THE FINE WAY
I
"And so," said Father O'Sullivan, blowing his nose, "I came right along
to tell you, and ask you what is the next step to take."
"Poor chap!" ejaculated Tommy, delivering himself of a huge sigh. He
was standing on the hearthrug, immaculately attired in dinner jacket,
white shirt-front, and all the rest of the paraphernalia.
Muriel gave a little choke. She was sitting near him in a dress of her
favourite pale green. Father O'Sullivan had descended on them both as
they were waiting in the drawing-room for the announcement of dinner.
It had, be it stated, already been made, but little heed had been paid
thereto, and the butler in wrathful terms was now ordering the soup to
be taken below again.
"And what are you both looking so glum about?" demanded Father
O'Sullivan fiercely. "Faith, and weren't you having me say Masses,
and yourself setting up candles to St. Joseph, that that young
Quixote--what's-his-name--might hold up his head again? And now that
the good Lord has answered our prayers and cleared him, and let that
poor boy make a good confession and pass peacefully away, you're
looking as mournful as a mute at a funeral. Was it perhaps some other
way you'd have been having God arrange things and not His way at all?"
He stuffed his handkerchief back vigorously in his pocket as he spoke.
"But," quoth Tommy in a slightly haughty fashion, feeling this speech
somewhat of an aspersion on his wife's wet eyes, "you will not, I
imagine, deny that it was sad?"
"Sad! Of course it was sad, what happened first. But can't you see the
fine way, the beautiful way, God has taken away the sadness? You're all
for saying Paradise must be a grand place, but directly a soul gets
a bit nearer to it you're for weeping and wailing and crying 'Poor
fellow!'"
Muriel choked back her tears. Smiling at the old priest and the
half-wrathful Tommy, she spoke.
"And you're just as near crying yourself as I am, Father," she
protested. "And it's that is making you so abominably rude and cross to
us both."
"Huh!" said Father O'Sullivan, and he coughed, putting up his hand to
his mouth. And both cough and gesture hid that his lips were trembling.
"And now," he requested after a moment, his voice steady and a trifle
dry, "what's to be done next?"
"Find Mr. Carden, of course," announced Muriel with airy decision,
as who should say that was a fact apparent to the most infantine
intelligence.
"And it's all very well to say 'Find him,'" remarked Father O'Sullivan
dryly, "but have you the faintest suspicion of a notion where he is at
all?"
"Not the least," quoth Muriel cheerfully; "that is exactly what we have
to discover."
"And how will you be doing that may I ask?"
Muriel leant forward, finger-tips pressed together, speaking with the
decision of one who has thoroughly weighed the whole problem.
"First we must tell General Carden, and see if he knows where he is. I
don't think he does, but we must find out for certain. Then there are
his publishers--oh, yes," in answer to Tommy's elevated eyebrows--"he
has written a book, a very good book indeed, and thereby hangs more of
a tale than is enclosed within _its_ covers. Failing both those plans,"
she concluded firmly, "Tommy must find him."
"Faith," said Father O'Sullivan admiringly, "it's a fine thing to be a
husband!"
And then a second time the drawing-room door opened, and a second time
a voice announced, this time in accents of deep reproach, that dinner
was on the table.
Muriel looked at both the men. "Oh," she cried, "didn't he tell us
that before? I feel apologetic. He's such a treasure, and so is the
cook--both artists in their way, and we're spoiling their artistic
efforts. Come, both of you. We'll talk more at dinner." A whirl of
chiffons and daintiness, she led the way downstairs.
In the intervals of the servant's absence from the room, she
promulgated plans, like any old veteran at the beginning of a campaign.
If they sounded somewhat fantastic plans it is certain that neither man
had any better to offer. And what, in her opinion, was more feasible,
more practicable, than that Tommy should take the car to Abbotsleigh,
where Peter was last seen by Anne, and from there scour the country for
a man with a peacock feather in his hat? It was, she assured them both,
the simplest of proceedings.
By the end of dinner they had warmed to her ideas, confessing at least
that no better solution of the difficulty presented itself to them.
Further, she told them, and on this point she was firm, that they must
both go that very evening and tell General Carden the present state of
affairs. For herself, she thought Anne was expecting her. Yes; she was
convinced Anne was expecting her, but she would telephone through and
make sure while they were finishing their cigars. Thus she departed
from the room.
Anne's voice at the other end of the telephone presently answered her.
Yes, she would be at home that evening, and delighted to see Muriel.
But what was the matter of importance of which Muriel had to speak?
Too long to communicate at the moment? Oh, well, Anne must possess her
soul in patience till Muriel arrived.
And then Muriel hung up the receiver, and rang for the footman, on
whose appearance she ordered him to tell her maid to bring a cloak
immediately, and stated also that she would require a taxi in ten
minutes. Then, as one who has put great things in train, she sank back
in a chair with a sigh of relief and content.
II
General Carden was in his smoking-room when the opening of the door
by Goring heralded the entrance of Tommy Lancing and a stout, elderly
priest.
Somewhat perplexed, General Carden put down the book he had been
reading, and rose from his chair to greet them. True, Tommy
occasionally favoured him with his presence at this hour, but why
should he drag along with him a man whom he had only once met, and that
man, moreover, a priest? He appeared, too, somewhat embarrassed. It was
the elder man who was at his ease.
"We came to see you, General," said Tommy, shaking hands and
introducing Father O'Sullivan, "because we thought--that is,
Muriel--well, something unusual has happened." Neither speech nor
introduction was made after Tommy's customary suave fashion.
"Ah!" said General Carden, eyeing them both keenly, while his heart
gave a little anxious throb. Unusual news can easily portend bad news.
Also Tommy's manner was a trifle disconcerting.
"It is," said Tommy, "about your son."
"Ah!" said General Carden again, this time with a quick intake of his
breath. He put his hand up to the mantelpiece. The floor seemed not
quite so solid as he would desire it to be.
"He," blurted out Tommy quickly, "was--was not guilty. Father
O'Sullivan will tell you."
Thus in the simplest, most commonplace of language can momentous
announcements be made. It would seem as though there should be a
grander language, a finer flow of words, for these statements and yet
in such bald fashion are they invariably announced.
There was no question now but that the room was certainly revolving.
Presently it steadied itself, and General Carden knew that he was
sitting by the fire, the two men opposite to him, and that the old
priest was talking. Gradually his mind adjusted itself to facts: he
heard and understood the words that were being spoken. When they
stopped there was a silence. There is so astonishingly little to be
said at such times, though the tittle-tattle of small events will
supply us with endless talk.
"Thank you for coming to tell me," said General Carden gravely, and he
pushed a box of cigars towards the two men. Again silence.
Presently Tommy began to talk, quietly, easily, now. He put forward
Muriel's suggestions, her advice, her plans. He explained minutely the
scheme she had proposed.
General Carden listened intent.
"It is like her kind-heartedness to suggest it," he said, as Tommy
paused, "and yours to follow it up. I have no notion where he is,
nor--nor have his publishers. I happened to ask them the other day." He
made the statement with an airy carelessness of manner.
"Then," said Tommy with a firmness which Muriel would distinctly have
approved, "I start to-morrow."
Thus definitely was the decision given.
The two stayed a while longer, Tommy supplying most of the remarks
made--conversation it can not be termed.
General Carden kept falling into abstracted silences, in which his eyes
sought the fire and his hand pulled gently at his white moustache.
Father O'Sullivan watched him from under his shaggy eyebrows. He was
not a priest for nothing. He knew well enough how to read the vast
unsaid between the little said, and the workings of the reserved old
mind were as clear as daylight to him.
Presently they rose to depart. In the hall General Carden spoke.
"If," he said, addressing himself to Father O'Sullivan, "you would
let me know the day and hour of young Ellerslie's funeral I should be
obliged. He was a friend of my son's."
And in those words the old man blotted out, forgave, the wrong Hugh had
done, as Peter himself would have wished.
An hour later Goring came in with a tray on which were a tumbler and a
jug of hot water.
General Carden looked up. "Which wine did I drink to-night?" he
demanded.
"The '54 port, sir," replied Goring respectfully.
"Hmm!" General Carden beat a faint, delicate tattoo with his fingers on
the table. "I thought so. How much more is there?"
"About eight bottles, sir. Seven or eight I should say."
General Carden coughed. "You need not use any more of it at present,
not till"--he coughed again--"Mr. Peter comes home."
The most perfectly trained of butlers might, perhaps, be excused a
slight start at such a statement, taking into consideration, of course,
previous circumstances. Goring unquestionably started. Then the mask
was on again, impassive, impenetrable.
General Carden still kept up that light tattoo. He had a statement to
make. In all fairness to Peter it had to be made. It was, however,
peculiarly difficult to put into words.
He cleared his throat. "There was," he said, gazing hard at his
fingers, "a mistake. Mr. Peter was shielding some one else." The
tattoo stopped. The words were out.
And then the man broke through the butler. The mask of impassivity
vanished.
"Lord, sir!" his voice was triumphant, "and mightn't we 'ave known it,
if only we 'adn't been such a couple of blithering old fools."
General Carden stared. "Ahem! Goring--really, Goring, I--" He was for
a moment dumbfounded, helpless in his amazement. Then suddenly the
amazement gave way before a humorous smile, his old eyes twinkled, and
he brought his hand down on the table with a thump. "By God!" he cried;
"you're right."
And Goring left the room choking with varied emotions, but pulling down
his waistcoat with dignified pleasure the while.