It was in a side-street close to High Street, Kensington, that it
happened—the unbelievable thing. Fate decided to give Jimmy two months
of happiness; cynically allowed him to come within a fortnight of his
wedding, and then——
For a few seconds he couldn’t believe his eyes; he stood staring like a
man bereft of his senses. There on the opposite side of the road,
playing a barrel-organ, was Peter himself—Peter, who had been reported
“Missing, believed killed,” three years before. Peter, whom a sergeant
had categorically said he had seen killed with his own eyes. And there
he was playing a barrel-organ in the streets of London.
Like a man partially dazed Jimmy Lethbridge went over towards him. As he
approached the player smiled genially, and touched his cap with his free
hand. Then after a while the smile faded, and he stared at Jimmy
suspiciously.
“My God, Peter!” Lethbridge heard himself say, “what are you doing this
for?”
And as he spoke he saw a girl approaching—a girl who placed herself
aggressively beside Peter.
“Why shouldn’t I?” demanded the player. “And who the hell are you
calling Peter?”
“But,” stammered Jimmy, “don’t you know me, old man?”
“No!” returned the other truculently. “And I don’t want to, neither.”
“A ruddy torf, ’e is, Bill,” chimed in the girl.
“Good God!” muttered Lethbridge, even then failing to understand the
situation. “You playing a barrel-organ!”
“Look here, ’op it, guv’nor.” Peter spoke with dangerous calmness. “I
don’t want no blinking scenes ’ere. The police ain’t too friendly as it
is, and this is my best pitch.”
“But why didn’t you let your pals know you were back, old man?” said
Jimmy feebly. “Your governor, and all of us?”
“See ’ere, mister,” the girl stepped forward, “’e ain’t got no
pals—only me. Ain’t that so, Billy?” she turned to the man, who nodded.
“I looks after him, I do, d’yer see?” went on the girl. “And I don’t
want no one coming butting their ugly heads in. It worries ’im, it
does.”
“But do you mean to say——” began Jimmy dazedly, and then he broke off.
At last he understood, something if not all. In some miraculous way
Peter had not been killed; Peter was there in front of him—but a new
Peter; a Peter whose memory of the past had completely gone, whose mind
was as blank as a clean-washed slate.
“How long have you been doing this?” he asked quietly.
“Never you mind,” said the girl sharply. “He ain’t nothing to you. I
looks after ’im, I do.”
Not for a second did Jimmy hesitate, though deep down inside him there
came a voice that whispered—“Don’t be a fool! Pretend it’s a mistake.
Clear off! Molly will never know.” And if for a moment his hands
clenched with the strength of the sudden hideous temptation, his voice
was calm and quiet as he spoke.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” He looked at her gently. “He is something
to me—my greatest friend, whom I thought was dead.”
And now Peter was staring at him fixedly, forgetting even to turn the
handle of the machine.
“I don’t remember yer, guv’nor,” he said, and Jimmy flinched at the
appalling accent. “I’ve kind o’ lost my memory, yer see, and Lizzie ’ere
looks after me.”
“I know she does,” continued Jimmy quietly. “Thank you, Lizzie, thank
you a thousand times. But I want you both to come to this house
to-night.” He scribbled the address of his rooms on a slip of paper. “We
must think what is best to be done. You see, Lizzie, it’s not quite fair
to him, is it? I want to get a good doctor to see him.”
“I’m quite ’appy as I am, sir,” said Peter. “I don’t want no doctors
messing about with me.”
“Yer’d better go, Bill.” The girl turned to him. “The gentleman seems
kind. But”—she swung round on Jimmy fiercely—“you ain’t going to take
’im away from me, guv’nor? ’E’s mine, yer see—mine——”
“I want you to come with him to-night, Lizzie,” said Lethbridge gravely.
“I’m not going to try and take him away from you. I promise that. But
will you promise to come? It’s for his sake I ask you to bring him.”
For a while she looked at him half fearfully; then she glanced at Peter,
who had apparently lost interest in the matter. And at last she muttered
under her breath: “Orl right—I’ll bring him. But ’e’s mine—mine. An’
don’t yer go forgetting it.”
And Jimmy, walking slowly into the main street, carried with him the
remembrance of a small determined face with the look on it of a mother
fighting for her young. That and Peter; poor dazed memory-lost
Peter—his greatest pal.
At first, as he turned towards Piccadilly, he grasped nothing save the
one stupendous fact that Peter was not dead. Then, as he walked on,
gradually the realisation of what it meant to him personally came to his
mind. And with that realisation there returned with redoubled force the
insidious tempting voice that had first whispered: “Molly will never
know.” She would never know—could never know—unless he told her. And
Peter was happy; he’d said so. And the girl was happy—Lizzie. And
perhaps—in fact most likely—Peter would never recover his memory. So
what was the use? Why say anything about it? Why not say it was a
mistake when they came that evening? And Jimmy put his hand to his
forehead and found it was wet with sweat.
After all, if Peter didn’t recover, it would only mean fearful
unhappiness for everyone. He wouldn’t know Molly, and it would break her
heart, and the girl’s, and—but, of course, _he_ didn’t count. It was
the others he was thinking of—not himself.
He turned into the Park opposite the Albert Hall, and passers-by eyed
him strangely, though he was supremely unaware of the fact. But when all
the demons of hell are fighting inside a man, his face is apt to look
grey and haggard. And as he walked slowly towards Hyde Park Corner,
Jimmy Lethbridge went through his Gethsemane. They thronged him;
pressing in on him from all sides, and he cursed the devils out loud.
But still they came back, again and again, and the worst and most
devilish of them all was the insidious temptation that by keeping silent
he would be doing the greatest good for the greatest number. Everyone
was happy now—why run the risk of altering things?
And then, because it is not good that man should be tempted till he
breaks, the Fate that had led him to Peter, led him gently out of the
Grim Garden into Peace once more. He gave a short hard laugh which was
almost a sob, and turning into Knightsbridge he hailed a taxi. It was as
it drew up at the door of Molly’s house that he laughed again—a laugh
that had lost its hardness. And the driver thought his fare’s “Thank
you” was addressed to him. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was the first time
Jimmy had prayed for ten years.
“Why, Jimmy, old man—you’re early, I’m not dressed yet.” Molly met him
in the hall, and he smiled at her gravely.
“Do you mind, dear,” he said, “if I cry off to-night? I’ve got a very
important engagement—even more important than taking you out to dinner,
if possible.”
The smile grew whimsical, and he put both his hands on her shoulders.
“It concerns my wedding present for you,” he added.
“From the bridegroom to the bride?” she laughed.
“Something like that,” he said, turning away abruptly.
“Of course, dear,” she answered. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got a bit of
a head. Though what present you can be getting at this time of day, I
can’t think.”
“You mustn’t try to,” said Jimmy. “It’s a surprise, Molly—a surprise.
Pray God you like it, and that it will be a success!”
He spoke low under his breath, and the girl looked at him curiously.
“What’s the matter, dear?” she cried. “Has something happened?”
Jimmy Lethbridge pulled himself together; he didn’t want her to suspect
anything yet.
“Good heavens, no!” he laughed. “What should have? But I want to borrow
something from you, Molly dear, and I don’t want you to ask any
questions. I want you to lend me that photograph of Peter that you’ve
got—the one in full dress.”
And now she was staring at him wonderingly.
“Jimmy,” she said breathlessly, “does it concern the present?”
“Yes; it concerns the present.”
“You’re going to have a picture of him painted for me?”
“Something like that,” he answered quietly.
“Oh, you dear!” she whispered, “you dear! I’ve been thinking about it
for months. I’ll get it for you.”
She went upstairs, and the man stood still in the hall staring after
her. And he was still standing motionless as she came down again, the
precious frame clasped in her hands.
“You’ll take care of it, Jimmy?” she said, and he nodded.
Then for a moment she laid her hand on his arm.
“I don’t think, old man,” she said quietly, “that you’ll have to wait
very long with friendship only.”
The next moment she was alone with the slam of the front-door echoing in
her ears. It was like Fate to reserve its most deadly arrow for the end.