Squires, at any rate at the very beginning of the war, maintained its
equilibrium. Rose was in London, but Diana and Ford Aviolet drove over
from the other side of the county.
“Good Lord, it’s Armageddon!” growled Sir Thomas Aviolet. He was
entirely unaware that many hundreds of other people had seized upon the
phrase already, and that as many hundreds more would do so within the
next few days.
“The whole of the map will have to be re-made,” remarked Lady Aviolet,
and sometimes she said instead: “But it _can’t_ last long, that’s one
thing. It’s on such a terrific scale that it must be over quickly. It
can’t last.”
“They say Kitchener is preparing for a three years’ war.”
“I daresay he has to be on the safe side, Thomas, but it couldn’t
possibly last that length of time. Not with all the Russian millions to
help us. Why, they say the Russians will be in Berlin before Christmas.”
“I must say, I was frightened that first week-end,” said Diana. “There
was a panic in the town, and everyone tried to get food in, for fear of
a shortage, you know. And then people were so dreadful about money--one
heard of them cashing simply enormous cheques, and taking the gold home
with them! Of course, it was the one thing the Government said we
mustn’t do--hoard gold. And I’m afraid getting the extra supplies of
food wasn’t right, though I did do that myself. I made our grocer give
me exactly three times the quantity of _everything_, and I got a number
of tinned things, and a good deal of flour as well. There was actually
a _queue_ outside his door, but I’d gone myself, in the car, so, of
course, I got in first. After all, it was fair enough in a way, wasn’t
it? First come first served, as they say.”
Her husband sneered. “First _car_ first served, Di. You hadn’t come
there before they had; but they’d only come on foot.”
“Poor people,” said Diana placidly, although she had coloured faintly
at his tone of voice. “Well, I’m sure I hope they got what they wanted,
for there was plenty for everybody, as it turned out. And we know, now,
that there isn’t going to be any difficulty about supplies, and that
people are particularly asked not to hoard.”
“I’m sure we wouldn’t think of such a thing,” said Lady Aviolet.
“Though, naturally, nobody wants to go short. _That_ wouldn’t help to
end the war. But I’m afraid there’s a dreadful time ahead while it
lasts. I wonder we haven’t heard from Cecil about getting a commission.”
“Boys of that age,” said Ford curtly, “won’t be wanted in a show
of this kind. They haven’t the stamina, or the experience, or the
physique. It’s men that are wanted, not children from school.”
“I expect he’ll want to go, Ford, and one does hear of younger boys----”
“Not of Cecil’s type, Mother. A silly, emotional lad of that kind
gives more trouble than he’s worth. Besides, I doubt if he’d be able to
stand fire, frankly.”
Lady Aviolet drew herself up. “My dear Ford, you don’t think what
you’re saying. Cecil isn’t a _coward_. You sometimes almost talk as
though he weren’t our own flesh and blood.”
“You always are down on poor Cecil, I’ve noticed it myself,” suddenly
added Diana.
“I’m sure I don’t know why Ford should give that impression. He’s
always been very good to poor Jim’s boy--naturally,” said Lady Aviolet.
She never allowed any one, least of all Ford’s wife, to imply any
shadow of criticism of him.
“Cecil isn’t only ‘poor Jim’s’ son.”
“I know, my dear. It was a most unfortunate marriage, of course. But
it was all many years ago, and she’s improved wonderfully, poor thing.
One may not have very much in common with her, but, at least, she’s a
genuinely devoted mother, and she hasn’t stood in the boy’s way.”
“She did her best, when she made difficulties over his going to school.”
“Well, yes,” Lady Aviolet conceded. “She was certainly very tiresome
about that, I remember. She had some very odd ideas about his being
different to other boys. As though all mothers didn’t think their own
children quite different to all other children!”
“But Cecil really was a little bit different, Cousin Catherine,” said
Diana. “It seems a shame to say so, but it really was rather dreadful
when he was quite little, and wouldn’t speak the truth, or play games
without cheating.”
“Little bounder,” muttered Ford between his teeth.
“It’s certainly a very horrid fault,” Diana admitted gravely.
“The streak of bad blood is bound to come out sooner or later. It’s all
very well to talk of his being one of ourselves, Mother, but you must
admit that there have been times when young Master Cecil showed very
decided signs of his Smith ancestry.”
“I’d really rather you didn’t say such things, Ford,” returned Lady
Aviolet very placidly.
Her son smiled slightly, raised his eyebrows, and went out of the room.
Diana Aviolet, her face still grave as it had been when she was
discussing Cecil, and with a slight additional tinge of colour in it,
said to her mother-in-law with an effect of considerable effort:
“You know, I’m afraid that one reason why Ford speaks so bitterly
about poor Cecil, is because he feels it so, that he hasn’t got a son
himself.”
Lady Aviolet’s own face lengthened--her nearest approach to a change
of expression. “Yes, that’s a great disappointment for you both, my
dear, and, in fact, for all of us. However, these things are not in our
hands, and one can only suppose that Providence has its own inscrutable
reasons.”
Diana did not seem to be in any way consoled by the contemplation of
such ambiguous wisdom. “Farmers’ wives, and people who really don’t
matter a bit, always seem to me to have large families,” she said
resentfully. “I don’t know why I can’t have even one child, when it’s
so important. I mean, of course, that Ford would like it, and one
couldn’t help feeling----”
She broke off, but Lady Aviolet appeared to have understood her meaning.
“Of course, my dear, one had hoped that Ford’s child--and yours--might
come after us at Squires, one of these days. After all, he _is_ our
eldest son and he’s always been such a good son, too. Poor Jim was very
different. Wild, you know. We never say very much about it, but it was
his own fault that we were obliged to send him out to the East. And
even then, I always think he would have steadied down if only it hadn’t
been for that senseless marriage.”
“Of course, it was a pity to marry her, but I quite see--I can
understand--I’ve often thought,” said Diana courageously, “that Rose
is rather nice, in her own way. What I mean to say is, that in her own
way, Rose really is rather nice. Sometimes, anyway.”
“She has improved a great deal,” repeated Lady Aviolet, in very
modified approval.
“And she’s good-looking.”
“Men think so, certainly. Laurence Charlesbury admired her. I used
sometimes to wonder--however, it would have been very unsuitable, and
I imagine he quite realized that. Poor Rose, she was a great deal more
impossible in those days than she is now, or else it was that people
were so much more particular then. I remember how very much it used to
distress me to see her with paint on her face.”
“Bad form,” said Diana judicially.
“Oh, very. And she had a very vehement and emphatic way of talking,
that one rather disliked. However, as I say, she has improved very much
since then.”
“I wonder what she’ll do now?”
“There’s no reason why she shouldn’t train as a Red Cross nurse, I
suppose,” said Lady Aviolet rather doubtfully. “I believe the most
unlikely people succeed in passing the examinations, and get their
certificates, so I suppose it isn’t very difficult.”
“I’m getting up some ambulance classes at home, of course. If Ford gets
a commission, I shall try and arrange to go abroad.”
“Ford, my dear! He’s over the age limit.”
“I know, but, of course, he’s going to move heaven and earth. But I
don’t really think he’d ever pass, medically.”
“Does his heart still trouble him?”
“Only sometimes.”
“That was the South African war, poor Ford! Well, he need never feel
that he hasn’t done something for his country.”
Lady Aviolet rested in this comfortable conviction.
Diana was less at ease, feeling daily the deepening nervous strain
beneath which Ford lived.
When a letter came from Cecil, announcing his intention of at once
applying for a commission, Sir Thomas loudly proclaimed the fact,
looking Ford in the face fairly and squarely as he spoke. Sir Thomas
was much more capable than was Lady Aviolet, of thinking Ford and his
criticisms something less than infallible.
“Shall I write to Cecil, Father?”
“No thank ’ee. I’ll write myself. He’s shown a very proper spirit,”
said Sir Thomas, “and he’s wanted out there. I shall be proud to let
him go.”
Sir Thomas had never before spoken with so much cordiality of his
grandson.
“Ford may say what he pleases,” he remarked later to his wife, “but
that was a very good letter young Cecil wrote me. He may have his
faults, but I must say I like a boy of his age to show the right
spirit.”
“He’s very young, Thomas.”
“He’ll mend of that in a month or two, as I said to Ford.”
“Oh, I hope it may be all over before then. It _can’t_ last long.”
“Of course, I know very well what’s upsetting Ford,” pursued Sir Thomas
with an air of perspicacity. “He can’t get out himself, and he’s got no
son to send.”
“His son would be far too young to go, even if he’d got one,” said Lady
Aviolet literally. “Why, he’d be still in the nursery.”
“I daresay, I daresay--but that’s what’s upsettin’ him all the same.”
Lady Aviolet did not deny it.
In the course of the next few days, however, it was Sir Thomas who
betrayed vexation of spirit, and Ford who was quietly triumphant.
Cecil wrote another letter to his grandfather, in which he did not
mention a commission at all, and earnestly asked for money.
“What’s he want money for? He has a very good allowance, and this is no
time for lashin’ out. You can write and tell him so, Ford.”
This time Sir Thomas showed no objection to letting Ford act as his
secretary. He also bade his wife write to Rose, in London.
“Ask her if she knows what the young ass is up to, and if she doesn’t,
she’d better go and see him. Or Ford. Ford would be the best person.
Write to her to-night, Catherine.”
Lady Aviolet obediently did so.
My dear Rose,
I wonder if you get more war news in London than we do here. Of
course, the papers can only tell what they are _allowed_ to tell, and
I am sure that a great deal is being kept from us. What a dreadful
time it all is! Like a nightmare, as I say.
I should like to hear if you know how Cecil’s plans stand. Of course,
it was very natural he should be eager to join the Army at once, and
Sir Thomas was pleased with his letter. But we should like to hear
what steps he has taken. We have felt a little bit anxious at his
asking for money, especially as he doesn’t say what he wants it for.
His allowance is a very good one, more than either Ford or poor Jim
ever had at his age. Sir Thomas suggests that Ford should go up and
see him, and perhaps he had better, unless you have anything else to
suggest.
I daresay it is all very unsettling for him just now, and perhaps he
would like to come straight to us, in which case I hope we shall see
you as well.
Diana sends her love. She goes home to-morrow to resume Red Cross
classes, etc.
Yours affecly.,
Catherine Aviolet.
Rose’s reply, when it came, was not a source of gratification.
Dear Lady Aviolet,
Thanks for yours of last Thursday. I knew Ces would want to go to the
war, and of course he’ll have to go.
I’ve been worried, too, about him asking for money, but I can’t get
any sense out of him by letter, though I expect I shall when I see
him. I shouldn’t think Ford had better go to see him. In fact, I’d
already got Dr. Lucian to say that he’d go, only since the war began
he’s been head over ears. I’ve now asked him again, and he’ll be off
in a couple of days.
I’ll write again when I hear.
Please give Diana my love.
Yours affly.,
Rose Aviolet.
“It really is very unsatisfactory,” said Rose Aviolet’s mother-in-law.
“What’s all this about Lucian?” Sir Thomas demanded with corrugated
brows. “I don’t want Lucian interfering with my family affairs. What
the devil have they got to do with Lucian?”
“You’d better ask Rose. She’s always had some fancy that Dr. Lucian
understands Cecil better than the rest of us.”
“Understands him?”
Sir Thomas was scornful of any such necessity. “Lucian is the family
doctor, that’s all he is. He ain’t my man of business. What does Rose
want him poking about with Cecil’s bills for, eh? I suppose bills are
at the bottom of it, young fool. Tell Ford he can go up to Cambridge
to-morrow, and write to Rose and tell her I don’t want any meddling
from Lucian.”
Thus did Sir Thomas command: prepared to overrule any protests. But he
was not destined to settle matters with so high a hand.
“I really can’t write to Rose again, dear,” said Lady Aviolet. “I’m
sure you don’t realize how much I’ve got to do just now, with the war
and everything. Dr. Lucian is quite a sensible man, and if he was going
to presume in any way, he’d have done so long ago when we had to take
him so completely into our confidence over poor Jim’s affairs. After
all, he _is_ a gentleman. I can’t imagine why we don’t hear from Cecil
to say what he’s doing about his commission, but very likely he’s made
some silly muddle of things through sheer ignorance, and he doesn’t
like to say so. Dr. Lucian can see about that quite as well as anybody
else.”
“But there’s evidently some trouble about money, the boy writing and
asking for it like that. And Rose’s letter reads a bit as though he’d
been worrying her in the same way.”
“I hope he isn’t in debt,” said Lady Aviolet vaguely. “But isn’t there
this moratorium, or whatever they call it, of the Government, that
wipes out all that kind of thing?”
“Fiddlesticks!” said Sir Thomas curtly. “Women don’t understand, my
dear. Better leave it alone.”
Lady Aviolet was only too ready to do so, and to return to her
knitting, which now took up more of her time than ever.
Ford, to his father’s peremptory injunctions to proceed immediately to
Cambridge, politely and coldly presented a refusal.
“I’m not in the least in sympathy with young Cecil, and never have
been. I told you at the time that I thought his first letter a piece
of emotional bravado. If he seriously intended to join up at once, he
only had to ask you, or myself, how to set about it. There wasn’t a
single practical suggestion on the subject in the whole letter--mere
rodomontade copied from _The Daily Mail_ patriotic flourishes. I
daresay he thought himself quite sincere at the time he wrote, but he’s
a boaster, and always has been.”
The heavy face of Sir Thomas was gradually becoming suffused, and his
dull eyes looked angrier and angrier.
“I don’t believe it,” he said obstinately. “He can’t be playing the
fool _now_, Ford. I don’t know what all this nonsense is about wanting
money, but we’d better get to the bottom of it, that’s all I can say.
His fool of a mother wants Lucian to go and see to him. Much more sense
if the boy came down here, or you went up there.”
“I’m sorry, it’s quite out of the question. I have a good deal to see
to on my own account, at present. If Cecil descends from heroics to
practical details, I am quite at his disposal. Otherwise, I think he’d
better be left to his mother, who plays up to him, and to Lucian--who
plays up to her.”
The next day Ford and Diana left Squires.
* * * * *
“I can’t think why Cecil doesn’t _come_. Of course, I thought he’d come
to London. I knew he’d want to join the Army--not like those people at
Squires, who write as if they were quite astonished at his suggesting
such a thing,” said Rose scornfully.
“But he hasn’t written any more to me, and I’m terribly afraid he’s
written to _them_ for money, like he did to Uncle Alfred, only that was
before the war had started, so it seems like years and years ago.”
She caught her breath in a deep sigh.
“I’d go to him myself, only I swore when he first went to school that
I wouldn’t be for ever trailing after him in the maddening way that
widowed mothers always do. I expect he’d much rather see you, Maurice.”
“I can get up there to-morrow, if you really want me to go.”
“You’re a brick,” said Rose simply. “Maurice, you’re the only person
I know who doesn’t think he knows what one wants better than one does
oneself. Most people would have said, ‘Hadn’t you better telegraph to
Cecil to come here?’ or ‘Hadn’t you better go yourself?’ or other rot
of that kind. They always make everything as difficult as they can, it
seems to me.”
“I suppose that by ‘they’ you mean, as usual, Cecil’s relatives.”
“I suppose I do.”
They both laughed.
“Mind you, Rose, I think the Army would be a very good thing for Cecil,
at least in some respects.”
Her eyes widened. “Why?”
“Because it would give him a chance of feeling that he was really doing
a fine thing. I think Cecil has been very much absorbed in imaginary
achievements.”
“I know he has.”
“Well, I’ve an idea that he wouldn’t depend on his--fancies--nearly so
much if his need of cutting a figure, so to speak, could be gratified
in real flesh and blood terms. You see, he’s not good at games, he’s
never been particularly clever, he hasn’t even got the personality that
would enable him to stand out from the crowd. But that’s what he wants,
all the time. That’s what he’s looking for--a chance to distinguish
himself.”
“Aren’t we all looking for that, more or less?” Her tone was rather
defiant, and she had coloured deeply.
“I suppose we are. Only with Cecil, the instinct has always been out of
all proportion.”
“He’s much better than he used to be.”
“I’m glad.”
“You don’t believe it!” she cried swiftly.
“My dear, how do I know?” he protested. “I’ve only had glimpses of him
in the last year or two, as you know.”
“He’s much better than he used to be,” she repeated wistfully. Then her
essential capacity for facing facts asserted itself.
“But it’s never really possible to know the whole truth about what goes
on inside other people’s minds, is it, unless they choose to tell one?”
“Not always then,” said the doctor.
Inwardly, he wondered whether Cecil had impulsively enlisted already,
but he saw that the possibility had not occurred to Rose.
“I’ll go to-morrow,” he promised her, “and if Cecil takes my advice,
he’ll tell Sir Thomas exactly why he wants money, and how much. He’ll
probably get it, and his commission into the bargain. You are prepared
for that, Rose?”
“Of course I am.”
She spoke proudly, and Lucian’s heart ached for her.
“What are you going to do yourself, Rose?”
“I don’t know yet. I’ve been waiting to hear from Cecil. As soon as
it’s settled about him, I can find something to do. It won’t be sitting
about at Squires, knitting, anyway. I suppose that’s what poor Diana
will end by doing, though Lady Aviolet did write something about Red
Cross classes.”
Lucian was rather surprised.
“On the contrary, I should have thought she’d be the very person to go
abroad. She has no children, and plenty of money, and let me tell you
that she’s an extremely energetic person, and very fairly capable.”
“I know all that,” said Rose calmly, “but you’ll see, Ford won’t let
her go. He won’t be able to go himself, because he’s over the age and
he’s got a heart or something, and nothing will induce him to let Di
go, if he can’t.”
Lucian looked at her reflectively for an instant before he said: “How
very much you do dislike Ford!”
“Yes.”
There was a finality in her tone that admitted of no rejoinder.
The doctor, not for the first time, reflected upon the singular
un-complexity of Rose Aviolet’s emotions. Her dislikes, to use no
more violent term in describing them, were as whole-hearted as were
her affections, once given. Either paled to insignificance before the
steady, unswerving flame of her passion for her son.
“I’ll go and see Cecil to-morrow,” the doctor repeated, when he said
good-bye to her. “Though I don’t suppose the Aviolets will thank me for
interfering with their grandson’s affairs, you know.”
“Oh, _them_,” said Mrs. Aviolet negligently. “Don’t worry about
them--they don’t matter.”
V
The doctor, at Cambridge, found Cecil Aviolet under arrest.
Sir Thomas, summoned by telegram, received him.
“Have you come up about this abominable business?”
“I’m here by chance, come up to give the boy a message from his mother.
What’s happened?”
The doctor, consternation at his heart, rapped out his questions as
one who had the right to information. But Sir Thomas resented nothing,
observed nothing. He was nearly beside himself with fury.
“This--this boy, this young blackguard, has been had up--arrested
for theft. By God, if I saw him now I believe I’d kill him. A rotter
through and through, that’s what he is. My grandson! He’s a dirty,
common thief, the young swine! He’s stolen--_stolen_!”
The old man’s voice was hoarse with passion, and the veins on his face
and neck swelled dangerously.
“Stolen what? Money?”
“The same thing--silver. Silver cups and trophies, from other fellows.
The young brute----”
Sir Thomas bellowed invectives and curses aloud.
“It’s impossible. There’s a mistake somewhere.”
“That’s what I said, at first. But it’s true. He owned to it.”
Lucian, utterly sick with dismay, could speak no word.
“You’ll have to tell his mother,” said Sir Thomas brutally. “She’ll be
here any minute. She’s always spoilt the lad, from the time he was a
little boy, and you couldn’t get a straight answer out of him at any
price. I could have told her how it would be. You’ll have to tell her,
Lucian,” he repeated inexorably. “You’re used to telling women bad
news, and she’ll take it better from you. My wife would have come, but
it’s knocked her up utterly. By bad luck, she opened the telegram while
I was out. We’ve sent for Diana to be with her, and I shall go back as
soon as Ford can get here.”
“Is he coming?”
“Of course he’s coming. We’ve got to do the best we can to save the
lad from prison, for the sake of the name. My God, to think this young
blackguard of Jim’s ’ll be my only grandchild!” raved Sir Thomas.
Lucian paid small attention to the old man’s violence. In earlier years
he had seen Sir Thomas Aviolet moved to a like frenzy of savage and
irrational fury over the more scandalous episodes in the ill-starred
existence of Cecil’s father. He knew that the very violence of the old
man’s display of wrath was shortening its duration and exhausting his
never very profound capabilities of emotion.
He was thinking, clearly and swiftly.
“Where’s Cecil now?”
“At the police station, I tell you--in a cell at the police station.
They searched his rooms this morning--the police did--and they found
these blasted cups and things all over the place. They arrested him
then and there. They said he was green with funk--he would be, the
little cad--and whimpered out at once that he’d stolen the things. God
knows what he’s been doing. Got into a mess, I suppose, and thought
he’d turn the stuff into cash somehow. I’d sooner he’d taken money,
upon my soul I would, than gone and sneaked the pots and things that
other decent fellows had won for straight riding and rowing and the
rest of it. I’ll pay up--of course I will--I’d pay up ten times over
for the sake of the name--but it’ll come out--it’s bound to.”
“Who is going to prosecute?”
“One of the shops--some silversmith’s. It seems there was a big silver
thing that hadn’t even been paid for--one of the men had it up to look
at it and order the inscription. And the young thief took it out of his
room. That’s what put them on the track. Someone saw him, or suspected
him, or something. Anyhow, the police came with a search warrant.
They’d taken him away by the time I got here, and I tell you, Lucian,
I’m glad of it. I couldn’t answer for myself.”
“Then you haven’t been to him yet?”
“Not I. That’s his poor mother’s job. You know what women are. She’ll
go to him fast enough, and believe all the lies he may choose to tell
her, just as she always has done.”
“How much does she know?”
“Nothing, practically. I telegraphed to her ‘Come at once to Cecil,
very urgent.’ She’ll know the rest soon enough.”
The doctor inwardly cursed the cruelty of the unimaginative. He dared
not think of the interpretations that Rose would have had time to put
upon that summons during her journey.
“I could meet her at the station and tell her.”
“We don’t know what train she’s coming by,” said Sir Thomas helplessly.
“She’ll come by whatever train left London soonest after your telegram
reached her,” said the doctor grimly.
“I’ve got a time-table here.” Sir Thomas fumbled interminably, pulled
out a little paper book at last, and began to flutter the leaves.
The doctor took it out of his hands, consulted it, shut it to again,
and took his hat.
“I’ve just time. I’ll meet the train, take her straight to see the boy,
and then meet you here again.”
He reached the station as the train drew up at the platform.
He saw her at once, her tall figure swinging itself from the carriage
before the train had stopped moving.
Staring at him, she gripped his arm in both hands and said in a voice,
toneless, as though she had rehearsed the sentence over and over again:
“Is he dead? Don’t break it to me, but tell me at once.”
“He’s alive and well. But he’s got into trouble and they’ve arrested
him for theft.”
“Nothing else? You swear you’re not keeping anything back--there isn’t
anything else to tell me?”
“I swear it, Rose. There’s nothing else.”
Her grasp on his arm relaxed, and the set lines of her white face broke.
“Thank God you’re here,” said Rose Aviolet. “I wouldn’t have believed
anybody else. Can you take me to Ces?”
“I’ve a taxi waiting.”
She listened to him in unbroken silence while he told her the little
that he had learnt from Sir Thomas. He could see from the strained
attitude in which she leant forward on the seat, her hands gripping the
sides of it, that unconsciously her every muscle was tightened in an
instinctive, desperate desire to speed their progress.
“Could they make it out as kleptomania?” she asked once.
“I doubt it. You see, they’d want medical evidence for that, and it
would be very difficult to furnish.”
“Will he go to prison?”
“I don’t think so. Not if we can help it, I promise you. Sir Thomas
will offer to make full restitution, of course, and we haven’t heard
what Cecil’s got to say yet. There may be mitigating circumstances that
we don’t yet know of.”
“Are they bound to--to try him?”
“I don’t know, but I’m afraid so. He’ll probably go before the
magistrates, and they’ll remand him for a week. They’re sure to accept
bail for him, all right, and he’ll be with you till--till his trial.
We’ll get the very best legal advice, Rose, directly you’ve seen the
boy. Don’t lose heart.”
He purposely kept the immediate practical issue before them both. Both
knew that a darker abyss of thought lay in wait, but neither could
envisage it yet.
At the police station, Lucian obtained leave from the Inspector-in-Charge
for Mrs. Aviolet to see her son.
They were conducted along whitewashed passages, Rose, looking neither
to right nor left of her, but walking with her head well up, gazing
straight in front of her.
The doctor let her enter the cell alone, and followed the Inspector to
the end of the passage, where the man paused.
“Are you going in, sir?”
“I don’t think so. Not unless they call me. What do you make of this
business, Inspector?”
“Very sad for the young gentleman’s people, I’m afraid, sir,” said the
official, non-committally.
“I’ve known the boy all his life, and his people before him. You know
who they are, of course. He could have applied to them for money, if
he’d been in difficulties.”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Has he got any excuse--any reason, for what he did?”
The man hesitated, looked at Lucian, and then spoke less guardedly.
“It’s my opinion, sir, that young gentlemen in this sort of position
don’t have any valid excuse to offer, unless it’s unsound mind. It
isn’t the want of money makes them do it. When it’s money they’re
after, we get a forgery or an embezzlement, something like that--not
just theft. And there’s some very peculiar features about this case,
too. Most peculiar.”
“What’s that?” asked Lucian sharply.
“Sir Thomas Aviolet hasn’t been told this. It’ll come out before the
magistrates, of course, but we didn’t tell him this morning. In fact,
the man who saw him didn’t rightly know about it. But it’s like this:
some of those cups that was found in young Mr. Aviolet’s rooms had got
inscriptions on them.”
The Inspector paused, as though expecting a comment, but the doctor,
professionally impersonal, did not move a muscle.
“Inscriptions to say that they’d been won by C. J. Aviolet, racing,
or the like, or presented to Cecil Aviolet, Esq. The big one, that
came from the shop--the one valued at thirty pounds, sir--that one
had nothing engraved on it. But there was a document found--a rather
remarkable document.”
The Inspector drew out a note-book and read from it:
“_To Cecil Aviolet, Esq., in most grateful recognition of his daring
achievements, splendid leadership, and indomitable courage and devotion
to duty, this cup is presented in grateful admiration by the members of
the School Cadet Corps._”
“There you are, sir. That was found in the handwriting of the accused,
and no doubt it was meant to be engraved on the cup at his own expense,
just as the other smaller cups had been engraved. There were some
flowery inscriptions on the other ones, too, all about his prowess at
games, and his pluck as a horseman, sir. He’d had them all engraved
himself. Some of the cups he’d bought himself, and some of them he’d
just taken from other people. In my opinion, the poor young gentleman’s
insane.”
The man’s voice was unemotional, giving no hint of any but the most
perfunctory compassion.
“No doubt his defence will take that line, sir.”
Lucian nodded. He dared not trust himself to speak.
“The lady’s signing to you, sir,” said the Inspector, and Lucian, in
obedience to a gesture from Rose, standing at the door, went in.
Cecil, flushed, his eyes brilliant, leant against one of the
whitewashed walls. His hands were in his pockets and he did not remove
them at the doctor’s entrance.
Lucian, in an instant, took in the boy’s pose, the tense, hysterical
excitement in his bearing, the fictitious defiance that was momentarily
nerving him.
He turned to Rose.
“He denies the whole thing,” said Rose, her face ravaged.
“I can explain it all,” Cecil asseverated, wide eyes fixed upon his
mother. “The whole thing was a put-up job, a sort of joke. I never
thought of its ending like this, and frightening you, Mother. It’s a
shame.”
Lucian took two steps forward. “Stop that, Cecil, it’s no good.
Remember that you owned up when you were arrested.”
The boy winced at the word, as Lucian had expected.
“I didn’t know--I was frightened then,” he stammered. “Any one would
have been frightened. I said the first thing that came into my head.
Mother, you believe me, don’t you?”
Rose whitened pitifully at the appeal.
“Stop it, Cecil,” said the doctor again. “If you want to be helped out
of this mess, you’ve got to be absolutely open. Be a man. You’ve made
a bad mistake, but you can retrieve it, I hope and believe, if you’ll
speak the whole truth. Would you rather have it out with me, or with
your mother?”
“I’ve told my mother the truth,” said Cecil quietly. “I didn’t do what
they think. I’m not a thief.”
“Ces!” wailed Rose. For the first time, tearing sobs shook her.
Dr. Lucian caught his breath. “You don’t understand, Cecil. They know
you took the cups, and they know that you had them engraved, at your
own expense, with laudatory inscriptions that you had done nothing
whatever to deserve, and with imaginary accounts of exploits that you
never performed.”
His intentional brutality had its effect.
The boy’s flimsy defence broke down, he turned white and hid his face
against his arm.
“Oh, no, no!” said Rose under her breath, her imploring eyes on the
doctor.
“My dear, I’m afraid it’s true,” he said steadily. “Ah----”
The boy had suddenly thrown himself on the ground, writhing and sobbing.
Rose was beside him in an instant, her arms round him, her own tears
driven back.
“It’ll be all right, Ces. Don’t--don’t. I understand, truly I do. Don’t
tell me any more.”
Cecil was screaming under his breath, horribly.
Rose, still kneeling on the stone floor, looked up at Lucian.
“Let him have it out,” the doctor said gently. “Call me, if you want me
for anything.”
He stepped outside into the passage once more, closing the door behind
him.
He was conscious of a veritable sickness of dismay. It seemed to him,
momentarily, that it was himself that was invaded by overwhelming
humiliation, that he was openly convicted of that ignoble attempted
imposture.
The distant whirr of a telephone struck upon his hearing without
penetrating to his consciousness, but in a few moments he was
approached by a uniformed figure.
“Dr. Lucian?”
“Yes.”
“Sir Thomas Aviolet has rung up on the telephone, sir. He wishes to
speak to you or to Mrs. Aviolet.”
“I’ll go.”
He was taken to a small waiting-room, where yet another uniformed
official sat at a table writing, and where a telephone, with receiver
unfastened, hung against the wall.
“Dr. Lucian speaking, Sir Thomas.”
The answering voice uttered painstaking shouts.
“I can’t hear. Could you speak lower?”
“... hate these instruments ... what? ... think where you’d got to ...
What? Rose come yet...? at once ... solicitor ... best man in ...
_what_?”
“Mrs. Aviolet is with the boy. Do you want me to take any message?”
“... can’t hear a word ... What? ... buzzing going on all the time ...
tell Rose ... come here as quickly as possible ... solicitor ... no
time to lose.”
“Tell Mrs. Aviolet to come and meet the solicitor who is advising you
on the case? Is that right?”
“No time to lose ... hours finding you ...” shouted the angry,
inarticulate voice.
“She shall come,” said the doctor, ringing off.
He did not, however, summon Rose, but waited until she came to find him.
“Sir Thomas has telephoned,” he told her. “He’s found a solicitor, the
best man available probably. He wants you to come as soon as possible.”
“I’m ready now. They’ll let me come to Ces again.”
As they walked along the street, the doctor eyeing every taxi that
passed, Rose said in a choked voice:
“It’s like a nightmare. I keep on thinking I shall wake up out of it
all. At first, when you told me what it was, it seemed less awful than
all the things I’d been imagining. You see, the telegram only said
‘come at once,’ so I didn’t know.... But prison--oh, it’s awful! Is Sir
Thomas frightfully angry?”
“He was very angry when I saw him first, but he’ll have had time to
cool down. There’s nothing to be gained by being angry, and I think
by-and-bye he’ll see that. He’s sent for Ford.”
“Oh, _Ford_! What can he do, except jeer and sneer? He won’t even be
angry. I believe Ces will go clean off his head, if Ford’s allowed near
him.”
“Can you tell me anything about Cecil? Did he give you any sort of
explanation at all?”
“He doesn’t deny it any more. That was the worst of all, almost, before
you came in, when he kept on saying it was all a mistake, and he hadn’t
done it, and wouldn’t I believe him. It was like when he was a little
boy, and used to cheat at games, and look up at me with his great soft
eyes, with his little hand actually on the counter that he’d moved, and
say, ‘But I didn’t, Mummie. I didn’t touch it, truly.’”
She put her handkerchief to her mouth, stifling a sob.
“He can’t help it, you know. It isn’t the same for him as it is for
other people--I know it isn’t. I can’t explain it, but I know he’s
different, somehow. Jim was bad, and then I suppose marrying someone
like me, who wasn’t the same class--Oh, stop that cab quickly!”
She had already signed to the driver.
“Listen, Rose. I want to ask you something. I don’t know, but I
imagine, that this solicitor fellow will want to put up a defence of
instability of mind. I don’t see what other line he can take. The theft
is proved up to the hilt, and the boy will have to plead guilty. If
they want medical testimony, are you prepared to hear me take up the
line that Cecil is more or less mentally unbalanced?”
“But he’s not mad!”
“I know he isn’t. But the alternative, in the eyes of a jury, will be
that he’s a criminal. That would mean--imprisonment.”
“Ces in prison!”
“I know. It would break him, utterly. We’ve got to keep him out of
that, somehow.”
“Yes,” she said tonelessly.
“Did Cecil tell you anything? Could he say why he did it?”
“I asked him if it had anything to do with his writing to Uncle A.
for money, and he said he wanted the money to pay for the--the silver
trophies. He’s had some of them for weeks. I couldn’t ask him about the
inscriptions--I _couldn’t_----”
“No, I see. You know, I think that was part of the same thing as the
way he used to talk about imaginary adventures when he was a little
fellow. I don’t think he wanted to deceive other people--only himself.
He must have had those inscriptions done to try and convince himself
that he was something that he wasn’t, and never could be.”
“What were they?” said Rose. “_No_--don’t tell me. I couldn’t bear it.”
Her voice was choked.
Presently she said: “I suppose, even if we--get him out of this--it’s
the end of Cambridge and all that stuff, for Ces?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“We’d better go to the Colonies, he and I. There’s one thing, we can be
together. He’s always happy with me, and he’s always loved me best,”
she said proudly. “No thanks to them at Squires, either.”
“There’s a pretty considerable chance, Rose, of a job for him when he’s
a very little older.”
“You mean the war?”
He nodded.
“I haven’t been able to realize about the war, yet,” she said
thoughtfully, and by-and-bye added, with her curious directness: “I
suppose a good many people might say that it would be the best thing
for Cecil to be killed in the war, before he’d had time to make a worse
hash of things.”
The drive appeared to have steadied her, and when the taxi stopped she
got out at once, only saying earnestly to Lucian:
“Promise not to go. You won’t leave me?”
“I promise.”
They found Sir Thomas alone. Lucian noted with relief that he seemed
to be calmer, as though his fury had spent itself in shouts and
denunciations.
“How d’ye do, Rose. This is a dreadful business. I’ve had Calvert on
the telephone--first-class man, very clever fellow, I’m told. We’ve got
an appointment with him at his office in an hour’s time. Did you keep
your cab?”
“Yes,” said the doctor. “It’ll wait. We’ve come from the police
station, Sir Thomas.”
The old man groaned. “Sit down, Rose, you look done up,” he said not
unkindly. “No wonder, either. What d’you make of this affair?”
Rose sank heavily into a chair. “Ces is broken up,” she said piteously.
“The young----” Sir Thomas caught himself up. “It’s a hard thing to
say, perhaps, but I’m afraid he’s a hardened young scamp. Either that
or he’s off his head. Upon my soul, I don’t know which is worst.”
The doctor thought rapidly.
Beyond the sweeping alternatives that he had just suggested, Sir Thomas
was incapable of seeing. The insidious mergings of the psychical into
the physical, the encroaching of the nervous system into the domain of
moral control, would for ever remain utterly unapprehended by him. He
would not only fail to understand; he would never, even dimly, perceive.
Lucian took his decision. Sir Thomas must be approached upon his own
plane of reasonings. But he did not look at Rose as he spoke.
“Better face it, Sir Thomas. The boy has never been wholly normal. We
shall have to tell this lawyer so.”
Sir Thomas emitted a sort of bark.
“What d’ye mean?”
“I know what he means,” said Rose, her face rigid. “I don’t suppose
we’ve any of us forgotten all the trouble there’s been with Ces, one
time and another, because he couldn’t speak the truth.”
Lucian inwardly paid passionate homage to her courage and her
directness.
“But that’s nothing to do with his being wrong in the head,” said Sir
Thomas, bewildered; “if he is.”
“It’s not far off it,” the doctor assured him grimly. “It would go a
very long way towards proving that the boy has never possessed the
average stability of mind.”
“I suppose you medical men understand your own jargon,” Sir Thomas
ungraciously conceded. “But to a plain man of ordinary horse-sense,
which is all I’ve ever pretended to be, a liar is a liar and a thief is
a thief.”
“Even a so-called criminal may not be morally responsible for his own
acts.”
“Then he’s a lunatic.”
Sir Thomas made his assertion with all the positiveness of essential
ignorance and stupidity combined.
“It amounts to this,” Rose said suddenly, “either Ces will be proved a
thief and sent to prison, or they’ll say he’s mad.”
“Good God!” Sir Thomas groaned. “I only hope he is mad. In fact, I’m
inclined to think he must be.”
The doctor glanced swiftly at Rose, seeking to convey to her that
Sir Thomas, under the obsession of Cecil’s insanity, would be rather
less impracticable than when infuriated by the conviction of Cecil’s
depravity. She nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Call me when it’s time to start. I’m going to telephone for a room at
the hotel.”
The doctor let her go. He had something else to say to Sir Thomas
Aviolet.
“I learnt an additional fact at the police station--rather a painful
one, I’m afraid.”
“Everything about the whole damned business is painful. What was it?”
“One or two of the cups had been inscribed as having been won by poor
Cecil for his successes at various games----”
“Never won a cup in his life. The boy’s a perfect fool at any kind of
sport. Always has been.”
“Yes. And he hadn’t really won them. But he’d had them inscribed
himself.”
“But they couldn’t have been,” Sir Thomas repeated obtusely. “He wasn’t
any _good_ at games.”
“It was he who’d had them engraved at his own expense, Sir Thomas.
He--he invented the inscriptions.”
“But what for?”
The old man’s utter lack of comprehension was baffling in its
completeness.
The doctor told him of the document that the Inspector had read to
him, and which they had thought to be the draft for an inscription on
the big thirty-pound cup. Sir Thomas listened, his heavy face more and
more deeply discoloured, his mouth half opened, his eyes startled and
incredulous-looking.
At last he appeared to take in the meaning of the doctor’s carefully
chosen words.
“But then--the feller’s mad. He paid for having his own name engraved
on cups and things that he’d stolen--he went and _bought_ cups, and
then had them engraved? Is that what you mean?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean.”
“Then that settles it,” said Sir Thomas simply. “He’s mad. It’s a
ghastly thing but I suppose one ought to be thankful that he can’t be
held responsible. God knows where he gets it from! Not the Aviolets,
nor yet the Amberlys. I’ll go bail on that. The wretched feller’s mad.”
He was now as deeply convinced of Cecil’s madness as he had previously
been convinced of his deliberate wickedness.
“We must get the lawyer man on to that,” he repeated, with an almost
child-like pride in his own astuteness. “That’s the line for him to
take, d’you see, Lucian? He must tell them the wretched boy’s mad.
I--I’m even willing to undertake that he shall be placed under proper
restraint. But, for God’s sake, don’t let his mother know that. You
know what women are.”
The doctor could have groaned aloud.
Just before they were due to start for the solicitor’s office, Ford
arrived.
His sallow face was a shade sallower than usual, his breathing very
slightly hurried. He shook hands with his father, and said, “Ha,
Lucian?” to the doctor with an interrogative inflexion and raised
eyebrows.
“You’ve been quick,” grunted Sir Thomas. “How’s your mother?”
“Di telephoned me that she’s all right, only a bit shaken. Very anxious
for news, of course.”
“There’s only one piece of news they can get, can’t they see that? The
boy’ll be tried for theft. He’s in custody now.”
“What steps have you taken?” said Ford coolly.
“I’ve got an appointment now with a man called Calvert. I’m told he’s
the best feller to go to.”
Sir Thomas seemed eager to convince his son that he had taken prompt
and efficient action.
“We’d better go to him at once, then,” said Ford.
“There’s Rose----”
“Rose--is she here? What for?”
“Damn it, Ford, she’s the boy’s mother.”
“All the more reason she should keep out of it. She can’t do the
slightest good, and we don’t want melodramatic scenes.”
Sir Thomas looked troubled and angry.
“Well, she’s here now, and behaved perfectly well, poor thing. She’s
been to see him.”
“She has also got a full confession out of him,” Dr. Lucian interposed.
“Until she’d been with him for a bit, the poor boy was persisting in
senseless denials of the whole thing. He owned up, when he was with
her.”
“I imagine that the hysterical confessions or denials of a person of
Cecil’s mental calibre will hardly affect the point at issue,” said
Ford drily.
Sir Thomas fastened upon the wording, rather than the meaning, of the
speech.
“Mental, yes. That’s it, Ford. He’s deficient, you know. Not
responsible. I saw directly that was the line to take.”
Rose came in.
There was an interchange of looks between her and Ford Aviolet. No more.
“Come along,” said Sir Thomas.
Ford, opening the door for his sister-in-law, nodded at Lucian.
“We’ll let you know if there’s anything to be done. Very much obliged
to you, Lucian, and all that.”
Rose looked over her shoulder, her wide, scornful eyes passing over
Ford and seeking Lucian only.
Walking past the stiff, narrow-chested figure at the door, he answered
the wordless summons, and came.