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