Some hours later I saw Colonel McClure again. He had become so interested in Edgecumbe's case, that he refused to go back to Plymouth until he was certain that all was well; and although Dr. Merril had left early that morning, in order to attend to his patients, he had arranged to meet him at Bolivick later.
'It's all right, Luscombe. Your friend's talking quite naturally withMerril. He is rather weak, but otherwise he's splendid.'
'May I see him?' I asked eagerly.
'Oh, yes, certainly.'
When I entered the bedroom, I found Edgecumbe sitting up in bed, and although he looked rather tired, he spoke naturally.
'I can't understand why I'm here,' he said, with a laugh, 'but I suppose I must obey orders. I was tremendously surprised about half an hour ago when on awaking I saw two men who told me they were doctors, and who seemed frightfully interested in my condition.'
Dr. Merril went out of the room as he spoke, leaving us together.
'Has anything particular happened to me, Luscombe? You needn't be afraid to tell me, man; I am all right.'
'Have you no remembrance of anything yourself?' I said.
'Nothing, except that I was attacked by a horrible pain, and that I became blind. After that I think my senses must have left me, for I can remember nothing more.'
I looked at him eagerly. I remembered Colonel McClure's injunction, and yet I was more anxious than I can say to ask him questions.
'Did you feel nothing before the pain?'
'I felt awfully languid,' he replied, after a few seconds' silence, 'but nothing more.'
He lifted himself up in the bed, and I could not help noticing that his face looked younger, and that his skin was almost natural. The old, parched look had largely passed away; it might have been as though a new and rejuvenating force had entered his system.
'Springfield and I are in for a big battle.'
I wondered whether he knew anything of my suspicions, and whether by some means or another the thoughts which haunted not only my mind, but that of Colonel McClure, had somehow reached his.
'Springfield means to have her, but I am not going to let him.'
'You are thinking about Miss Bolivick,' I said.
'Who else?' And his face flushed as he spoke. 'When I saw her first, I was hopeless, but now——'
'Yes, now,' I repeated, as I saw him hesitate, 'what now?'
For the moment I had forgotten all about his illness. I did not realize that I might be doing wrong by allowing him to excite himself.
'Buller is not the danger,' he cried; 'he is but a puppet in Springfield's hands. There's something between that man and me which I can't explain; but there's going to be a battle royal between us. He means to marry Lorna Bolivick. In his own way he has fallen in love with her. But he shall never have her.'
'How are you going to stop him?' I asked.
I saw his lips quiver, while his eyes burnt with the light of resolution.
'Surely you do not mean,' I went on, 'that you hope to marry her?'
'I not only hope to,—I mean to,' he said.
I was silent for a few seconds. I did not want to hinder his recovery, by saying anything which might cause him to despair, but the thing which had been born in his mind seemed so senseless, so hopeless, that I felt it would be cruel on my part to allow him to entertain such a mad feeling.
'Surely you have not considered the impossibility of such a thing,' I said.
'Nothing's impossible,' he cried.
'But do you not see the insuperable barriers in the way?'
'I see the barriers, but they must be swept aside. Why, man!' and his voice became stronger, 'when I awoke a few hours ago, and saw those two doctor chaps, I was first of all bewildered, I could not understand. Then it suddenly came to me where I was, in whose house I was staying, and in a flash I realized everything. As I said, when I saw her first, I despaired; but no man who believes in God should despair. I tell you, the thought of it means life, health, strength, to me! I have something great to live for. Why, think, man, think!'
'I am thinking hard,' I replied. 'I need hardly tell you, Edgecumbe, that I am your friend, and that I wish you the best that you can hope for. It seems cruel, too, after what you have gone through, to try to destroy the thought which is evidently dear to you, but I must do it.'
'But I love her, man!' and his voice trembled as he spoke. 'When I saw her standing in the doorway, as we drove up the other night, she was a revelation to me,—she made all the world new. One look into her eyes was like opening the gates of heaven. Do you realize what a pure soul she has?—how beautiful she is? She is a child woman. She has all the innocence, all the artlessness of a child of ten, and all the resolution, and the foresight, and the daring of a woman. She seemed to me like a being from another world, like one sent to tell me what life should be. She made everything larger, grander, holier, and before I had been in her presence five seconds I knew that I was hers for ever and for ever.'
'It is because she is so pure, and so innocent, that you should give up all such thoughts at once,' I said.
'But why should I? Tell me that.'
'You will not think me harsh or unkind?'
'I shall not think anything wrong,' and he laughed as he spoke. 'I will tell you why. Nothing can destroy my resolve.'
'My dear fellow,' I said, 'evidently you don't realize the situation.'
'Well, help me to realize it; tell me what you have in your mind.'
'First of all, a woman's love may not be won easily,—it may be she cares for some one else.'
'I will make her love me!' he cried; 'she will not be able to help herself. She will see that my love for her fills my whole being, and that I live to serve her, protect her, worship her.'
'Many men have loved in vain,' I replied; 'but, assuming for the moment that you could win her love, your hopes would be still as impossible as ever.'
'Rule out the word impossible. But tell me why you believe it is so.'
'First of all, Lorna Bolivick is a young lady of position, she is a child of an old family, and when she marries she will naturally marry into her own class.'
'Naturally; but what of that? Am I not of—of her class?'
'Doubtless. But face facts. You have not a penny beyond your pay;—would it be fair, would it be right of you, to go to such a girl as she, reared as she has been, and offer her only poverty?'
'I will make a position,' he cried enthusiastically. 'I'm not a fool!'
'How? When?' I asked.
'For the moment I don't know how, or when,' he replied, 'but it shall be done.'
'Then think again,' I went on, 'you could not marry her without her parents' consent, and if they know your purposes they would close their doors against you. Fancy Sir Thomas Bolivick allowing his daughter to marry a man with only a subaltern's pay!'
'Number two,' he replied with a laugh; 'go on,'—and I could see that he regarded my words as of no more weight than thistledown.
'Yes, that is number two,' I replied. 'Now to come to number three. Do you think that you, alone, are strong enough to match yourself with your rivals?'
'You mean Buller and Springfield? I have told you what I think about Buller; as for Springfield, he's a bad man. Besides, if I am poor, is he not poor, too? He's only a captain.'
'Buller tells me he's the heir to a peerage,' I replied, 'and that when somebody dies he will come into pots of money. And whatever else you may think about him, he is a strong man, capable and determined. If you are right about him, and you think there's going to be a battle royal between you two, you will have a dangerous enemy, an enemy who will stop at nothing. But that is not all. The greatest difficulty has not yet been mentioned.'
'What is that?'
I hesitated before replying. I felt I was going to be cruel, and yet I could not help it.
'You have no right to ask any woman to be your wife,' I urged—'least of all a woman whom you love as you say you love Lorna Bolivick.'
'Why?' and there was a tone of anxiety in his voice.
'Because you don't know who you are, or what you are. You are, I should judge, a man thirty years of age. What your history has been you don't know. Possibly you have a wife somewhere.'
I was sorry the moment I had uttered the words, for he gave a cry almost amounting to agony.
'No, no,' he gasped, 'not that!'
'You don't know,' I said; 'the past is an utter blank to you; you have no recollection of anything which happened before you lost your memory, and——'
'No, no, not that, Luscombe. I am sure that if I ever married, if I ever loved a woman, I should know it,—I should feel it instinctively.'
'I am not sure. You say you have no memory of your father or mother; surely if you remembered anything you'd remember them? Now suppose,—of course it is an almost impossible contingency, but suppose you won Lorna Bolivick's consent to be your wife; suppose you obtained a position sufficiently good for Sir Thomas and Lady Bolivick to consent to your marrying her; and then suppose your memory came back, and the whole of your past were made known to you, and you discovered that there was a woman here in England, or somewhere else, whom you married years ago, and whom you loved, and who had been grieving because of your loss? Can't you see the situation?'
I could see I had impressed him. Instead of the light of resolution, there was a haunting fear in his eyes.
'I had not thought of that,' he murmured. 'Of course it is not so,—I am sure it is not so. Still, as you say, it would not be fair to submit her to a suspicion of danger.'
'Then of course you give up the thought?'
'Oh, no,' he replied. 'Of course I must think it out, and I must meet the situation; but I give up nothing—nothing.'
As I rose to leave him, McClure stood in the door of the bedroom and beckoned to me.
'Springfield and Buller are downstairs,' he whispered to me; 'they have come to lunch. Can you manage to get a chat with the fellow? It seems horrible to have such suspicions, but——'
'Yes, I understand,' I replied, noting his hesitation.
'If what is in both our minds has any foundation in fact,' he went on, 'Edgecumbe should be warned. I hate talking like this, and it is just horrible.'
'I know what you feel,' I said, 'but what can we do? As we both have to admit, nothing can be proved, and it would be a crime to accuse an innocent man of such a thing.'
'Yes, I know; but the more I have thought about the matter, the more I am sure that—that—anyhow, get a chat with him. I must get back to Plymouth soon, but before I go you and I must have a further talk. This thing must be bottomed, man, must! I'll be down in a minute.'
I made my way toward the dining-room, forming plans of action as I did so. I had by this time made up my mind concerning Springfield. Whether he were guilty of what Colonel McClure had hinted at, I was not sure, but a thousand things told me that he both feared and hated my friend. How could I pierce his armour, and protect Edgecumbe at the same time?
When I entered the dining-room, he and Lorna Bolivick were talking together. I watched their faces for a few seconds unheeded by them. I do not know what he was saying to her, but she was listening to him eagerly. In some way he had destroyed the instinctive feeling of revulsion which he had created in her mind months before. She seemed like one fascinated; he held her as though by a strong personality, a strange fascination. There was no doubt in my mind, either, that although he had come to Devonshire as the guest of young Buller, he was a rival for Lorna Bolivick's hand. As much as such a man as he could love a woman, he loved Lorna Bolivick, and meant to win her.
After lunch, I got my chance of a few minutes' chat with Springfield. I think I managed it without arousing any suspicions; certainly he did not manifest any, neither did he appear in the slightest degree ruffled when I talked with him about Edgecumbe's strange illness.
'You have been in India, I think, Springfield?' I said.
'Who told you that?'
'I have almost forgotten. Perhaps it was St. Mabyn, or it might have been Buller. Were you there long?'
'A couple of years,' he replied. 'I was glad to get away, too. It is a beastly part of the world.'
'I asked,' I said, 'because Edgecumbe had just come from India when I first saw him, and I was wondering whether you could throw any light upon his sudden illness.'
'My dear chap, I'm not a doctor. What does McClure say?'
'He's in a bit of a fog,' I replied, 'so is Merril.'
'Doctors usually are,' he laughed. 'For my own part, I think that a great deal of fuss has been made about the whole business. After all, what did it amount to?'
'It was a very strange illness,' I replied.
'Was it? Certainly the fellow was taken bad suddenly, and he fell down in a sort of fit, but that is nothing strange.'
'It is to a man whose general health is as good as that of Edgecumbe.'
'Yes, but India plays ducks and drakes with any man's constitution,' he replied. 'You see, you know nothing about Edgecumbe, and his loss of memory may be a very convenient thing to him.'
'What do you mean?
'I mean nothing, except this: Edgecumbe, I presume, has been a man of the world; how he lost his memory—assuming, of course, that hehaslost it—is a mystery. But he has lived in India, and possibly, while there, went the whole hog. Excuse me, Luscombe, but I have no romantic notions about him. He seems to be on the high moral horse just now, but what his past has been neither of us know. As I said, life in India plays ducks and drakes with a man's constitution, especially if he has been a bit wild. Doubtless the remains of some old disease is in his system, and—and—we saw the results.' He lit a cigarette as he spoke, and I noticed that his hand was perfectly steady.
'Is that your explanation?' I asked.
'I have no explanation,' he replied, 'but that seems to me as likely as any other.'
'Because, between ourselves,' I went on, 'both McClure and Merril think he was poisoned.'
He was silent for a few seconds, as though thinking, then he asked quite naturally, 'How could that be?'
'McClure, as you know, was an Army doctor in India,' I said.
'Well, then, if any one ought to know, he ought,' and he puffed at his cigarette; 'but what symptoms did he give of being poisoned?'
I detailed Edgecumbe's condition, his torpor, and the symptoms which followed.
'Is there anything suggestive of poisoning in that?' he asked, like a man curious.
'McClure seems to think so.'
'Of course he may be right,' he replied carelessly, 'but I don't know enough about the subject to pass an opinion worth having. All the same, if he were poisoned, it is a wonder to me how he got well so quickly'; and he hummed a popular music-hall air.
'The thing which puzzles McClure,' I went on, 'and he seems to know a good deal about Indian poisons, is the almost impossibility of such a thing happening here in England. He says that the Indians have a trick of poisoning their enemies by pricking them with some little instrument that they possess, an instrument by which they can inject poison into the blood. It leaves no mark after death, but is followed by symptoms almost identical with those which Edgecumbe had. During the time the victim is suffering, there is a little blue mark on the spot where the injection was made.'
I looked at him steadily as I spoke, trying to see whether he manifested any uneasiness or emotion. But he baffled me. I thought I saw his lips twitch, and his eyes contract, but I might easily have been mistaken. If he were a guilty man, then he was the greatest actor, and had the most supreme command over himself, of any one I had ever seen.
'And did you find such a mark on your friend?' he asked, after a few seconds' silence.
'Yes,' I replied, 'close to the elbow.'
He showed no emotion whatever, and yet I could not help feeling that he was conscious of what was in my mind. Of course this might be pure imagination on my part, and I do not think any detective of fiction fame would have gained the slightest inkling from his face that he was in any way connected with it.
Springfield took his cigarette case-from his tunic, and extracted another cigarette. 'It seems a bit funny, doesn't it? but I don't pretend to offer an explanation. By the way, will he be well enough to go back to duty when his leave is up?'
'I don't know,' I replied. 'McClure will have to decide that.'
'I should think you will be glad to get rid of him, Luscombe.'
'Why?' I asked.
'The fellow seems such an impossible bounder. Excuse me, but that is how he struck me.'
'You didn't seem to think so when you thanked him for saving your life,' was my reply.
'No, of course that was different'; and his voice was somewhat strained as he spoke. 'I—I ought not to have said that, Luscombe. When one man owes another his life, he—he should be careful. If I can do the fellow a good turn, I will; and since in these days anybody can become an officer in the British Army, I—I——' He stammered uneasily, and then went on: 'Of course it is different when you have to meet a man as an equal in a friend's house. But there,—I must be going. I have to get back to town to-night.'
In spite of what I had said to Edgecumbe, I was angry at seeing that Springfield spent two hours that afternoon with Lorna Bolivick. There could be no doubt about it, the fellow had broken down all her antagonism towards him, and was bent on making a good impression on her. I found, too, that Sir Thomas Bolivick regarded him with great favour. By some means or another, the news had come to him that Springfield was a possible heir to a peerage, and that while he was at present poor, he would on the death of a distant relative become a very rich man. This fact had doubtless increased his interest in Springfield, and perhaps had lessened his annoyance at the fact that Lorna had failed to fall in with his previous wishes concerning her.
'Remarkably clever fellow.' he confided in me; 'the kind of man who makes an impression wherever he goes. When I saw him at St. Mabyn's more than a year ago, I did not like him so much, but he grows on one.'
'By the way, what peerage is he heir to?' I asked. 'I never heard of it until yesterday.'
'Oh, he'll come into Lord Carbis's title and estates.'
'Carbis? Then it's not an old affair?'
'Oh no,—the present Lord Carbis was created a peer in 1890.'
'A brewer, isn't he?' I asked.
'Yes,' and I thought Sir Thomas looked somewhat uneasy. 'Of course there are very few old peerages now,' he went on; 'the old families have a way of dying out, somehow. But Carbis is one of the richest men in the country. I suppose he paid nearly a million for the Carbis estates. Carbis Castle is almost medieval, I suppose, and the oldest part of the building was commenced I don't know how many hundreds of years ago. Oh, Springfield will be in a magnificent position when the present Lord Carbis dies.'
'Beer seems a very profitable thing,' I could not help laughing.
'Personally I have no prejudice against these beer peerages,' replied Sir Thomas somewhat warmly. 'Of course I would prefer a more ancient creation, but these are democratic days. If a man creates a great fortune by serving the State, why shouldn't he be honoured? When you come to think about it, I suppose the brewing class has provided more peerages than any other during the last fifty years. Come now, Luscombe,' and Sir Thomas looked at me almost angrily.
Just before Colonel McClure left, he drew me aside, and asked me if I had spoken to Springfield, and on my describing our conversation, he looked very grave.
'I can't make it out, Luscombe,' he said. 'If my twelve years' experience in India goes for anything, your friend Edgecumbe was poisoned. He had every symptom of a man who had a subtle and deadly poison injected into his blood. And the way he responded to the treatment I gave him coincided exactly with what I have seen a dozen times in India.'
'Might it not be merely a coincidence?' I asked.
'Of course almost anything is possible,' he replied, 'and I could not swear in a court of law that he had been poisoned. I gather you are fond of Edgecumbe,' he added.
'Yes,' I replied; 'it may be it is owing to the peculiar circumstances by which we were brought together, and from the fact that more than once he saved my life. And no man could love his brother more than I love him.'
'Then,' said Colonel McClure earnestly, 'watch over him, my friend; guard him as if he were your own son.'
I spent a good deal of time in Edgecumbe's room that night, but we scarcely spoke. He was sleeping most of the time, and I was warned against exciting him. The following day, however, he was quite like his natural self, and expressed his determination to get up. As Colonel McClure had encouraged this, I made no attempt to oppose him, and the afternoon of the Monday being fine and sunny, we walked in the park together.
'Springfield's gone to London, hasn't he?' he asked.
'Yes,' I replied; and then I blurted out, 'He spent yesterday afternoon with Miss Bolivick. I am inclined to think you are right about his intentions concerning her.'
'Do you think he has spoken to her?'
'I shouldn't be surprised, and for that matter I am inclined to think he has had a serious conversation with her father.'
I was almost sorry, when I saw the look on his face, that I had spoken in this way. He became very pale, and his lips quivered as though he were much moved. 'Of course,' I went on, trying to make the best of myfaux pas, 'it may be a good thing for you.'
'Why?' he asked.
'If he has been successful, it will make you see how foolish your thoughts are.'
'Do you know me so little as that?' he asked.
'But surely, my dear fellow,' I said, 'in the face of what I said yesterday, you will not think of entertaining such impossible ideas?'
'You mean about my having a wife somewhere,' and he laughed.
'I mean that, under the most favourable circumstances, no honourable man could, in your position, ask a woman to marry him.'
'I mean to ask her, though,' was his reply.
'But, my dear fellow——'
'Luscombe,' and there was a steady look in his eyes as he spoke, 'I have thought it all out. Almighty God never put such a love in a man's heart as He has put in my heart for Lorna Bolivick, to laugh at him. At the very first opportunity I shall tell her everything.'
'And if she refuses you,' I said, 'as most likely she will?'
'I shall still love her, and never give up hoping and striving.'
'You mean——?'
'I mean that nothing will turn me aside from my determination, nothing,—nothing.'
'But supposing you have a wife,—supposing that when you were a boy, before you lost your memory, you married some one, what then?'
'Don't talk rubbish, old man,' was his reply.
'After all,' I reflected that night when I went to bed, 'perhaps it is best that he should speak to her. She will regard his declaration as madness, and will tell him so. He never saw her until three hours ago, and if, as I suspect, Springfield has fascinated her, she will make him see what a fool he has been. Then he will give up his madness.'
That was why I left them together the next day. All the same, there was a curious pain in my heart as I saw them walk away side by side, for I knew by the light in his eyes that he meant to carry out his determination.
Few men tell each other about their love-making, especially Englishmen. Mostly we regard such things as too sacred to speak about, even to those we trust and love the most. Besides, there is something in the character of the normal Englishman which is reserved and secretive, and the thought of telling about our love-making is utterly repugnant to us. Nevertheless, Edgecumbe told me the story of their conversation that afternoon almost word for word as it took place.
He spoke of it quite naturally, too, as though it were the right thing to do. He looked upon me as his one friend, and perhaps the abnormal condition of his life made him do what under other circumstances he would never have thought of. Anyhow, he told me, while I listened incredulous, but almost spellbound.
They had been but a few minutes together, when he commenced his confession. They had left the lane in which they had been walking and were crossing a field which led to a piece of woodland, now beginning to be tinged by those autumn tints which are so beautiful in our western counties.
It was one of those autumn days, which are often more glorious than even those of midsummer. The sweetness and freshness of summer had gone, and the browning leaves and shortening days warned us that winter was coming on apace. But as they walked, the sun shone in a cloudless sky. The morning had been gloomy and showery, but now, as if by a magician's wand, the clouds had been swept away, and nothing but the great dome of blue, illumined by the brightness of the sun, was over them. The rain, too, had cleared the air, and the raindrops which here and there still hung on the grass sparkled in the sunlight.
'It seems,' said Edgecumbe, 'as though the glory of yonder woods is simply defying the coming of winter. Do you see the colouring, the almost unearthly beauty, of the leaves? That is because the sun is shining on them.'
'Yes;' replied Lorna, 'but the winter is coming.'
'Only for a little while, and it only means that nature will take a rest. It's a glorious thing to live, Miss Bolivick.'
She looked at him earnestly for a few seconds. Perhaps she was thinking of the illness through which he had passed, and of his thankfulness at his recovery.
'I am so glad you're better,' she said. 'We were all heart-broken at your illness. I hope——'
But she did not finish the sentence. Perhaps she saw that he was not heeding what she said,—saw, too, that his eyes were far away.
For a few seconds they walked on in silence. Then he turned towards her suddenly.
'I have something to tell you,' he said,—'something very wonderful.'
'You look awfully serious,' and she gave a nervous laugh as she spoke;'I hope it is nothing to frighten me.'
'Perhaps it is,' he replied, 'but it must be said,—the words would choke me if I didn't utter them.'
She looked at him like one frightened, but did not speak.
'It is all summed up in three words,' he went on: 'I love you. No, don't speak yet; it would not be right. I never saw you until Friday night,—that is, I have no ordinary remembrance of seeing you until then. My friend had spoken to me about you; he had told me of your interest in me. He showed me the letter you wrote him. I did not want to come here, but something, I don't know what it was, made me. When I saw you on Friday evening, I knew. You stood at the doorway of your father's house, with the light of the setting sun upon your face. I could not speak at the time,—words wouldn't come. No wonder, for life begun for me at that moment,—I mean full life, complete life. When I saw you, the world became new. You thought I acted strangely, didn't you? I told you that I never remembered speaking to a woman until then. In a way, of course, it was foolishness, although in another it was the truth. My past is a blank,—that is, up to the time I awoke to a realization that I lived, away in India; and since then my life has been with men. But that wasn't what I meant. When I saw you, you were the only woman in the world,—you are now. You are the fulfilment of my dreams, longing, hopes, ideals. You are all the world.'
The two walked on side by side, neither speaking for some time after this. Perhaps Lorna Bolivick was frightened,—perhaps she was wondering how she could at once be kind, and still make him see the foolishness of what he had said.
'I am glad you are silent,' went on Edgecumbe, 'for your silence helps me. Do you know, when I came to England,—that is, when I saw Luscombe for the first time, I had no thought of God except in a vague, shadowy way. Something, I don't know what, had obliterated Him from my existence,—if ever He had an existence to me, and for months afterwards I never thought of Him. Then I went into a Y.M.C.A. hut in France, where a man spoke about Him, and I caught the idea. It was wonderful,—wonderful! Presently I found Him, found Him in reality, and He illumined the whole of my life. I read that wonderful story of how He sent His Son to reveal Him,—I saw His love in the life and death of Jesus Christ,—and life has never been the same to me since then. But something was wanting, even then; something human, something that was necessary to complete life. Then I saw you, and you completed it.
'I don't know whether men call you beautiful, or not,—that doesn't matter. You have not come into my life like an angel, but as a woman, a human woman. I know nothing about you, and yet I know everything. You are the one woman God meant for me, you fill my life,—you glorify it. You mustn't think of marrying anybody else, it would be sacrilege if you did. Such a love as mine wasn't intended to be discarded,—mustn't be,—can't be.'
'Mr. Edgecumbe,' she said quietly, 'I think we had better return to the house.'
'No, don't let us go back yet; there are other things I want to say'; and he walked steadily on. She still kept by his side,—perhaps she was not so much influenced by his words, as the way he said them, for I knew by the look in his eyes when he told me his story, and by what I felt at the recital of it, that there was a strange intensity, a wonderful magnetism, in his presence.
'I am very ignorant,' he continued presently, 'about the ways of the world. I suppose I must have known at one time, for Luscombe tells me that I generally do what might be expected of a gentleman, although sometimes I make strange mistakes. The loss of one's memory, I suppose, has a curious effect, and I cannot explain it to you. There are certain things which are very real, and very plain,—others are obscure. For example, I speak German perfectly; but until I read it a few months ago, I knew nothing of German history. Forgive me for saying that,—it has nothing to do with what I want to tell you, and yet perhaps it has. Anyhow, it makes plain certain things I do and say. You are going to be my wife——'
'Really, Mr. Edgecumbe,—please,—please——'
'You are going to be my wife,' he went on, as if she had not spoken; 'some day, if not now, you are going to wake up to the fact that you love me, as I love you,—that just as you are the only woman in the world to me, so I am the only man in the world to you. That is not because of my worthiness, because I am not worthy, but because the fire which burns in my heart will be kindled in yours. This seems like madness on my part, doesn't it?—but I am not mad. I am only speaking because of a great conviction, and because my love envelops me, fills me, overwhelms me. Don't you see? Then this has come to me: I am poor, I am nameless, homeless,—but what of that? Love such as mine makes everything possible, and I am going to make a name, make wealth, make riches;—it won't take me long. Why,' and he laughed as he spoke, 'what is a great love for, but to conquer difficulties, to sweep away impossibilities?'
'But this is madness, Mr. Edgecumbe,' replied the girl, finding her voice at last. 'I can't allow you to speak in such a way any longer; it would be wrong for me to do so. I do not wish to hurt you, and indeed I am very sorry for you. I never thought that you would think of me in this way; if I had, I would never have asked you to come here. But you must see how impossible everything is; our habits of life, our associations, everything, make it impossible. Besides, I don't love you,—never can love you.'
'Oh, yes, you can,' replied Edgecumbe, 'and you will. It may be you will have a great battle to fight,—I think you will; but you will love me. When I am away from you,—when I am over in France, facing death, you will think of me, think of this hour, and you will remember that wherever I am, and whatever I am, I am thinking of you, loving you,—that my one object in life will be to win a position for you, to win a name for you. No, no, do not fear that I would ask you to marry me until, even in that sense, I am worthy of you. But you are young, and can wait, and, as you remember, perhaps in the silence of the night, that there is a man whom God made for you, thinking for you, striving for you,—you will learn the great secret.'
I fancy at that time Lorna Bolivick really thought his mind was unhinged; I imagine, too, that she was afraid, because Edgecumbe told me that a look amounting almost to terror was in her eyes. But he seems to have taken no notice of this, for he went on.
'You are thinking of other men who love you; that young fellow Buller is very fond of you in his own way, and perhaps Springfield has also made love to you. Perhaps, too, he has fascinated you. But that will not stop you from loving me. Even if you have promised him anything, you must give him up.'
'Perhaps you will finish your walk alone, Mr. Edgecumbe,' she said.'I—I am going back to the house.'
'Not yet,' he replied. 'In a few minutes I shall have finished. I did not expect you to be as patient as you have been, and I thank you. But if youhaveany thoughts about Springfield, you will give them up. He is no fit mate for you; he is as far removed from you as heaven is from hell.'
At this she spoke passionately. 'You doubtless have forgotten many things,' she said, 'and one thing is that one gentleman never speaks evil of another.'
'I say what I have to say,' he replied, 'because life, and all it means, trembles in the balance. I do not pretend to know anything about Springfield, although I have a feeling that his life and my life have been associated in the past, and will be again in the future. But let that pass. You may be fascinated by him, but you can never love him,—you simply can't. Your nature is as pure as those raindrops, as transparent as the sky. You love things that are pure and beautiful,—and that man's nature is dark and sinister, if not evil. There is only one other thing I have to tell you, then we will return. You see,' he added, 'I am not asking you to promise me anything, or to tell me anything,—I only want to tell you. I suppose I am about thirty years of age, I don't know; how long ago it was that I lost my memory I can't tell; but my friend Luscombe tells me that perhaps, when I was younger than I am now—that is in those days which are all dark to me—I loved some woman and married her. Of course I didn't. But even when I have won a position worthy of you, and when my name shall be equal to yours, I will never think of asking you to wed me until even all possibility of suspicion of such a thing is swept aside. I thought it right to tell you this; how could I help it,—when the joy that should fill your life, the light which you should rejoice in, are all the world to me?'
'Mr. Edgecumbe,' she said, 'you are my father's guest, and—and—I want to think only kind thoughts of you,—but please drive away these foolish fancies.'
He laughed gaily. 'Foolish fancies! Is the sun foolish for shining? Are the flowers foolish for blooming? No, no; I love you,—I love you, and day and night, summer and winter, through shine and through storm, my one thought will be of you, always of you, and then, in God's good time, you will come to me, and we shall enter into joy.'
During the greater part of their journey back scarcely a word passed between them, and when at length they drew near the house again, he spoke to her of other things, as though his mad confession had never been uttered. He told her of the books he was trying to read, books which were new to him, and yet which he felt he had read before; told, too, of his thought about the war, and what we were fighting for, and what the results would be. He spoke of his friendship with me, and of what it meant to him; of his new life in the Artillery, and of his progress as a gunner, and when he came up to the door where I was waiting anxiously for them, he was telling her a humorous story about two soldiers at the front. Indeed, so much had he erased the influence of what he had at first said to her, that when Lorna Bolivick reached the house she was laughing gaily.
'Had a pleasant walk?' I asked.
'Wonderful,' replied Edgecumbe; 'a walk never to be forgotten.'
As for Lorna, she went away to her room, and did not appear again until dinner-time.
That night Edgecumbe revealed himself in a new light. No other visitors were there, with the exception of Miss Blackwater. That was the reason, perhaps, he was able to speak freely, and act naturally. But, certainly, I never knew him such a pleasant companion as then, and he revealed phases of character which I had never suspected him of. This man, who was often wistful, and generally strenuous in his earnestness, became humorous and gay. Sometimes he was almost brilliant in his repartees, and revealed a fund of humour which surprised me. Sometimes he grew quite eloquent in discussing the war, and in telling what he believed the effects would be on the life of men and nations. He showed an insight into the deeper movements of the times, which revealed him as a thinker of no mean order, while his idealism and his patriotism were contagious.
Whether he had a purpose in all this, I cannot say, but certain it is he simply captivated the old baronet.
'Dash it, man!' cried Sir Thomas to me, just before I went to bed, 'the fellow is a genius. I never dreamed of such a thing! With luck, he'll make his mark. He—he might do anything. Upon my word, I am sorry he's going to-morrow. I thought on Saturday he was nothing but a teetotal fanatic, but the fellow is wonderful. He has a keen sense of humour, too. I wonder who and what he really is. It is the most remarkable case I ever heard of in my life.'
'For my own part,' I said, 'I almost dread his memory coming back.'
'Why?'
'There are times when a man's past had better be buried and forgotten.'
'On the other hand,' broke in Sir Thomas, 'it may be the beginning of a new life to him. Perhaps he has a name, wealth, position.'
Lorna Bolivick, who was standing by, did not speak, but I could see that her father's words influenced her. Perhaps she was thinking of the mad confession which Edgecumbe had made that day.
The next day we returned to London.
'The war still drags on, Luscombe.'
'Yes, it still drags on,' and I looked up from the copy ofThe Timeswhich I had been reading. 'They seem to have had bad weather at the front. From what I can judge, the Somme push is practically at an end for this winter, unless better weather sets in.'
The train by which we travelled had just left Bristol, and would not stop until we arrived in London.
'Of course,' I went on, 'it will be Haig's policy to keep the Germans busy all the winter, but I don't imagine that much more advance will be made before spring comes.'
'That will mean another winter in the trenches, with its ghastly toll of suffering and sacrifice of human life.'
'I am afraid so,' I said, 'but then we are at war.'
'How long is this going to last?' and there was a note of impatience in his voice.
'Until the Germans are brought to their knees,' I replied, 'and that will be no easy matter. When a nation like Germany has spent forty years in preparation for war, it isn't easily beaten. You see they were piling up mountains of munitions, while the Krupp's factories were turning out thousands of big guns all the time we were asleep. Now we are paying the price for it.'
'The same old tale,' he laughed, 'big guns, explosives, millions of men.'
'It must be the same old tale,' I replied. 'This is a war of exhaustion, and the nations which can hold out longest will win.'
'Then where does God come in?' he asked.
I was silent. For one thing, I did not wish to enter into a religious argument, and for another I scarcely knew what to say.
'You know those words in the Bible, Luscombe,—"Some trust in horsemen, some in chariots, but we will trust in the strength of the Lord our God." How much are we trusting in God?'
'It seems to me,' I replied, 'that God gives the victory to the biggest and best equipped armies.'
'That's blank materialism, blank atheism!' he cried almost passionately. 'We don't give God a chance, that is why we haven't won the war before now.'
I laughed good-humouredly, for even yet the mental attitude he had taken up seemed to me almost absurd.
'I see what you are thinking, but I tell you what,—the materialism of the country is adding to this frightful welter of blood, to this ghastly holocaust. The destinies of men and nations are not decided primarily by big guns, or mighty armies, and until we, as a nation, get back to a realization of the necessity of God, the war will drag on. As I told you before, when I was up at Ypres, I was convinced that if big armies, and big guns, and poison gas shells, could have won the war, Germany would have won long ago. But she was fighting the devil's battle, she was trusting in "reeking tube and iron shard,"—as Rudyard Kipling puts it. That is why she failed. With such a cause as ours, and with such heroism as our men have displayed, we should, if we had claimed the help of Almighty God, have won long since.'
'Nonsense, my dear chap.'
'Look here,' he cried, 'on what, in your opinion, do we depend for victory?'
I was silent for a few seconds before replying.
'On the mobilization of all our Empire's forces,' I replied, 'on steady, persevering courage, and on the righteousness of our cause.'
'But supposing our cause hadn't been righteous, what then?'
I saw what was in his mind, but I did not feel like yielding to him. 'It's no use talking this high-falutin stuff, Edgecumbe,' I said. 'We are at war, and war means in these days, at all events, big guns. It means the utilization of all the material forces at our command.'
'Then you believe more in a big army, and in what they call our unconquerable Navy, than in Almighty God? Do you believe in God at all, Luscombe?'
'Of course I do,' I replied; 'I am no atheist. All the same, it is ourNavy which has saved us.'
'Admiral Beatty doesn't believe that,' he replied, 'and if any man knows what a navy can do, he does. Your position is identical with that of the Germans. Why, man, if God Almighty hadn't been very patient with us, we should have been beaten long ago. Germany's materialism, Germany's atheism, German devilry has been our salvation as a nation. If the logic of big guns had been conclusive, we should have been annihilated. That chap Rudyard Kipling saw a long way into the truth.'
'When? Where?' I asked.
'When he wrote thatRecessional:
Far-famed, our navies melt away,On dune and headland sinks the fire,Lo, all the pomp of yesterdayIs one with Nineveh and Tyre.God of the nations, spare us yet!Lest we forget, lest we forget.
'And mind you, Kipling is a believer in force, and a believer in the utilization of all the Empire's resources; but he sees that these things are not enough. Why, man, humanly speaking, we stand on the brink of a volcano.'
'Nonsense,' I replied.
'Is it nonsense? Suppose, for example, that the Germans do what they threaten, and extend their submarine menace? Suppose they sink all merchant vessels, and thus destroy our food supplies? Where should we be then? Or suppose another thing: suppose Russia were to negotiate a separate peace, and free all the German and Austrian armies in the East, which I think is quite probable—should we be able to hold them up?'
'Do you fear these things?' I asked.
'I fear sometimes lest, as a nation, because we have forgotten God to such an extent, He has an awful lesson to teach us. In spite of more than two years of carnage and misery, we still put our trust in the things which are seen.'
'How do you know?' I replied. 'Aren't you judging on insufficient evidence?'
'Perhaps I am,' he answered. 'As you said some time ago, I know very little about England or English life, but I am going to study it.'
'How?' I asked with a laugh.
'As far as I can see, I shall be some months in England,' he went on, 'and as it happens, my brigade is situated near London. And London is the centre of the British Empire; it is at the heart of it, and sends out its life-blood everywhere. I am going to study London; I am going to the House of Commons, and understand the feeling of our Government. I am going to the places of amusements, the theatres, the music-halls, and see what they really mean in the life of the people. I am going to visit the churches, and try to understand how much hold religion has upon the people. I am going to see London life, by night as well as by day.'
'You'll have a big job.'
'That may be, but I want to know, I want to understand. You don't seem to believe me, Luscombe, but I am terribly in earnest. This war is getting on my nerves, it is haunting me night and day, and I cannot believe that it is the will of God it should continue. Mind you, Germany must be beaten,willbe beaten,—of that I am convinced. That verse of Kipling's is prophetic of our future,—it cannot be otherwise. The nation which has depended upon brute force and lies, must sooner or later crumble; the country guilty of what she has been guilty of must in some way or another perish,—of that I am sure. Else God is a mockery, and His eternal law a lie. Some day Germany, who years ago longed for war, brought about war, and gloried in her militarism, will realize the meaning of those words:
"Lo, all the pomp of yesterdayIs one with Nineveh and Tyre."
But we are paying the price of our materialism, too. Do you remember those words of our Lord, Who, when speaking to the Jews about the Galileans of olden times, said, "Suppose ye that these Galileans were sinners above all the Galileans, because they suffered such things? I tell you, nay, but except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish." It is not pleasant to talk about, is it? but Rome and Byzantium fell because of their impurities, and they seemed as firmly established as the seven hills on which Rome stood. Germany will fall, because she has trusted supremely in the arm of flesh, with all that it means. Primarily it is righteousness that exalteth a nation, while the nation which forgets God is doomed to perish.'
'I might be listening to a Revivalist preacher,' I laughed, 'some Jonah or Jeremiah proclaiming the sins of a nation. But seriously, my dear fellow, do you think that because we do not talk so much about these things, that we have of necessity forgotten them? Besides, we have been sickened by the Kaiser's pious platitudes; he has been continually using the name of God, and claiming His protection, even when the country he rules has been doing the most devilish things ever known in history. I think that is why we have been sensitive about using the name of God. Perhaps the nation is more religious than you think.'
'I hope it is,' he replied, 'for of this I am sure, the secret of a speedy and triumphant victory lies in the fact of our nation being linked to God. The question with me is,—Germany is doomed, because it has depended, and is depending, on brute force. That poem of Kipling's describes them exactly. He might have had them in his mind when he wrote:
If drunk with thought of power, we looseWild tongues that have not Thee in awe,Such boasting as the Gentiles use,Or lesser breeds without the law.
That is their history. The question is, isn't there a danger that it is becoming our history too?'
'One line describes them very well,' I laughed; 'certainly they belong to the "lesser breeds without the law."'
'I don't know. Just think of it,—Germany's defying the whole world. Speaking from the standpoint of a military power, Germany has reason for her boastfulness. For more than two years she has been holding back and withstanding the greatest nations of the world. Humanly speaking, they are a great people, but they are scientific savages. If ever a people lived according to the doctrine that might is right, they have, and if that doctrine could be proved to be true, they'd have done it. But their creed is as false as hell, that is why they are doomed. But what of England, man, what of England?'
'You wouldn't have this war conducted in the spirit of a Revival meeting, would you?' I laughed.
'Why not? If it is God's war, it should be fought in the spirit of God. We are fighting to destroy what is opposed to God's will, therefore we should fight as He would have us fight. But here comes the question. Is it the supreme conviction of the nation that we are fighting God's battles? Is it the uppermost thought in our mind? I hate as much as any man the hypocrisy of calling upon God, while doing the devil's work; but are we not denuding ourselves of power by fighting God's battles as though He didn't exist?'
The train presently drew up at Paddington station, where we alighted.
'Look, Luscombe,' said Edgecumbe, nodding towards an officer, 'there'sSpringfield. I wonder what he's doing here?'
'Don't let him see us, anyhow,' I said quickly. 'Come this way.' And I hurried to the passage which leads towards the departure platform.
'Why didn't you want him to see us?' he asked.
I did not reply till we reached the restaurant, and then I spoke to him gravely.
'Edgecumbe,' I said, 'you were telling me just now that you intended to study the life of London, and that you meant to go to all sorts of places.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'what then?'
'Only this: take care of yourself, and don't let any one know what your plans are.'
'You must have a reason for saying that.'
'I have. You have told me more than once about your feeling that you andSpringfield knew each other before you lost your memory.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'what then?'
'You say you had the feeling that Springfield was your enemy?'
'Yes, but I have no proof. Sometimes I am ashamed of harbouring such thoughts.'
'Self-preservation is the first law of life,' I said sententiously. 'Think, Edgecumbe,—some one shot at you in France,—why? You say you don't know that you have a single enemy in the world. Then think of your recent illness.'
'But—but——' and I saw a look of wonder in his eyes.
'I only tell you to be careful,' I interposed. 'Don't let any one know your plans, and whatever you do, don't have anything to do with Springfield.'
The words had scarcely passed my lips, when Springfield entered the room.
Springfield glanced around as if looking for a table, and then seeing us, came up quickly and held out his hand.
'Awfully glad to see you,' he said heartily. 'I came to meet Buller, who I thought might be in your train. But as he wasn't there, and as I saw you two fellows come across here, I thought I'd follow you. Left them all well down in Devonshire?'
There was no suggestion of restraint orarrière penséein his tones; he spoke in the most natural way possible, and seemed to regard us as friends.
'I will join you, if I may,' he went on; 'I hate feeding alone. By the way, what are you fellows doing to-day? If you have nothing on hand, you might come on to my club.'
'I am afraid I can't,' I replied; 'I am fixed up. As for Edgecumbe, he has to get back to duty.'
'I am at a loose end,' he went on. 'Of course there are hosts of men I know in London; all the same, it's a bit lonely here. I am staying at the——' and he mentioned a well-known military club. Then he looked at us, I thought, suspiciously.
'Was Miss Bolivick well when you left?' he asked. 'I—I am more than ordinarily interested in her'; and he glanced at Edgecumbe as he spoke. But Edgecumbe's face did not move a muscle. Evidently he had taken my words to heart.
For a few seconds there was an awkward silence. Then he went on:
'Edgecumbe, I feel I owe you an apology. It was only after I had leftDevonshire that I fully realized what you had done for me. But for you,I should be a dead man, and I want to thank you. I am not much given tosentiment, I am not built that way, but believe me I am not ungrateful.At the risk of your own life you saved mine, and I feel it deeply.'
He spoke so earnestly, and there was such a ring of sincerity in his voice, that I felt ashamed of myself for thinking of him suspiciously. Still I could not forget the conversation which took place between him and St. Mabyn months ago, neither could I rid my mind of what had taken place since.
'If I can be of any service to you,' he continued, 'I should like to be,—I should really. I happen to know your colonel, and I'd like to see more of you. If you will let me know how you are fixed, I will look you up. You haven't any friends in London, have you?'
'No,' replied Edgecumbe; 'no one excepting Luscombe.'
'And you don't know London?'
'I am afraid not. I have no memory of it, anyhow.'
'Then let me show you around. I could introduce you to a lot of men, too. You see, as an old Army man, I know the ropes.'
'It's awfully good of you, Springfield,' I said; 'but really I don't think Edgecumbe is your sort, and it would be a shame to bother you.'
I felt awkward in saying this, because I spoke as though I were Edgecumbe's guardian. To my surprise, however, Edgecumbe eagerly accepted Springfield's offer.
'I'll let you know when I am free,' he said, 'and then, as you say, you can introduce me to some of the sights of London. But we must be off now, Luscombe, I have some things to do.'
'What do you mean by that?' I said, when we were alone.
He laughed gaily. 'I am not such a simpleton as I look, old man. I am able to take care of myself.'
'But do you really mean to say that you are going to let him show you round London?'
'Why not? He knows London in a way which you and I don't.'
'But don't you feel that he is your enemy, and that he has some ulterior purpose in all this?'
'Of course I do, but it would be madness to let him know it. You needn't fear, my friend; I will be a match for him. As I told you down in Devonshire, there's going to be a battle royal between us. He looks upon me as a kind of fool, who can be easily duped. But I shan't be.'
It was some days after this before I heard anything of Edgecumbe again. As I think I have mentioned, I was on sick leave at the time, and after leaving him I went to see some friends in Oxford. While there I got a letter from him, saying that he had been taken ill almost immediately on his return to duty, and that a fortnight's leave had been granted to him. He asked me when I should be returning to London, as he would like me to accompany him on his peregrinations through the City. I curtailed my visit to Oxford, so as to fall in with his plans, and found that he had taken up his quarters at a Y.M.C.A. Hut, which had been erected especially for the use of officers.
He was looking somewhat pale and hollow-eyed, as I entered a comfortably fitted-up lounge in the building.
'What's the matter with you?' I asked.
'Oh, nothing much. I had a sort of relapse after I got back to work, and the M.O. declared me unfit for duty. Evidently Colonel McClure wrote to him about me. He seems to think I was poisoned.'
'Did your M.O. tell you that?'
'Yes, and in his opinion the poison was not quite eradicated from my system. Funny, isn't it? Anyhow, they wouldn't let me work, and here I am. What we poor soldiers would do without the Y.M.C.A., Heaven only knows! Anyhow, it shows that Christianity is not quite dead in the country, for if ever there was a Christian body, the Y.M.C.A. is one.'
'You can hardly call it a body,' I replied; 'it is an organization representing the Christian spirit of the country.'
'All right, old man; call it what you like. Anyhow, I am jolly thankful to its promoters. What I should have done but for the Y.M.C.A., Heaven knows, I don't!'
'I know what you are going to do,' I replied.
'What?'
'You are coming with me to my hotel as a guest.'
'You are awfully good, old man, but I am afraid I can't. You see, this illness of mine has given me my opportunity, and I am going to take it.'
'Opportunity for what?'
'For seeing London, for studying its life. I mean to go everywhere, andI don't want to interfere with your liberty in any way.'
'Good,' I replied, 'I'll go with you; and as we shall be staying at the same hotel, it will be more convenient to both of us.'
'Do you really mean that, Luscombe?'
'Of course I do. I, like you, am at a loose end, and I shall be only too glad to have a pal until I am sent back to the front again. Now not another word, Edgecumbe. I am not a Rothschild, but I have no one dependent on me, and I have more money than I need to spend. So pack up your traps, and come with me.
'Have you seen Springfield since our meeting on Paddington station?' I asked, when presently we had removed to the hotel.
'Yes,' he replied; 'directly I got to the Y.M.C.A. Hostel, I wrote him at his club.'
'Well?' I asked.
'Oh, he was jolly friendly, and seemed anxious to take me around.'
'And have you been with him?'
'Yes,' he replied.
'With what results?'
He hesitated a few seconds before answering me, and then he said quietly,'Oh, nothing much out of the ordinary. It—it was rather funny.'
'What was rather funny?'
'Our conversation. He hates me, Luscombe; he positively loathes me; and he fears me, too.'
'You have discovered that, have you?'
'Yes, there is no doubt about it.'
'Did you go anywhere with him?'
'Yes, a good many places.'
'You ought not to have gone with him,' I said doubtfully.
'Perhaps not. But I was anxious to see the phases of life with which he is familiar; I wanted to know the class of men he meets with,—to understand their point of view.'
'And what was your impression?'
'I am not going to tell you yet. During the four days I have been in London I have been looking around, trying to understand the working motives, the guiding principles, of this, the capital of the Empire. I seem like a man in a strange country, and I am learning my way round. Oh, I do hope I am wrong!'
'Wrong,—how? What do you mean?'
'This war is maddening. Last night I couldn't sleep for thinking of it,—all the horror of it got hold of me. I fancied myself out at the front again,—I heard the awful howls and shrieks of the shells, heard the booming of the big guns, smelt the acids of the explosives, heard the groans of the men, saw them lying in the trenches and on the No Man's Land, torn, mutilated, mangled. It is positively ghastly,—war is hell, man, hell!'
'Yes,' I said, 'but we must see it through.'
'I know, I know. But how far away is the end? How long is this carnage and welter of blood to continue?'
'Let's change the subject,' I said. 'We'll get a bit of dinner, and then go to a place of amusement.'
'I don't feel like it to-night. Do you know any members of Parliament, any Cabinet Ministers?'
'Yes, a few. Why?'
'I want to go to the House of Commons. I want to know what those men who are guiding our affairs are thinking.'
'Oh, all right,' I laughed. 'I can easily get a permit to the House of Commons. I'll take you. As it happens, too, I can get you an introduction to one or two members of the Government.'
Two hours later, we were sitting in the Strangers' Gallery of the House of Commons. I could see that Edgecumbe was impressed, not by the magnificence of the surroundings, for, as all the world knows, the interior of the British House of Commons,—that is the great Legislative Chamber itself,—is not very imposing, but he was excited by the fact that he was there in the Mother of Parliaments, listening to a debate on the Great War.
'It's wonderful, isn't it?' he said to me. 'Here we are in the very hub of the British Empire,—here decisions are come to which affect the destiny of hundreds of millions of people. Here, as far as the Government is concerned, we can look into the very inwardness of the British mind, its hopes, its ideals. If this Assembly were so to decide, the war could stop to-morrow, and every soldier be brought home.'
'I don't know,' I laughed. 'Behind this Assembly is the voice of the country. If these men did not represent the thoughts and feelings of the nation, they'd be sent about their business,—there'd be a revolution.'
'Yes, yes, I realize that. And the fact that there is no revolution shows that they are doing, on the whole, what the country wishes them.'
'I suppose so,' I replied.
After that, he listened two hours without speaking. I never saw a man so intent upon what was being said. Speaker after speaker expressed his views, and argued the points nearest his heart.
At the end of two hours, there was a large exodus of members, and thenEdgecumbe rose like a man waking out of a trance.