"Good!" he smiled. "Now tell me all about London.... I see you were hit
twice. From more than a dozen sources I've heard how splendid you were
in France."
His voice was so bright, with its old, happy mannerism of rapidity of
words, with the occasional slurring rallentando, and his gaiety so
infectious, that, under his influence, I felt the clouds about my brain
lifting--not only those caused by grief for his helpless condition, but
those born of my own black moods which drove sleep from my eyes for
nights at a time. I had come determined to be cheerful and to bring
encouragement to the invalid, but already I was drinking in the elixir
of his spirit and feeling my arteries throb with a kind of ecstasy. His
charm was more potent than before.
For a few minutes we chatted about France and the old Westminster boys
who had won renown. We talked of many things, and laughed to find that
we were still boys.
"By the way," he said, during a momentary lull in the stream of
reminiscence, "I must apologize for my wife. She is doing some
necessary shopping in Ventnor, but will be back by the next train."
"I heard you were married," I said, but got no further. Delicacy
forbade my asking him how his dream of love had become a reality. He
must have read the question in my eyes, however, for he offered me his
cigarettes, which, with him, was always a prelude to a change in the
tone of conversation.
"I did not write to her after I went to France," he said quietly,
"because ... well, I've spoken to you before of my sense of
intuition--and I knew that mine would be a heavy price to pay. It was
not fair to fasten her with a life none too robust at its best, because
of a love-fantasy between two children. When I was hit, and they broke
the news to me that--that this was to be my luck, the one thing that
comforted me was the thought that she was free and would not have to
share my captivity. By-the-by, Pest, isn't the sea fascinating? It is
never the same for two days together."
He was still a Puck, lightening his moods whenever they threatened to
hurt the listener with their intensity.
"Pest," he said, after a pause, "she came to me.... When everything was
dark, and I was groping blindly for some hand that would start me just
a--a little on my path, she came--out of the mists. I urged her to
leave me. I argued that she was not fair--and for answer she kissed
me.... Pest, it was a moment of such exquisite happiness, a happiness
so poignant, that I wish I could have died then. I was never so fit for
heaven."
The figure of Sindbad appeared from the house, tugged at its forelock,
and disappeared into the garden to trim some shrubs.
"How did you happen to come here?" I asked.
"I had always looked on the island," he said, smiling, "as the only
spot in England where a twentieth-century Robinson Crusoe could find a
sanctuary from the world, and, by the courtesy of the gentleman who
owned the place, I was able to purchase it at a ridiculously low price.
As a matter of fact, he was offered twice the amount quoted to me, but
refused because I was a disabled Tommy. We came here strangers, but
really the kindness of every one is so great that the ordeal is turning
into a privilege. You have no idea, Pest, how extraordinarily
sympathetic and courteous these people are."
"I suppose, though," I said softly, "that it is rather--lonely."
"Lonely?" he laughed. "Bless your heart, old boy! talk about a French
savant and his _salon_--this place is a positive Mecca for all the
distinguished pilgrims on the island. For instance, there is the editor
of the _Tribune_--a man who thinks editorially and talks colossally.
He claims that any one who has read Boswell's _Life of Johnson_,
Cervantes' _Don Quixote_, and Carlyle's _French Revolution_ is
educated. He never reads anything else, but keeps on reading these
three in an endless cycle. We have perfectly stupendous arguments that
never get anywhere, but utterly exhaust both of us. Then there's the
station-master. How many passengers boarded the train here when you
were coming off?"
"Four, I think."
"Ah, yes; this is Saturday--a busy day. Some trains we don't get any,
and others just one or two; but in anticipation of a rush at some
future date, he's invented a scheme of getting tickets out of a drawer,
stamped and all complete, by merely pressing a button. I assure you
it's going to revolutionize the booking systems of the world--we've
been working on it for weeks, but so far all we've got is the button.
The plans are prodigious, though. And the Tommies! Gor blime, Pest!
there's a convalescent home just down the road, and it's a queer day
that at least two of the beggars don't come up for a 'jaw' about old
times. You talk about your officers' messes and brass hats; why, it's
real life in the ranks. I tell you, Pest, I would rather be the man
that coined the word 'Cheerio' than the greatest general the world has
seen."
A merchant-ship, still wearing its strange motley of camouflage, sailed
past only a couple of miles from shore.
"Look!" whispered Norman, and pointed down the garden.
Sindbad was crouched behind some bushes, surveying the vessel through a
dilapidated telescope. After a careful scrutiny, he resumed his labors,
shaking his head and muttering darkly to himself.
Norman chuckled hilariously. "He's on the look-out for Spaniards," he
said.
"What a villainous telescope!"
"Isn't it? He always has it by him, though. I'll swear you can't see
half-a-mile with the blessed thing."
A huge black hound appeared from the direction of the conservatory,
and, after the canine manner, expressed his wriggliest delight at the
sight of Norman, ending by sitting solemnly beside the chair and laying
one paw on the invalid's knee.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Jones," said Norman.
The dog thumped the ground four times with his tail, and emitted a yawn
like the sound of a train emerging from a tunnel.
"Mr. Jones," said I, "changes from cordiality to ennui with rather
startling rapidity."
The hound acknowledged his name by a solitary thump, and then groaned
with the air of a Stiggins contemplating the wickedness of a Weller.
"What breed is he?" I asked.
"Dog--just dog. He is, if I may say so, the battle-ground of his
ancestors. Every breed but that of bull can be traced in him, and each
has its moment of ascendancy. Mr. Jones possesses a most remarkable
hereditary system."
The subject of our conversation became suddenly tense. A bird had
hopped on to the quarter-deck, and was pecking at the ground in a
manner that would infuriate any self-respecting dog.
Gathering up his loins, Mr. Jones stalked the intruder to within four
yards, and then fell in a heap on the spot--where the bird had been.
After surveying the landscape with a puzzled air, as if to indicate to
us that foul work was afloat, he walked to the end of the lawn and
gazed thoughtfully at the sea. Having thoroughly demonstrated his
indifference as to whether he ever caught a bird or not, he yawned
terrifically, and left the scene for the comfort of the kitchen.