morning

newspaper. There were now full details to hand. His eyes scanned them

rapidly. The _Resplendent_ had struck an iceberg--the death

roll--survivors.

A list of names ... survivors. He found the name there of Groen, Vernon

was alive anyway. Then he searched the other list and found at last

what he was looking for, fearing--the name of Jane Harding.

_3_

He stood quite still, staring at the news sheet in his hand. Presently

he folded it up neatly, laid it on a side table and rang the bell. In

a few minutes a curt order given to the bell hop sent his secretary

hurrying to him.

"I've got an appointment at ten o'clock I can't break. There are some

things you've got to find out for me. Have the information ready for me

when I return."

He detailed the points succinctly. The fullest particulars as to the

_Resplendent_ were to be collected, and certain radios were to be

sent off.

Sebastian telephoned himself to the hospital and warned them that

no mention of the _Resplendent_ disaster was to be made to the

patient. He had a few words with Joe herself which he managed to make

normal and commonplace.

He stopped at a florist's to send her some flowers and then went off

to embark on a long day of meetings and business appointments. It is

to be doubted if anyone noticed that the great Sebastian Levinne was

unlike himself in the smallest detail. He had never been more shrewd in

driving a bargain and his power of getting his own way was never more

in evidence.

It was six o'clock when he returned to the Biltmore.

His secretary met him with all the information available. The survivors

had been picked up by a Norwegian ship. They would be due in New York

in three days' time.

Sebastian nodded, his face unchanged. He gave further instructions.

On the evening of the third day following that he returned to his

hotel, to be met by the information that Mr. Groen had arrived and was

installed in the suite adjoining his own.

Sebastian strode there.

Vernon was standing by the window. He turned round. Sebastian felt

something like a shock. In some strange way he no longer recognized his

friend. Something had happened to him.

They stood staring at each other. Sebastian spoke first. He said the

thing that all day had been present in his mind.

"Jane's dead," he said.

Vernon nodded--gravely--understandingly.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Jane's dead--and I killed her."

The old unemotional Sebastian revived and protested.

"For God's sake, Vernon, don't take it like that. She came with

you--naturally. Don't be morbid about it."

"You don't understand," said Vernon. "You don't know what happened."

He paused and then went on, speaking very quietly and collectedly.

"I can't describe the thing. It happened quite suddenly, you

know--in the middle of the night. There was very little time. The

boat heeled over, you know, at an appalling angle. The two of them

came together--slipping--sliding down the deck. They couldn't save

themselves."

"What two?"

"Nell and Jane, of course."

"What's Nell got to do with it?"

"She was on board."

"What?"

"Yes. I didn't know. Jane and I were second class, of course, and I

don't think we ever glanced at a passenger list. Yes, Nell and George

Chetwynd were on board. That's what I'm telling you, if you wouldn't

interrupt. It happened--a sort of nightmare, no time for life boats or

anything. I was hanging onto a stanchion--or whatever you call it--to

save myself from falling into the sea.

"And they came drifting along the deck, those two, right by

me--slipping, sliding--faster and faster--and the sea waiting for them

below.

"I'd no idea Nell was on board till I saw her drifting down to

destruction, and crying out, '_Vernon!_'

"There isn't time to think on these occasions, I tell you. One can

just make an instinctive gesture. I could grab on to one or other of

them--Nell or Jane. I grabbed Nell and held her, held her like grim

death."

"And Jane?"

Vernon said quietly: "I can see her face still, looking at me as she

went--down into that green swirl."

"My God!" said Sebastian hoarsely.

Then suddenly his impassivity forsook him. His voice rang out bellowing

like a bull.

"You saved Nell? You bloody fool! To save Nell--and let Jane drown.

Why, Nell isn't worth the tip of Jane's little finger. Damn you!"

"I know that."

"You know it? Then----"

"I tell you, it isn't what you _know_--it's some blind instinct

that takes hold of you."

"Damn you! Damn you!"

"I'm damned all right. You needn't worry. I let Jane drown--and I love

her."

"Love her?"

"Yes, I've always loved her. I see that now. Always, from the

beginning, I was afraid of her--because I loved her. I was a coward

there, like everywhere else--trying to escape from reality. I fought

against her. I was ashamed of the power she had over me. I've taken her

through hell.

"And now I want her--I want her. Oh! you'll say that's like me, to want

a thing as soon as it's out of my reach. Perhaps it's true--perhaps I

am like that.

"I only know that I love Jane--that I love her--and that she's gone

from me for ever."

He sat down on a chair and said in his normal tone: "I want to work.

Get out of here, Sebastian, there's a good fellow."

"My God, Vernon, I didn't think I could ever hate you----"

Vernon repeated: "I want to work."

Sebastian turned on his heel and left the room.

_4_

Vernon sat very still.

Jane....

Horrible to suffer like this--to want anyone so much.

Jane ... Jane....

Yes, he'd always loved her. After that very first meeting he'd been

unable to keep away. He'd been drawn toward her by something stronger

than himself.

Fool and coward to be afraid--always afraid. Afraid of any deep

reality--of any violent emotion.

And she had known--she had always known, and been unable to help

him. What had she said: "Divided in time"? That first evening at

Sebastian's party when she had sung:

"_I saw a Fairy lady there

With long white hands and drowning hair_...."

Drowning hair ... no, no, not that. Queer she should have sung that

song. And the statue of the drowned woman ... that was queer, too.

What was the other thing she had sung that night?

"_J'ai perdu mon amie--elle est morte.

Tout s'en va cette fois, à jamais,

A jamais, pour toujours elle emporte

Le dernier des amours que j'aimais_...."

He had lost Abbots Puissants, he had lost Nell.

But with Jane, he had indeed lost "_le dernier des amours que

j'aimais_."

For the rest of his life he would be able to see only one woman--Jane.

He loved Jane ... he loved her....

And he'd tortured her, slighted her, finally abandoned her to that

green evil sea.

The statue in the South Kensington Museum....

God!--he mustn't think of that.

Yes, he'd think of everything. This time he wouldn't turn away.

Jane ... Jane ... Jane....

He wanted her. Jane....

He'd never see her again.

He'd lost everything now ... everything.

Those days, months, years in Russia. Wasted years.

Fool--to live beside her, to hold her body in his arms, and all the

time to be afraid ... afraid of his passion for her.

That old terror of the Beast....

And suddenly, as he thought of the Beast, he knew....

Knew that at last he had come into his heritage.

_5_

It was like the day he had come back from the Titanic Concert. It was

the vision he had had then. He called it vision for it seemed more that

than sound. Seeing and hearing were one--curves and spirals of sound,

ascending, descending, returning.

And now he _knew_--he had the technical knowledge.

He snatched at paper, jotted down brief scrawled hieroglyphics, a kind

of frantic shorthand. There were years of work in front of him, but

he knew that he should never again recapture this first freshness and

clearness of vision.

It must be so--and so: a whole weight of metal--brass--all the brass in

the world.

And those new glass sounds ... ringing, clear.

He was happy.

An hour passed ... two hours.

For a moment he came out of his frenzy--remembered ... Jane!

He felt sick--ashamed. Couldn't he mourn her for even one evening?

There was something base--cruel--in the way he was using his sorrow,

his desire--transmuting it into terms of sound.

That was what it meant to be a creator--ruthlessness, using everything.

And people like Jane were the victims.

Jane....

He felt torn in two--agony and wild exultation.

He thought: "Perhaps women feel like this when they have a child."

Presently he bent again over his sheets of paper, writing frenziedly,

flinging them on the floor as he finished them.

When the door opened he did not hear it. He was deaf to the rustle of a

woman's dress. Only when a small frightened voice said, "Vernon," did

he look up.

With an effort he forced the abstracted look from his face.

"Hullo," he said. "Nell."

She stood there, twisting her hands together--her face white and

ravaged. She spoke in breathless gasps.

"Vernon ... I found out. They told me ... where you were ... and I

came."

He nodded.

"Yes," he said. "You came?"

Oboes--no, cut out oboes. Too soft a note. It must be strident--brazen.

But harps--yes, he wanted the liquidness of harps--like water. You

wanted water as a source of power.

Bother! Nell was speaking. He'd have to listen.

"Vernon, after that awful escape from death--I knew.... There's only

one thing that matters--love. I've always loved you. I've come back to

you--for always."

"Oh!" he said stupidly.

She had come nearer, was holding out her hands to him.

He looked at her as if from a great distance. Really, Nell was

extraordinarily pretty. He could well see why he had fallen in love

with her. Queer, that he wasn't the least bit in love with her now. How

awkward it all was. He did wish she would go away and let him get on

with what he was doing. What about trombones? One could improve on a

trombone....

"Vernon!" Her voice was sharp--frightened. "Don't you love me any more?"

It was really best to be truthful. He said with an odd formal

politeness:

"I'm awfully sorry. I--I'm afraid I don't. You see, I love Jane."

"You're angry with me--because of that lie about the--the child."

"What lie? About what child?"

"Don't you even remember? I said I was going to have a child and it

wasn't true.... Oh! Vernon, forgive me ... forgive me."

"That's quite all right, Nell. Don't you worry. I'm sure everything's

for the best. George is an awfully good chap and you're really happiest

with him. And now, for God's sake, do go away. I don't want to be rude,

but I'm most awfully busy. The whole thing will go if I don't pin it

down."

She stared at him.

Then slowly she moved toward the door. She stopped, turned, flung out

her hands toward him.

"Vernon...."

It was a last cry of despairing appeal.

He did not even look up, only shook his head impatiently.

She went out, shutting the door behind her.

Vernon gave a sigh of relief.

There was nothing now to come between him and his work.

He bent over the table.