2A Cobden Mansions
It was hard to see what Violet Forster had gained by her change of
residence, even from her own point of view; she felt that herself. She
was conscious that Cobden Mansions was not Nuthurst, and that her
particular corner in that tall, ugly, red brick building left a deal to
be desired. And so far as she could see, she had done no good by
coming; she had learnt absolutely nothing of Sydney Beaton's
whereabouts; she could not have learnt less had she chosen to stray in
the woods at Nuthurst instead of the highways and by-ways of London.
She had never got over the difficulty which had beset her at the first,
that she had not been able to decide which was the best way to carry on
her search. She had always the one dreadful fact to remember, that she
was not the only person who wanted to get within touch of Sydney. If
she was not careful she might do him the worst possible turn, by
placing him in the hands of his enemies. That, in the sense in which
she used the word, he was an innocent man she had no doubt whatever;
but whether that sense was one which would commend itself to the
authorities was the problem which caused her many a sleepless night,
which took the roses out of her cheeks, the light from her eyes,
the spring from her steps; which had transformed the blooming,
light-hearted, high-spirited maiden into a nervous, shrinking,
white-faced woman. She who had never known what it was to have an
hour's illness, had suddenly become the victim of headaches which would
not go. Such headaches! It seemed as if some terrible weight were
pressing on her brain, making it difficult even for her to open her
eyes. Major Reith caught her one day while she was in the grip of one
of the very worst of them. Coming unannounced into her little
sitting-room, he found her lying face downwards on the couch. Starting
up, turning towards him her pallid face, they regarded each other with
mutual discomfiture.
He spoke first: "I beg your pardon, but--I did knock."
Assuming a more orthodox position, she conjured up--it seemed with
difficulty--a faint, wan smile.
"I'm not surprised. It's I who should apologise; this absurd head of
mine makes me feel so stupid that anyone might knock half a dozen times
without my knowing it."
Her appearance startled him; to him she seemed genuinely ill; the
change which had taken place in her hurt him more than he would have
cared to say. He was so unwilling that she should see the concern on
his face that he turned his face from her under the pretence of putting
his hat upon a chair.
"Have you seen a doctor?"
"What's the use? Medicine won't cure me, at least the sort of stuff a
doctor would prescribe."
"Suppose you get really bowled over, what then?" She did not answer;
she shut her eyes and sat still. "Do you know you are beginning to
strike me as an extremely obstinate person?"
"Are you only just beginning to find that out?"
"You'll be a case for the hospital before very long, and then what good
will you have done, for yourself, for anyone?"
"That's a question which I put to myself--so often. Please don't bully
me. You never have seen me cry, have you? But I shall cry if you do;
and I feel that if I once start I shall never stop. Have you any news?
That's the medicine I want, and a doctor who will give it me."
"I'm more than half disposed to telegraph to someone who'd pack you off
to the sea; you'll brood yourself ill."
"The sea won't do me any good; I've told you the only medicine which
will. Have you any?"
"News? Of a sort. The regiment is all at sixes and sevens; in the whole
of its history there's never been such a state of things before."
"What's wrong now with your precious regiment?"
"Everything. There's a bad spirit abroad in the mess; there's continual
friction, the fellows are all at loggerheads, there's something that
jars."
"So there ought to be, amongst such a set of individuals as constitute
your mess."
"I've something to tell which you may regard as some of that medicine
you are looking for."
"Have you? That's good; what is it?"
"It depends upon the point of view whether it's good or whether it's
bad; from one point of view it's uncommonly bad."
"I hope that's not mine."
"I dare say it won't be. You know that throughout I've declined to
express a positive opinion about that poker business of Beaton's."
"I do; and I've hated you for it."
"I'm beginning to think that there may be something in your point of
view after all."
"Really? That is condescension; and what has brought it about--you're
beginning to think?"
"I know what you think, and I know why; you must forgive me if my
thoughts are on a different plane. You consider one man only, there's
nothing that matters except him; to me there's a very great deal. I'm a
soldier; to me the service is first and last; my regiment is all in
all."
"Do you think I don't know that?"
"That affair of Beaton's was bad enough in all conscience; it's a tale
which will be told of the regiment for many a day; but if it's going to
be reopened I don't know what will become of us--I honestly do not."
"You don't believe that justice should be done even if the heavens
fall?"
"I'm not sure that it is not better that one man should suffer, even
though unjustly, rather than that a great and glorious tradition should
be dragged in the mud and made a mock of."
"Your sentiments do you infinite discredit; I wonder, since you hold
them, that I ever let you speak to me."
"Yes--well, I do hold them, and I'm going to continue to speak to you
whether you let me or not."
"You haven't got your medicine."
"Young Tickell has made an announcement to the mess which is likely to
cause trouble. He laid a cheque on the table for the amount which was
in the pool that night, and he said that, as circumstances had arisen
which caused him to doubt, he felt that he would like the money to be
held in trust till the point was finally decided."
"Bravo, Jackie! Conscience moves in a mysterious way; that really is
medicine."
"Yes, I thought you'd think so; it doesn't occur to you to think what
the young gentleman's action means for the rest of us."
"I'm hopeful that it will cause your consciences to move in a
mysterious way; I've always insisted that the age of miracles is still
with us."
"Tickell as good as said that he doubted that Dodwell and Draycott had
said the thing which was not, and if we had not all of us behaved
infamously."
"You prefer the French point of view of the _chose jugée_; isn't that
the phrase with which they decline to let injustice be set right?"
"The thing's done--that was bad enough; but if it's all going to be
reopened it may be made infinitely worse; Tickell's action practically
laid an unpleasant imputation upon every one of us."
"I shall write to Mr. Tickell and tell him how glad I am to find that
there is in him the making of an honest man."
"What did you say to him that night at the Avonham ball?" Although the
major paused for an answer, none came. "I believe that what you said,
whatever it was, was the direct cause of his present action. Now what
did you say?"
The lady rose from the couch, with a smile which, this time, was
childlike and bland.
"I say that your medicine has already done me some good, and I think
that the fresh air of the heavens may do me more. Regent's Park is
within easy distance. Would you favour me with your society if I were
moved to stroll in it? I will go and put my hat on." She turned again
just as she was leaving the room. "By the way, who is the correspondent
who has favoured this morning's _Daily Screecher_ with that mysterious
communication; do you think it was manufactured in the office? I fancy
that mysterious communications sometimes are."
"You credit me with a knowledge of journalistic methods which I don't
possess."
"You saw it?" He nodded. "What do you think of it?"
"I would rather not think of it at all."
"That seems to be your attitude in all such matters; you're like the
ostrich who thinks that he hides himself and escapes from an unpleasant
predicament by hiding his head in the sand. You see, I've got to
think."
"Then, if I were you, I shouldn't."
"The _Daily Screecher_ says that a correspondent has favoured them with
an account of certain extraordinary occurrences which took place at
Avonham on the night of the Easter ball. If the statement is true, and
it seems to bear on it the hall-mark of truth, then it throws a very
lurid light on the continued mysterious disappearance of Captain Noel
Draycott. It goes on to say that searching and exhaustive inquiries are
being made into the statement, the result of which will be published in
an early issue. In the meantime it assures its readers that
sensational, and even astounding, developments may shortly be expected.
I suppose you are capable of telling me if you think that that
communication was manufactured in the office?"
The major showed a disposition to fidget, on which the lady commented.
"It's no use your shuffling your feet, or looking down at your boots,
or fingering your tie; everything is quite all right. Will you please
tell me what you think?"
"It's difficult to say."
"That means that you think there is a bona fide correspondent and that
the communication is genuine."
"I'll put it this way--it's a wonder to me that something hasn't
peeped out already. You and I know that the facts that the papers have
got are not the real ones; there are--how many persons?--goodness only
knows!--who are in a position to supply them with something which is a
great deal nearer the truth--the whole truth, that is."
"And you think that one of those persons has?"
"Who knows? So far what struck me most about the matter is, that in
spite of the boasted argus eyes of the newspapers, how easy it is to
keep things from them. Even the approximate truth of what took place at
Avonham would make--if they knew it--the fortunes of half a dozen
journalists; and in America they would have got it, long ago; it's
possible that here they're going to get it now."
The girl's smile had again become wan and faint.
"You're a comfortable counsellor; that paragraph in the _Screecher_
gave me my headache; your medicine did it good; but now it's as bad
again as ever. I don't think that I care to stroll in the park--even
with you."
"Whether you care or not you are coming. Go and put on your hat; or am
I to carry you off without it?"
The girl hesitated; then, without a word, quitted the room. She was
absent some minutes; a hat is not put on in a second. When she returned
there was something about her eyes which filled the major with
uncomfortable suspicions. In silence she led the way downstairs, and he
followed.
It did not promise to be a very agreeable stroll, although the weather
was fine. He seemed to find it hard to make conversation; she certainly
declined to help him. They were into the park before a dozen sentences
had been exchanged. Then, when they had walked quite a little distance
without a word being spoken, all at once, as if moved by a sudden
impulse, she made an effort to relieve the situation.
"If we walk on much longer, mumchance, like two dumb statues, people
will think one of two things; either that we are married--I've been
given to understand that husbands and wives never speak to each other
when they take their walks abroad--or else that we have quarrelled."
He bore himself as if he had a poker down his back, and his eyes were
fixed straight in front of him as he replied:
"I've not the least objection to their thinking the first."
"I dare say; but I have. Will you please talk to me about the weather."
Before he had a chance to air his eloquence upon that well-worn
subject, something happened which rendered it unnecessary for him to
say anything at all. A taxicab had gone rushing past, and as it passed,
its occupant, a lady, put out her head to look at them. The cab had not
gone another fifty yards before she stopped it. As they approached she
was standing on the footpath with the obvious intention of accosting
them. Her tone as she did so was enthusiastic.
"Miss Forster! This is a pleasure."
Judging from the expression on the young lady's face she was more than
doubtful if it was a pleasure which was common to them both.
"Jane Simmons!" she exclaimed.
The other shook her by no means ill-looking head, and she laughed.
"Not Simmons; my name is Spurrier, Julia Spurrier. Most fortunate my
meeting you like this, Miss Forster; I have for some time been most
anxious to have a talk with you. Is there anywhere where I can say a
few words to you in private? I believe you will regard what I have to
say as of the first importance--to you, Miss Forster. I know what I am
saying."