"You mean--Marjorie?"
"Yes--Marjorie! Not once--nor twice--not accidentally--nor casually;
but deliberately and continuously! Listen!" He was in the flood-tide
of confession now, and I knew that in that mood he was not apt to be
reticent.
"I made love to her at Craigfoot--in a 'you're-a-nice-little-girl' sort
of way--while Roy was at Sandhurst. I made love to her in London, when
I was on leave and he was in France--took her out to dinner and lunch,
and so on--"
"Why not? It was up to her to refuse."
"She didn't refuse."
"In that case, she must have found your society agreeable."
"No, she didn't! I am pretty vain about myself, Alan; but I could see
she didn't!"
"Then why did she accept your invitations?"
"I fancy it was because it gave her a chance to talk about the
regiment--which meant Roy. Not that she ever mentioned him; but--I see
it now! My God, what a cad I was! I let her sit there, while I crabbed
him--talked patronisingly of him--belittled the good work he had always
done for me and my battalion. Ugh!"
"Did you really care for her?"
"I was fascinated by her for the time. She is a glorious creature!"
"She certainly is."
"But I think that in the main it was jealousy--jealousy of Roy's youth,
and the fact that instead of being my son, as he might have been, he was
my rival. It was a mad business altogether. Finally, I asked her to
marry me."
"She turned you down?" It was an unnecessary remark.
"Of course she turned me down! But she did it very sweetly. She was
rather apologetic about it; said she was engaged already, and perhaps
she ought to have made that fact a little clearer to me from the start;
only she never suspected, and so on."
"She didn't mention Roy's name, I suppose?"
"No! I half thought that she would, just to score me off. It would
have been a real slap in the face for me, his Colonel, if she had. But
she didn't: she just said she was very, very sorry, but that she was
engaged to some one else!"
"Well, there was no great harm done," I said, wishing he would stop.
But he had not finished yet.
"And then--oh Lord, Alan!--do you know what I did then? I turned round
on her, like a spoiled child, and accused her of having flirted with me,
and led me on! And, not content with that, I turned on the pathetic
tap. I said something rotten about expecting a little more
consideration from her, seeing that I was going back to the trenches
to-morrow--and muck like that! And she just looked at me, and said,
quite quietly: 'He is there, too--now!' As if I didn't know! Oh, what
a miserable rotter I was--and am!"
He dropped into a chair, and buried his face in his arms. He was "doon
in the midden" now. I puffed wretchedly at my pipe and longed, from the
bottom of my heart, for an air raid. I found myself wondering whether
Marjorie had ever told Roy of this incident. I decided that my Eve
would not have done so; and therefore probably not Marjorie.
Presently Eric began to talk again, with his forehead still close to the
table.
"And this very morning," he said bitterly--"with Roy's death hardly made
public--I came to this house fooling round Roy's widow with flowers, and
silly old man's messages! I believe I was actually jealous of the dead,
Alan! Well, that's over now. I needn't insult her any more--or him!"
He sat up again, and took the pink slip. "This has killed my conceit at
last--and perhaps saved my soul. Thank God I came across it! It has
brought me to myself. And thank _you_, old friend"--Eric turned swiftly
to me, and his face broke into the smile that I loved--"for what you did
for me! You saved me from being sent home! Yes, and you provided me
with a far more creditable exit from my soldiering career than I ever
deserved!"
"That's all right," I said. "Let's clear up these papers."
But Eric was not listening. He had fallen into a rare mood--gentle and
frank. He talked on--more calmly now.
"Men are queer mixtures. And, oh Lord, how truly some women judge us!
Marjorie saw through me from the start, I believe. So did Diana. Did
you ever know why she broke off our engagement?"
I shook my head. I had not heard Eric mention Diana's name for twenty
years.
"Eve and I never spoke of it," I said.
"No, of course; you two wouldn't--being you two. Well, Diana said to
me, quite suddenly, one day: 'Eric, I want to tell you that I can't
marry you after all.' Just that! Of course, I asked her why."
"That was probably a mistake."
"It was. She asked me not to press her; but, being me, that only made
me more unreasonable. So finally she told me.
"'Eric,' she said, 'I am very fond of you; I always shall be--more than
I care to think about. But you have one fault that I can't get over: you
have a mean streak in you. I would take you with every other fault in
the world--but not that! So--good-bye!' They were the last words she
ever spoke to me. You know, she was like that. I took my medicine with
a smiling face, as you may remember; but it hurt like hell--and it
taught me nothing! Well"--he tapped the telegraph form--"here is my
second dose! It has got home this time. I _have_ a mean streak in me,
and I know it at last! Still"--he rose to his feet and held up his
right hand: he could never resist the dramatic touch--"it's not too
late. I am still on the right side of fifty; and I am going to spend
the rest of my life eradicating that yellow streak from my system. I
think I can do it. A thing's never dangerous once you know it's there."
Suddenly he leaned over towards me. "Alan, old boy, I'm not a
_hopeless_ outsider, am I? Tell me! You know me! What am I?"
"You are what I have always thought you," I said--"a very brave soldier,
with a weakness for facing difficult situations with both eyes shut!
Also, you are my oldest friend. Now, for goodness sake, let's clear up
this mess, and report entire lack of progress to Eskerley!"
The telephone bell rang sharply.
*CHAPTER XXIV*
*THROUGH*
The double doors at the end of the room swung back, and Lord Eskerley
appeared. The bell was still ringing. A tiny hinged metal flap on the
switchboard had fallen open, revealing a white disc with a number on it.
His Lordship gazed absently down upon the apparatus.
"The inestimable Meadows is still taking the air," he said, "so I must
tackle this contraption myself. Let me think; what is the combination?"
He peered at the vibrating flap and the revealed number.
"Three!" he announced. "Aha! I haven't the faintest notion what that
implies. Let us stop this noise, anyhow."
He pushed up the flap again, and the bell stopped ringing.
"Shall we retire?" I asked.
"No, no, no! If it's desperately confidential I will switch it through
to the instrument in my room; but I don't expect"--he put the receiver
to his ear--"Who wants me? What wants me? ... Caperton? Never heard of
him! Oh, an exchange? A locality? A trunk call? Very well! _Rien ne
m'etonne_! Carry on!"
Lord Eskerley's back was turned to us. Suddenly I saw his shoulders
stiffen; he caught his breath sharply. As this was the first sign of
emotion that he had betrayed, to my knowledge, for the last thirty
years, I watched him with quickening interest.
"Yes!" he said ... "Yes, yes! This is Lord Eskerley ... Louder,
please!" Then came a pause, while the receiver squeaked steadily. Then,
a little unexpectedly: "Praise God from Whom all blessings flow!"
Eric was watching too, now. The old man steadied himself, grasping the
end of the mantelpiece with his disengaged hand. Then he looked round
over his shoulder at us, peering over his spectacles.
"A most interesting communication coming through here!" he announced.
"Forgive my demeanour!" His voice was as harsh as ever, but there were
tears in his old eyes. He turned to the instrument again.
"Yes," he said, "I concur. Such a rumour would be _most_ prejudicial to
your future career. Shall we contradict it? You are quite sure it's
incorrect?" ... He chuckled; so did the receiver. Then he continued:
"Eh? ... Oh! Naturally! You would like to do that at once? ... Yes, I
think I can put you in communication with the party in question....
When? Oh, within a fairly reasonable interval of time, I hope. Let us
say next week--" He moved the receiver a few inches away from his ear.
"I can hear you quite easily in your ordinary voice, thanks!"
He chuckled again, laid down the receiver, and brooded once more over
the switchboard. Then, after a brief mental calculation, he selected a
plug at the end of a wire, thrust it into a hole, and pressed a small
ivory button.
A bell rang faintly upstairs, then ceased sharply. Our noble operator
took up the receiver again.
"That you, Habakkuk?" he inquired.... "Good! Some mysterious individual
in Kent wishes to speak to you on the telephone. Wonderful invention!"
The old gentleman made a final adjustment of the switches on the board,
and spoke for the last time--apparently to the person in Kent:
"You still there?"
The telephone vibrated stormily.
"All right! You are through to her--dear boy!"
He hung up the receiver, and left them together.