'Of course I am but a poor ignorant soldier, and my word cannot count for much; but I have a feeling that before many years are over,—perhaps it may be only a matter of months—the Kaiser will either die by his own hand, or else God, through the millions of bereaved and heart-broken people, will hurl him from his throne.
'What is the power of autocratic kings? Only the moaning of night winds. Yesterday it was not, and tomorrow it will not be. But God lives through His people, and that people is slowly moving on to liberty and power. That is why I believe the end of war is drawing near. It is never thepeoplewho long for war; it is the kings, the potentates who are ever guilty of making it. Thus when they cease to rule, war will cease, and there will be peace and brotherhood.
'Anyhow, President Wilson has spoken, and he has expressed the highest feelings of the American nation, and although the end of this war may not come as we expect, it will come in the overthrow of Junkerdom and military supremacy.'
After this I did not hear from Edgecumbe for some time, and I began to grow anxious at his long continued silence, then when June of this year arrived, an event took place which overcame me with astonishment.
I had had a hard day at the training camp, and was sitting outside the mess tent, when I felt a hand upon my shoulder, and heard a cheery voice close by me.
'Hulloa, Luscombe, why that pensive brow?'
I looked up and saw my friend standing by me, with his left arm in a sling, looking pale and somewhat haggard, but with a bright light in his eyes.
'Edgecumbe!' I cried. 'Ay, but I am glad to see you! Where did you spring from, and what have you been doing?'
'That's what I've come to tell you,' he said quietly.
'You are wounded,' I stammered, scarcely knowing what I was saying.His appearance was so sudden, and unexpected, that I could scarcelybelieve that it was really he who stood there before me. 'It's not badI hope?'
'No, not bad. Not enough to make a fuss about;—it might have been, though'; and I noticed that his voice became grave.
'How? What do you mean?'
'I'll tell you some day—soon perhaps. Are you busy?'
'No, my work is over for the day. Iamglad to see you, old man.Are you home for long?'
'Yes, a few weeks I expect. You see—I've had a rough time rather—and am a bit knocked about. But I shall pull through.'
His manner was strange; and while he spoke quietly, I felt rather than thought that something out of the ordinary had happened.
He dragged a rough seat up to the side of the tent, and looked across the field where a number of men were encamped.
'Have you heard fromher?' he asked suddenly. 'Do you know how she is?'
'No. Directly after we saw her last she returned to her hospital work.I wrote to her once; but she has not replied.'
'Have you heard anything?'
'I know Springfield has been home, and that he's been to see her. I heard from Buller that they were engaged.'
'You mean that it's settled? Has it been publicly announced?' His voice was tense.
'I don't think so. At any rate, I've not seen it in the papers.'
Again he was silent for a few seconds, and noting the far-away look in his eyes, I waited in silence.
'Springfield is still afraid of me,' he said presently.
'Why? Have you seen him?'
'Yes. He and St. Mabyn are still as thick as peas in a pod. They were both at Vimy Ridge, and afterwards at Ypres and Messines.
'Did you speak to them?'
'Rather,' and he laughed curiously. 'I had to.'
'How? What do you mean?'
'You asked me just now why I had not written you for some time. I had my reasons for silence. I was under a cloud for a time, and I wanted things cleared up before telling you anything.'
'Don't speak in riddles, Edgecumbe. What has been the trouble? Tell me quickly.'
'Oh, it's all over now, so I can speak fairly plainly, but for some days it was touch and go with me. Of course they kept in the background, but I was able to trace their handiwork.'
'What handiwork? Come, old man, don't keep me in suspense.'
'Oh, it was the old game. You remember how it was when you were in France, and some fellows shot at me. You remember, too, how I nearly died of poisoning at Bolivick, and that but for you I should have been done for. You said you traced Springfield's hands in everything. He's been trying on the same thing again,—only in another way.'
'What other way?'
He laughed quietly. 'I fancy he thought that when you weren't by I should be easy game, that I should be too simple to see through his plans. But I happened to keep my eyes skinned, as the Americans say. It was this way: by some means or another, some important information went astray, and got into the German lines. Of course the Huns made the most of it, and we suffered pretty heavily. As it happened I was at that time in the confidence of the General in command of the D.H.Q., and there seemed no one else on whom suspicion could fall. But I was warned in time. I had been told that both Springfield and St. Mabyn had been in close confab with the General, and I knew that if they could do me a nasty turn, they would. So I checkmated them.'
'How? Tell me the details.'
'I'm afraid I mustn't do that. You know how military secrets are regarded, and as even yet the scheme I discussed with the General is not completed, my lips are sealed. But I found that Springfield had suggested to the General that my loss of memory was very fishy—a mere blind in fact to cover up a very suspicious past. He also told him he was sure he had seen me, in pre-war days, in Berlin, wearing the uniform of a German officer. Had I not been able to show an absolutely clean sheet I should have been done for. As it was, there was a time when I wouldn't have given a sou for my life. I was, of course, shut off from the General's confidence, and pending the results of the inquiry was practically a prisoner.'
'I say, old man, you can't mean that?'
'Fact, I assure you. Still as nothing, absolutelynothingwrong could be traced to me, and as——'
'Yes, what,' I said as he hesitated.
'Oh, a little thing I was mixed up in came off rather well—very well in fact.'
'What? Don't keep me in suspense, old man.'
'Oh, nothing much; nothing worth talking about. Still I may as well tell you as it's bound to come out. It seems I am to get the D.S.O.'
'The D.S.O.! Great, old man! I congratulate you with all my heart.Tell me about it,' I cried.
'It was really nothing. Still I had concocted a scheme which gave us a big advantage. It was rather risky, but it came off so well that—that—it got to the notice of the G.H.Q. and—and—there you are. When the details of my little stunt became known to the Chief he—he said it was impossible for its author to be anything but a loyal Englishman, that I was a valuable man, and all that sort of rot.'
Of course I read between the lines. I knew Edgecumbe's reticence about anything he had done, and I was sure he had accomplished a big thing.
'It came in jolly handy to me,' he went on, 'for it spikedSpringfield's guns right away, and I was regarded as sort of tin god.Congratulations poured in on every hand and—and, but there's no needto say any more about it.'
'And what did Springfield say then?'
'Oh, he was louder in his congratulations than any one. It makes me sick to think of it!'
'But didn't you expose him?'
'I couldn't. You see, I only learnt in a roundabout way that he had tried to poison the General's mind against me, and he very nearly covered his traces everywhere. Oh, he's a clever beggar. Still, you see the situation. It was jolly sultry for a time.'
'I see you have had another move,' I said looking at his uniform.
'Yes, I've had great luck; but don't let's talk any more about me. How areyougetting on? And can't you get some leave?'
'I have some due,' I replied, noting the far-away look in his eyes, and wondering what was in his mind. 'Why do you ask?'
'Big things are going to happen,' he said after a long silence.
'What do you mean? Tell me, Edgecumbe, has your memory come back?Have you learnt anything—in—in that direction?'
He shook his head sadly. 'No, nothing. The past is blank, blank. And yet I think sometimes——I say, Luscombe, I wonder who I am? I wonder——'
'And do you still persist in your mad fancies?' I blurted out after a long silence.
'Persist! Mad fancies!' he cried passionately. 'As long as my heart beats, as long as I have consciousness, I shall never cease to—to——I say, old man, get some leave and go with me.'
'Why?' I asked. 'If your mind is made up, seek her out wherever she is. I know she is at a V.A.D. Hospital not far from her home; so your way is plain. You can go to her on more equal terms now. You are a distinguished man now. In a few months you have risen from obscurity to eminence.'
'Don't talk rot. I can never meet her on equal terms.'
'Then why bother about her?'
'Because God has decreed that I shall. But you must go with me, my dear fellow. In ways I can't understand, your life is linked to mine. It was not for nothing that we met down at Plymouth Harbour; it was not without purpose that I was led to love you like a brother.'
'Well, what then?'
'You must go with me. In some way or another, your life is linked to mine, and you must go with me.'
Of course I applied for leave right away, and as I had been working hard all the while Edgecumbe had been in France I was able to get it without difficulty.
'My word, have you seen this, Edgecumbe?' I cried the next afternoon, immediately we had left Salisbury Plain, where I had been stationed.
'What?' he asked.
'This inThe Times. They've been cracking you up to the skies.'
'Oh, that,' he replied. 'Yes, I saw it this morning. I see they've made quite a sensational paragraph. I hardly recognize myself.'
As I read the article a second time, I wondered at his indifference. Seldom had such a eulogy appeared in that great newspaper. Evidently the writer had taken considerable pains to get at the facts, and had presented them in glowing colours. There could be no doubt about it that from the standpoint of the Army, his future, if his life was spared, was assured. Not only was he spoken of as a man whose courage was almost unparalleled, but his abilities as a strategist, and his grasp of the broad issues of military affairs were discussed, and recognized in no sparing terms. It seemed impossible that a man who a few months before was a simple private, should now be discussed in such glowing panegyrics.
Greatly elated as I was at the praise bestowed upon my friend, I little realized what it would mean to him during the next few hours.
'Can't we go down to Devonshire to-night?' cried Edgecumbe, as our train reached London.
'Impossible, my dear fellow,' I replied.
'But why not?' and I could see by the wild longing look in his eyes what he was thinking of.
'Oh, there are a dozen reasons. For one thing, she may not be able to get away from the hospital; for another—I don't think it would be wise.'
'I simply must go, Luscombe! I tell you something's going to happen, something great. I feel it in every breath I draw. We must go—go at once.'
'No,' I replied. 'I wrote her last night, and told her that we should step in London at the National Hotel till we heard from her. If she wants us to come we shan't be long in getting her reply.'
He gave a long quivering sigh, and I could see how disappointed he was, but he said no more about the matter, and when we arrived at the hotel he had seemed to have forgotten all about it.
'Look here,' he cried, pointing to a paragraph in an evening newspaper, 'that's on the right lines. I'm going.'
The paragraph which interested him was a notice of a big meeting that was to be held that night for the purpose of discussing certain phases of the Army, and consequently of the war, about which newspapers were usually silent. The fact that a Cabinet Minister of high rank, as well as a renowned general, were announced to speak, however, caused the news editor to give it prominence.
'It's on the right lines,' he repeated. 'Yes, I'm going.'
'Better go to some place of amusement,' I suggested.
'Nero fiddled while Rome was burning,' was his reply.
A little later we found our way to a huge hall where some thousands of people had gathered. It was evident that the subject to be discussed appealed strongly to a large portion of the population, and that the audience was much interested in the proceedings.
I could see, however, that Edgecumbe was disappointed in the meeting. None of the speakers spoke strongly and definitely. Each enlarged on the difficulties of the situation, and spoke of the impossibility of making men pure by Act of Parliament, but no suggestion was made whereby the evils mentioned might be grappled with and strangled. While all admitted that a frightful state of things existed, and declared that something ought to be done, no one had the courage to demand drastic reforms, or strike a prophetic note. The Cabinet Minister enlarged in a somewhat stilted fashion upon what the Government had done to check drunkenness, while another speaker told of the magnificent work of the Y.M.C.A., and of the hostels and huts which had been provided, both in England and on the Continent; but all felt that the heart of the matter had not been touched. It was not until the General spoke that the audience was anything like aroused, and even he failed to get at close quarters with the evils which all admitted.
Indeed I, who could not see how more could be done than had been done, felt that the meeting was a failure, and as, when the General sat down, the reporters were preparing to leave, and the audience grew restless, I felt that the whole thing was in the nature of a fiasco.
'Let's go, Edgecumbe,' I said.
'No, not yet,' and I saw that he was much excited.
'But the meeting is practically over. There, the chairman is going to call on somebody to propose the usual vote of thanks.'
But he took no notice of me. Instead he rose to his feet, and his voice rang clearly throughout the hall.
'My lord,' he said addressing the chairman, 'I am a soldier just home from the front. May I say a few words?'
It was only then that I realized what a striking figure Edgecumbe was, and although I was almost stunned by his sudden action, I could not help comparing him, as he was now, with the first occasion on which I had seen him. Then, with his nondescript garments, his parchment-like skin, and the look of wistful indecision in his eyes, he was a creature to be pitied. Now, in the uniform of a major, he stood stalwart and erect. In spite of the fact that his left arm was in a sling, there was something commanding in his attitude. His eyes no longer suggested indecision, and his bronzed skin was no longer wrinkled and parchment like. He looked what he was—a tall, strong, capable man, instinct with life and energy.
There was something, too, in the tones of his voice that aroused the interest of the audience, and thousands of eyes were turned towards him.
The chairman adjusted his eye-glasses, and looked at Edgecumbe, who still stood erect, the cynosure of all eyes.
'I am sure,' said the chairman, 'that in spite of the fact that it is growing late, we shall be glad to hear a few words from a soldier just back from the front. Will he kindly come to the platform.'
The audience, doubtless noting Edgecumbe's wounded arm, gave him a cheer as he left his seat, while the reporters, probably hoping for something good in the way of copy, again opened their note-books.
'I asked permission to say a few words, my lord,' he said, 'because I have been deeply disappointed in this meeting. This is a great audience, and it is a great occasion; that is why the lack of an overwhelming conviction, the lack too of anything like vision of the inwardness of the problem under discussion is so saddening. I had hoped for a message to the heart of the nation; I had waited to hear the Voice of God, without which all such gatherings as this must be in vain.'
He hesitated a second, and I feared lest he had lost thread of his thought, feared too lest after his somewhat flamboyant commencement his appearance would be only a fiasco. I saw, too, that the chairman looked at him doubtfully, and I had a suspicion that he was on the point of asking him to sit down.
But his hesitation was only for a moment. He threw back his shoulders as though he were on the battlefield and was about to give an important command.
'I speak as one who has been a soldier in the ranks, and who knows the soldier's hardships, his temptations, his sufferings. I also speak as one who knows what a fine fellow the British soldier is, for believe me there are no braver men beneath God's all-beholding sun than our lads have proved themselves to be.'
He had struck the right note now, and the audience responded warmly. There was something magnetic in Edgecumbe's presence, too, something in his voice which made the people listen.
'I want to say something else, before getting to that which is in my heart to say,' he went on. 'We are fighting for something great, and high and holy. We are contending against tyranny, lies, savagery. Never did a nation have a greater, grander cause than we, and if Germany were to win——'
In a few sentences he outlined the great issues at stake and made the audience see as he saw. It was evident, too, that the occupants of the platform became aware that a new force was at work.
Then followed the greatest scene I have ever seen at any public gathering. For some time Edgecumbe seemed to forget who he was, or to whom he spoke; he was simply carried away by what seemed to him the burning needs of the times. He spoke of the way thousands of young fellows were ruined, and of the facilities which existed for their ruin. He told of scenes he had seen in France, scenes which took place when the men were 'back for rest,' and were 'out for a good time.' He described what we had witnessed together in London. He showed, too, in burning words that the two outstanding evils, 'Drink and Impurity,' were indissolubly associated, and that practically nothing was done to stem the tide of impurity and devilry which flowed like a mighty flood.
'I say this deliberately,' he said, 'it is nothing short of a blood-red crime, it is blasphemy against the Holy Spirit of God, to call men from the four corners of the earth to fight for a great cause like ours, and then to allow temptations to stand at every corner to lure them to destruction. Some one has described in glowing terms the work of the Y.M.C.A., and I can testify the truth of those terms, but ask Y.M.C.A. workers what is the greatest hindrance to their work, and they will tell you it is the facilities for drink, drink which so often leads to impurity, and all the ghastly diseases that follows in its train.
'How can you expect God's blessing to rest upon us, while the souls of men are being damned in such a way?'
'What would you do?' cried some one, when the wild burst of cheering which greeted his words ceased.
'Do?' he cried. 'At least every man here can determine, God helping him, to fight against the greatest foe of our national life. You can determine that you will leave nothing undone to strangle this deadly enemy. Personally, after seeing what I have seen, and knowing what I know, I will make no terms with it. Even now, if a fortune were offered me, made by drink, I would not benefit by it. But more, you can besiege the Government, you can give it no rest until it has removed one of the greatest hindrances to victory.
'What England needs is to realize that God lives, and to turn to Him in faith and humility. Just so long as we remain in a state of religious indifference, just so long will the war continue; and just so soon as we give our lives to Him, and put our trust in Him, just so soon will victory be seen. God has other ways of speaking than by big guns. God spoke, and lo, all the pomp of the Czars became the byword of children! God will speak again, and all the vain glory of the Kaiser will become as the fairy stories of the past!'
I know that what I have written gives no true idea of Edgecumbe's message. The words I have set down give but faint suggestions of the outpourings of a heart charged with a mighty purpose. For he spoke like a man inspired, and he lifted the whole audience to a higher level of thought, and life, and purpose. People who had listened with a bored expression on their faces during the other speeches, were moved by his burning words. Club loungers who had been cynical and unbelieving half an hour before, now felt the reality of an unseen Power.
Then came the climax to all that had gone before. No sooner hadEdgecumbe sat down than the chairman rose again.
'You wonder perhaps,' he said, 'who it is that has been speaking to us. You know by his uniform that he is a soldier, and you know he is a brave man by the decoration on his tunic, but few I expect know, as I have just learnt, that this is Major Edgecumbe, the story of whose glorious career is given in to-day's newspapers.'
If the meeting was greatly moved before, it now became frenzied in its enthusiasm. Cheer after cheer rose, while the great audience rose to its feet. All realized that he spoke not as a theorist and a dreamer, but as a man who had again and again offered his life for the country he loved, and the cause in which he believed—a man, not only great in courage, but skilful in war, and wise in counsel.
When the excitement had somewhat ceased, an old clergyman, who had been sitting at the back of the platform, came to the front.
'Let us pray,' he said, and a great hush rested on every one, while he led the multitude in prayer.
When the meeting finally broke up, the General who had spoken earlier in the evening came and shook Edgecumbe by the hand.
'This meeting is worth more to win the war than an army corps,' he said.
The following morning the papers contained lengthy reports of the meeting, and spoke in no sparing terms of the influence of Edgecumbe's words on the great crowd. He appeared to be depressed, however.
'It may be only a passing sensation,' he said. 'Still, I couldn't help doing what I did.'
We had barely finished breakfast when a telegram was brought to me,
'Come at once and bring your friend. Wire time I may expect you.—BOLIVICK.'
'There,' I said, passing it to Edgecumbe, 'there's dispatch for you.'
A few minutes later we were in a taxi, on our way to Paddington, and a few hours later we arrived at Bolivick.
We had barely alighted from the conveyance when Edgecumbe gave a start.
'Look,' he said, 'both Springfield and St. Mabyn are there.'
'Yes,' I replied lightly, 'and Lorna too. Don't you see her in her nurse's uniform?'
His face was set and rigid as the greetings took place; but he had evidently put a strong check upon himself, and spoke naturally.
'Glad to see you, Luscombe,' cried Sir Thomas, 'and you too, Major Edgecumbe. Let me congratulate you on your wonderful career. It's almost like a fairy story!'
'Let me add my congratulations,' cried Springfield. 'I pay my tribute, not only to the soldier, but to the orator.'
I could not fail to detect the sneer in his voice, even although he seemed to speak heartily. A copy ofThe Timeswas lying on the lawn, and I imagined that Edgecumbe's speech had been read and discussed.
'We shall be quite a party to dinner to-night,' said Sir Thomas to me presently. 'Of course you must expect scanty fare, as we are carrying out the rationing order to the very letter. But it's an important occasion all the same. Lord Carbis is coming by the next train. Please don't say anything about it. No one knows but my wife and myself. I want to give a surprise to both Lorna and Springfield.'
My heart became as heavy as lead, for I knew what he had in his mind, and I looked towards Edgecumbe, wondering if he had heard anything. It was evident he had heard nothing, however; he was talking to Norah Blackwater, who was again a visitor to Bolivick.
'By the way,' went on Sir Thomas, 'that fellow Edgecumbe has developed wonderfully, hasn't he? Of course what he said last night was so much nonsense. I quite agree that it's very sad about—that—is—some of the things he talked about, but as to the rest,—it was moonshine.'
'You wouldn't have said so if you'd been there, Sir Thomas,' I ventured.
'Something's going to happen, Luscombe,' Edgecumbe said to me as presently we found our way to our rooms.
'Why do you say so?'
'I don't know. But there is. It's in the air we breathe. I know I'm right.'
'What's the matter with you?' I asked, looking at him intently.
'Nothing. Yes there is though. I'm feeling mighty queer.'
'Are you ill?'
'No, nothing of the sort. But I'm nervous. I feel as though great things were on foot. The air is charged with great things. Something big is going to take place.'
He was silent a few seconds, and then went on, 'I had a long talk with a doctor in France a few days ago.'
'What doctor? What did he tell you?' I asked eagerly.
'One of our men out there. He had a big practice as a consulting physician in Harley Street until a few months ago, when he offered himself to the Army. He is a nerve specialist, and years ago paid great attention to brain troubles. He was so kind to me, and was such an understanding fellow that I told him my story. He was awfully interested, and said that he never knew but one case where loss of memory had continued so long as it had with me.'
'Did he give you any hope?' I asked.
He shook his head doubtfully. 'He would not say anything definite. He seemed to think that as my general health had been good for so long, and as my memory had not come back, it might be a very long time before there was any change. All the same, he felt sure that it was only a matter of time. He seemed to regard my trouble as a kind of artificial barrier which divided the past from the present, but that time would constantly wear away the barrier. He also said that if some very vivid and striking happening were to take place, something that was vitally connected with my past, it might suddenly pierce it—tear it aside, and let in the light.'
'And—and——?'
'No, Luscombe,' he interrupted, as if divining my thoughts, 'I know of nothing, I remember nothing. But there was something else he told me which makes me have faith in him. It was so true.'
'What was that?'
'That loss of memory often gave a kind of sixth sense. He said he should not be surprised if I had very vivid premonitions of the future. That I had a kind of knowledge when something out of the common were going to happen. That's what makes me afraid.'
'Afraid?'
'Yes, afraid. I seem to be on the brink of a great black chasm. I feel that I am able to save myself from falling, only I won't. I say, what's that?'
'It's a motor-car,' I replied. 'Sir Thomas told me he had other guests coming.'
'What guests? Who are they?'
'How can I know?' I replied, for I feared to tell him what our host had told me about Lord Carbis's relations to Springfield, and that probably Lorna's engagement might be announced in a few hours.
We were both dressed ready for dinner a quarter of an hour before the time announced, and together we found our way downstairs into the reception hall. Early as we were, we found that not only was Lorna Bolivick there, but George St. Mabyn was also present and was talking eagerly to Norah Blackwater. Springfield also came a few seconds later, and went straight to Lorna's side and spoke to her with an air of proprietorship.
I felt that Edgecumbe and I werede trop, and I moved away from them, but Edgecumbe went to St. Mabyn and Norah Blackwater, as if with the purpose of speaking to them. I thought, too, that there was a strange look in his eyes.
'You are not much like your brother Maurice,' he said suddenly.
'My brother Maurice!' said St. Mabyn, and I thought his voice was hoarse. 'What do you know of him?'
'What do I know of him?' repeated Edgecumbe, and he spoke as though his mind were far away.
'Yes. You can know nothing of him. He's dead.'
'No,' replied Edgecumbe, 'he's not dead.'
'Not dead!' and St. Mabyn almost gasped the words, while his face became as pale as ashes. 'Not dead! You must be mad!' Then he laughed uneasily.
'Oh, no,' and Edgecumbe still spoke in the same toneless voice. 'I knew him well. He was—where did I see him last?'
Before we could recover from the effect of what he said, I knew that we were joined by others. In a bewildered kind of way I noticed that Sir Thomas and Lady Bolivick were accompanied by a tall, distinguished-looking man about fifty-five years of age, by whose side stood a sweet-faced, motherly-looking woman.
'Lorna, my dear,' said Sir Thomas, 'I want you to know Lord and LadyCarbis.'
Lorna moved forward to speak to her visitors, but they did not notice her. Both of them had fixed their gaze on Edgecumbe, who stood looking at them with a light in his eyes which made me afraid.
'John!' cried Lady Carbis, her voice almost rising to a scream. 'Why, it's Jack! our Jack!'
Never shall I forget the look on my friend's face. He seemed to be in agony. It might be that he was striving to keep himself from going mad. His eyes burnt with a red light, his features were drawn and contorted. Then suddenly he heaved a deep sigh, and lifted his shoulders, as though he were throwing a heavy weight from him.
'Mother!' he said hoarsely. 'Mother! When——? that is—— Why, I'm home again!—and the little mater——'
Unheeding the fact of his damaged arm, he held out both his hands and staggered towards her.
A second later, unconscious of watching eyes, they were in each other's arms, while Lady Carbis murmured all sorts of fond endearments.
'My dead boy come back to life!' she cried. 'My little Jack who—who—oh, thank God, thank God! Speak to me, Jack, my darling, speak to your mother! Oh, help! What's the matter? Can't you see that——'
I was only just in time to keep my friend from falling heavily on the floor, and when a few seconds later I succeeded in lifting him to a sofa, he lay like a dead man.
For some minutes wild confusion prevailed. Lady Carbis knelt by the sofa, and called wildly on my friend to speak to her. Lord Carbis talked incoherently, and made all sorts of impossible suggestions. Evidently he was beside himself with joy and fear. Sir Thomas Bolivick looked from one to another as if asking for explanations, while Lorna Bolivick, with pale, eager face and wild eyes, stood like one transfixed.
But she was the first to recover herself. Swiftly she went to the sofa, and caught Edgecumbe's hand. Then she knelt down and placed her ear to his heart.
'He is alive,' she said; 'his heart beats. I think he will soon be better.'
'Yes, yes,' stammered Lord Carbis. 'He was always a strong boy—hard as nails, hard as nails. Oh, it's wonderful, wonderful! It's my son, my only son, Sir Thomas. I'd given him up for dead. It's years now since—since he was last seen. Ah, look, his eyelids are quivering! Stand back and give him air. But I can't understand. Where's he been all this time? Why hasn't he let us know where he was? It's not like him. He was always such a good boy, and so fond of his mother. I got a paper from India, too; announcing his death. I can't understand it all. Perhaps you can explain, Sir Thomas——'
Thus he went on talking, scarcely conscious of what he was saying. Evidently the shock had almost unhinged his mind, and he was merely giving expression to the fugitive thoughts that came to him.
As Edgecumbe's eyes opened, I felt a strange quiver of joy in my heart. What I saw was no madman's stare, rather it suggested placid contentment. For a few seconds he glanced from one to another, as if trying to comprehend, and co-ordinate what had taken place; then he heaved a deep sigh, half of satisfaction, half of weariness.
'It's all gone,' he murmured like one speaking to himself.
'What is gone, my darling?' asked Lady Carbis.
'The mists, the cobwebs, the black curtain,' he replied.
I heard her gasp as if in fear. I knew of what she was thinking; but she spoke no word. Instead she continued looking at him with love-lit eyes.
For a few seconds he lay like one thinking, then he rubbed the back of his right-hand across his eyes, and laughed like one amused.
'Oh, little mother,' he said, 'it is good to see you again! Good to know—there kiss me. That's right; it makes me feel as though I were a kid again, and you were putting me to bed like you did in the old days.'
Lady Carbis kissed him eagerly, calling him all sorts of endearing names.
'It's your old mother!' she murmured. 'Are you better, Jack, my darling?'
'Yes, heaps better. Why, there you are, dad! You see I've turned up again. Oh, Iamglad to see you!' and he held out his hand.
'Jack, Jack,' sobbed his father, 'tell me you are all right.'
On considering it all, afterwards, it seemed to me that it was not a bit what I should have expected him to say, but facts have a wonderful way of laughing at fancies.
'I feel better every second,' he said. 'Everything came back so suddenly that I felt like a man bowled over. You see, I couldn't grasp it all. But—but I'm settling down now. I—I—oh, I'm afraid I'm an awful nuisance. Forgive me. Thank you all for being so good.'
I saw his eyes rest on Lorna, and his lips twitched as if in pain, but only for a moment.
'Where's Luscombe?' he asked. 'Ah, there you are, old man. You must know Luscombe, little mother. He's the truest pal a chap ever had. But for him—but there we'll talk about that later.'
A minute later Edgecumbe was led by his mother into the library, whileLord Carbis walked on the other side of his newly-found son.
Never in all my experience have I sat down to such a strange dinner party as on that night. We were all wild with excitement, and yet we appeared to talk calmly about things that didn't matter a bit. What we ate, or whether we ate, I have not the slightest remembrance. Personally I felt as though I were dreaming, and that I should presently wake up and find things in their normal condition again. But it was easy to see that each was thinking deeply. Especially did Sir Thomas and Springfield show that they were considering what the evening's happenings might mean.
Strange as it may seem, little was said about the happening which had created such a consternation. Of course it was in all our minds, but to speak about it seemed for some time like trespassing on forbidden ground.
'Anyhow,' said Lady Bolivick presently, 'the dear things will want some dinner, James,' and she turned to the butler, 'see that something fit to eat is kept for Lord and Lady Carbis, and Major——that is their son.'
'Yes, my lady.'
'It's all very wonderful, I'm sure,' went on Lady Bolivick. 'I hope—that is—they won't be disappointed in him. Of, course he's had a wonderful career, and done unheard-of things, but if he sticks to what he said about never taking a penny of money made by drink—there—there'll be all sorts of difficulties.'
'Yes, but I imagine he'll chuck all that,' and Springfield seemed like a man speaking to himself.
'Oh, I hope not,' said Lorna.
'You hope not!' and her father spoke as if in astonishment.
'Yes,' cried the girl. 'It was so fine—and so true. When I read his speech inThe Times, I felt just as he did.'
'Nonsense, Lorna! Why, if he stands by his crazy words, he'll still be a poor man with nothing but his pay to live on. He'll sacrifice one of the finest fortunes in England.'
Almost unconsciously I looked towards George St. Mabyn, whom I had almost forgotten in my excitement, and I saw that he looked like a haunted man. His face was drawn and haggard, although I judged he had been drinking freely through dinner. I called to mind the words Edgecumbe had uttered just before Lord and Lady Carbis came into the room, and I wondered what they meant.
'No,' said Sir Thomas, who was evidently thinking of his daughter's words, 'he'll not be fool enough for that. What do you think, Luscombe?'
I was silent, for in truth I did not know what to say. In one sense Sir Thomas had reason on his side, for such an act would seem like madness. But I was by no means sure. I had known Edgecumbe for more than two years, and I did not believe that even the shock which led him to recover his memory, could change his strong determined nature.
The ladies left the room just then, but a few seconds later LornaBolivick returned and came straight towards me.
'He wants you,' she said, and I saw that her eyes burnt with excitement.
I made my way to the library, where my friend met me with a laugh. 'You mustn't keep away from me, old man,' he said, 'I want you—want you badly.'
We were alone in the library, Lord Carbis, Lady Carbis, Edgecumbe and myself, and certainly it was one of the strangest gatherings ever I experienced.
The excitement was intense, and yet we spoke together quietly, as though we lived in a world of commonplaces. But nothing was commonplace. Never in my life did I realize the effect which joy can have, as I realized it then. Years before, Lord and Lady Carbis had received news that their son had died in India. What that news had meant to them at the time I had no idea. He was their only son, and on him all their hopes had centred. They had mourned for him as dead, and his loss had meant a blank in their lives which no words can describe.
Then, suddenly and without warning, they had come into a strange house, and found their son standing before them. As I think of it now, I wonder that the shock did not do them serious harm, and I can quite understand the incoherent, almost meaningless words they uttered.
To Edgecumbe the shock must have been still greater. For years the greatest part of his life had been a blank to him. As I have set forth in these pages, all his life before the time when he awoke to consciousness in India had practically no meaning to him. And then, suddenly, the thick, dark curtain was torn aside, and he woke to the fact that his memory was restored, that he was not homeless or nameless, but that his father and mother stood before him.'
'Jack has told me all about you,' Lord Carbis said, as I entered the room; 'told me what you did for him, what a friend you have been to him! God bless you, sir! I don't know how to express my feelings, I—I hardly know what I am saying, but you understand,—I am sure you understand.'
'Isn't it a lark, old man,' Edgecumbe said with a laugh, 'isn't it,—isn't it?—but there—I can't put it into words. Half the time I seem to be dreaming. Things which happened years ago are coming in crowds back to me, until half the time I am wondering whether after all I am not somebody else. And yet I know I am not somebody else. Why, here's dad, and here's the little mater'; and he looked at them joyfully.
I could not help watching him anxiously, for after all he had just gone through an experience which happens to but one man in a million. It seemed to me as though I dimly understood the strange processes through which his brain must have gone in order to bring about the present state of things. During the earlier part of the day, all his past had been a blank, now much of it was real to him. He had been like a man with his life cut in two, one half being unknown to him; and now, as if by a miracle, that half was restored. I wondered how he felt. I feared he would not be able to stand the shock, and that he would suffer a terrible reaction afterwards.
'You are all right, aren't you, old man?' I said. 'You—you don't feel ill or anything of that sort?'
'Right as a skylark,' he said gaily, 'except that I am a bit tired.'
'You are sure, Jack, my darling?' said his mother, looking at him anxiously. 'Sure there is nothing we can do for you? Oh, I wish we were home!'
'Do you?' he said. 'I am not sure I agree with you.'
'Oh, but I do. You see, we don't know the Bolivicks very well, and—and—we didn't come expecting anything like this, did we, John?'
'Anything like this!' ejaculated Lord Carbis, 'anything like this!Why—why,—Jack, my boy!'—and he rubbed his eyes vigorously.
'I am sure Sir Thomas and Lady Bolivick are only too glad to have you here,' I said, 'and nothing will be regarded as a trouble. Besides, I am not sure that your son does not want to be here. But tell me, old fellow, don't you think you ought to get to bed?'
A look of fear came into his eyes. 'No, not yet, not yet,' he said. 'I think I am afraid to go to sleep; afraid lest when I wake up I shall find that great black cloud lying at the back of my mind again.'
'Then wouldn't it be wise to send for a doctor? The man who lives here is not at all a bad chap;—you know that.'
Again he laughed gaily. 'I want no doctor. The little mother is all the doctor I want.'
Lady Carbis leant over him and kissed him, just as I have seen young mothers kiss their firstborn babies.
'I will sit by your bed all the night, my darling,' she said, 'and no harm shall come to you while you are asleep.'
'But I don't want to sleep just yet,' went on Edgecumbe. 'I feel as though I must tell you all I can tell you, for fear,—that is, suppose when I wake the old black cloud is there? I—I want you to know things'; and there was a look in his eyes which suggested that wistful expression I had noticed at Plymouth Harbour when we first met.
'You felt something was going to happen, you know,' I said.
'Yes, I did. All through the day it felt to me as though some great change were coming. I did not know what it was, and the curtain which hid the past was as black as ever, but I had a kind of feeling that everything was hanging as in a balance, that—that—eh, mother, it is good to see you! to know you, to—to—have a past! It was just like this,' he went on: 'when I came downstairs, and saw George St. Mabyn, I felt that the curtain was getting thinner. I remembered Maurice St. Mabyn,—it was only dimly, and I could not call to mind what happened to him; but something impelled me to speak to him.'
'Don't talk about it any more, old fellow,' I said; 'you are not well enough yet. To-morrow, after you have had a good night's rest, everything will seem normal and natural.'
'It is normal and natural now,' he laughed; 'besides, it does me good to talk about it to you. It is not as though you were a stranger.'
'No,' cried his mother, 'he has told us all about you, sir, and what you did for him.'
'Perhaps, after all,' went on Edgecumbe, 'I had better not talk any more to-night. You—you think I'll be all right in the morning, don't you? And I am feeling tired and sleepy. Besides, I feel like a kid again;—the idea of going to bed with the little mother holding my hand makes me think of——'
'There now, old man,' I interrupted, 'let me go with you to your room. You are a bit shaky, you know, and you must look upon me as a stern male nurse.'
Half an hour later, when I left him, he was lying in bed, and as he had said, his mother sat by his side, holding his hand, while Lord Carbis was in a chair close by, watching his son with eager, anxious eyes.
After a few words with Sir Thomas, I made my way to the village of South Petherwin to find the doctor. Truth to tell, I felt more than a little anxious, and although I had persuaded Edgecumbe that when morning came everything would be well, I dreaded his awakening.
As good fortune would have it, I found the doctor at home, who listened with great eagerness and attention to my story.
'It is the strangest thing I have ever heard of,' he said, when I had finished.
'Do you fear any grave results?' I asked.
'Luscombe,' he replied, 'I can speak to you freely. I will go with you to see him, but the whole business is out of my depth. For the matter of that, I doubt if any doctor in England could prophesy what will happen to him. All the same, I see no reason why everything should not be right.'
Without waking him, Dr. Merril took his temperature, felt his pulse, listened to the beating of his heart.
'Everything is right, isn't it?' asked Lord Carbis anxiously.
'As far as I can tell, yes.'
'And there is nothing you can do more than has been done?'
'Nothing,' replied the doctor; 'one of the great lessons which my profession has taught me is, as far as possible, to leave Nature to do her own work.'
'And you think he will awake natural and normal to-morrow morning?' whispered the older man.
'I see no reason why he should not,' he said. All the same, there was an anxious look in his eyes as he went away.
In spite of my excitement, I slept heavily and late, and when I awoke I found that it was past ten o'clock. Dressing hurriedly, I rushed to Edgecumbe's bedroom and found him not only awake, but jubilant.
'It's all right, old man,' he said. 'I am a new man. Merril has already been here. He advises me to be quiet for a day or two, but I am going to get up.'
'And there are no ill effects? Your mind is quite clear?'
'Clear as a bell. There is just one black ugly spot; but it doesn't affect things.'
'Black ugly spot?' I asked anxiously.
'Yes, I'll tell you about it presently. Not that it matters.'
Throughout the day I saw very little of him, as neither his father nor mother would allow him out of their sight. It was pathetic the way they followed him wherever he went. I saw, too, that they were constantly watching him, as if looking for some sign of illness or trouble. I imagine that their joy was so sudden, so wonderful, that they could scarcely believe their own senses. It was evident, too, that they gloried in his career since I had met him more than two years ago. The thought that he should have, without influence or position, surmounted so many difficulties, and become the hero of the hour, was wonderful beyond words. More than once I caught Lord Carbis scanning the newspapers which contained references to him, his eyes lit up with pride.
In spite of all this, however, I foresaw difficulties, saw, too, that if Edgecumbe had not become radically changed, he would be a great disappointment to his father. Would he, I wondered, stand by the words he had uttered at the great public meeting? Would he refuse to participate in the wealth which his father had amassed through his connection with the trade which he believed was one of the great curses of humanity? For it was evident that Lord Carbis was a man of strong opinions. He had built up a great and prosperous business by enterprise, foresight and determination. To him that business was doubtless honourable. Through the wealth he had amassed by it, he had become a peer of the realm. What would he say and do if his son took the stand which, in spite of everything, I imagined he would?
Other things troubled me, too. Springfield, who was staying with St. Mabyn, motored over early, and immediately sought Lorna Bolivick's society. Of course Edgecumbe saw this, and I wondered how it would affect him. I wondered, too, how Sir Thomas would regard Springfield's suit, now that the future of his life was so materially altered. I tried, by a study of Lorna Bolivick's face, to understand the condition of her heart. I wondered whether she really cared for the tall, sinister-looking man who, I judged, had evidently fascinated her.
It was not until after tea that I was able to get a few minutes' chat with her alone. Indeed, I had a suspicion that she rather avoided me. But seeing Springfield and St. Mabyn evidently in earnest conversation together, I made my way to her, and asked her to come with me for a stroll through the woods.
'Real life makes fiction tame and commonplace,' I said, as I nodded toward Lady Carbis and Edgecumbe, who were walking arm in arm on the lawn.
'Real life always does that,' was her reply; 'the so-called impossibilities of melodrama are in reality the prosiest of realism.'
'I can't quite settle down to it yet,' I said. 'I can't think of Edgecumbe as Lord Carbis's son, in spite of all we have seen. To begin with, his name isn't Edgecumbe at all.'
'No,' she replied; 'don't you know what it is? You know who LordCarbis was, I suppose?'
'I know he was a brewer; but really I have not taken the trouble to study his antecedents.'
'He was called Carbis before he was made a peer,' she replied. 'I suppose he was largely influenced to buy the Carbis estates by the fact that they bore his own name.'
'So that my friend is called Jack Carbis. There is so much topsy-turvyism in it that I can hardly realize it.'
'I think Paul Edgecumbe is a much nicer name,' she said suddenly. 'I hope—I hope——; but if—if——'
'Do you realize,' I said, 'what it will mean to him if he stands by what he said at that meeting the other night?'
'Yes, he will still be a poor man, I suppose. But what then? Isn't he a thousand times bigger man now than he was as the fashionable Captain Jack Carbis?'
'Perhaps you don't realize how he would wound his father,—-destroy all his hopes and ambitions.'
'Yes, that would be rather sad; but doesn't it depend what his father's hopes and ambitions are?'
'Lorna,' I said, 'are you and Springfield engaged?'
She did not answer me for a few seconds; then, looking at me steadily, she said, 'Why do you ask that?'
For the moment I almost determined to tell her what I believed I knew about Springfield, and about the things of which I had accused him. But I felt it would not be fair. If that time ever came, he must be there to answer my accusations.
'I think you know why,' I replied. 'The change in my friend's circumstances has not changed my love for him. Do you know, Lorna, that he loves you like his own life?'
She was silent at this, and I went on, 'He spoke to you about it months ago; there in yonder footpath, not half a mile away,—he told you he had given his heart to you. It was madness then, madness,—because he had no name, no career, no position to offer you. His past lay in a mist,—indeed his past might have made it impossible for him to marry you, even if you had loved him. You refused him, told him that what he asked was impossible; but things have changed since then,—now he is a rich man's son,—he can come to you as an equal.'
'But—but——' and then noticing the curious look on her face, I blurted out:
'You're not going to marry Springfield, are you?'
'Yes,' she replied, 'I shall marry Colonel Springfield, if—if——but there,'—and she stopped suddenly,—'I think it is scarcely fair to discuss such things.'
After that she refused to talk about Springfield at all,—indeed I could not understand her. She seemed as though she had a great problem to solve, and was unable to see her way through it.
I had no opportunity of talking with my friend till the next day. His father and mother monopolized him so completely that there was no chance of getting a word alone with him. But when Lord Carbis informed me that he had made arrangements for Lady Carbis and his son to return home, I made my way to him.
'Do you feel well enough for a chat?' I asked.
'Oh, quite,' he replied. 'I was waiting all yesterday for an opportunity, but none came.'
'Edgecumbe,' I said,—'you will forgive me for still calling you that, won't you?—but for the life of me I can't fasten on that new name of yours.'
'Can't you? It's as natural as anything to me now. But call me Jack, will you? I wish you would. Do you know, when I heard the old name the night before last, I—I—but there, I can't tell you. It seemed to open a new world to me,—all my boyhood came back, all those things which made life wonderful. Yes, that's it, call me Jack.'
'Well, then, Jack,' I said, 'I have been wondering. Are your experiences at that Y.M.C.A. hut real to you now?'
'Of course,' he replied quietly; 'why, they are not a matter of memory, you know; they went down to the very depths of life.'
'And the convictions which were the result of those experiences? Do you feel as you did about drink and that sort of thing?'
'Exactly.'
'And you will stand by what you said in London the other night?'
'Of course,—why shouldn't I?'
'I was only wondering. Do you know, Jack,—you will forgive me for saying so, I am sure, but you present a kind of problem to me.'
'Do I?' and he laughed merrily as he spoke. 'You are wondering whether my early associations, now that they have come back to me, are stronger than what I have experienced since? Not a bit of it. I did a good deal of thinking last night, after I had got to bed. You see, I tried to work things out, and—and—it is all very wonderful, you know. I wasn't a bad chap in the old days, by no means a pattern young man, but on the whole I went straight,—I wasn't immoral, but I had no religion,—I never thought about it. I had a good house-master when I went to school, and under him I imbibed a sort of code of honour. It didn't amount to very much, and yet it did, for he taught me to be an English gentleman. I was always truthful, and tried to do the straight thing. You know the kind of thing a chap picks up at a big public school. But that night, at the Y.M.C.A. hut, I got down deep. No, no,—early associations can't destroy that.'
'And you still hold to what you said at the meeting?'
'Absolutely. Why?'
'I was wondering how it would appeal to your father. You remember you said that you would never benefit by, or participate in, any gain made by drink, and your father has made most of his money as a brewer and distiller. I wondered how you regarded it now?'
'That is quickly settled,' he replied; 'I shall not benefit by it, of course.'
'Do you mean that?'
'Of course I mean it. Mind, I don't want it talked about,—that is a matter between my father and my own conscience, and one can't talk about such things freely.'
'Surely you are very foolish,' I said. 'Why should you not use the money which will naturally come to you?'
'I don't say I won'tuseit,' he replied, 'but I will not benefit by it.'
'You mean, then——?'
'I mean that I was a poor man, with nothing but my pay, and that Iama poor man, with nothing but my pay. Thinking as I think, and feeling as I feel, I could not become a rich man by money got in—that is, by such means.'
He spoke quietly and naturally, although he seemed a little surprised by my question.
'What will your father say when he knows?'
'I think hedoesknow. He asked me whether I stood by what I said inLondon.'
'And you told him?'
'Of course I told him.'
'And he,—what did he say?'
'He didn't say anything.'
'Jack,' I went on, 'you must forgive me talking about this, but I only do it, because—you see, we are pals.'
'Of course we are pals. Say what you like.'
'It is all summed up in one name—Lorna.'
A new light came into his eyes immediately, and I saw that his lips became tremulous.
'Yes, what of her?'
'Springfield still means to have her,' I blurted out.
A curious look passed over his face, a look which I could not understand. 'Do you know,' he asked eagerly, 'if she is engaged to him?'
'I gather, that so far, there is no engagement, but I believe there is an understanding. He had obtained Sir Thomas's consent, but they were both under the impression at the time that Springfield was your father's heir. Of course, your turning up in such a way makes it a bit rough on Springfield.'
'I shall have a good deal to tell you about Springfield presently,' he said, 'but you have something in your mind. What is it?'
'It is very simple,' I replied. 'If there is no engagement between Lorna and Springfield, and if you come to her as your father's heir, you will of course be an eligible suitor. If you hold by your determination, you are just where you were. How could you ask her to marry you on the pay of a major in the Army? It would not be fair; it would not be honourable.'
'If she loves me, it would be honourable,' he said.
'How could it be honourable for you, with just a major's pay, to go to a girl reared as she has been,—a girl as attractive as she is, and who has only to hold up her finger to a man like Buller, who will own one of the finest estates in Devonshire? You have no right to drag her into poverty, even if she cared for you.'
He rose to his feet, and took a turn across the lawn. 'I see what is in your mind, but my dear Luscombe,'—and then he burst out into a laugh, a laugh that was sad, because it had a touch of hopelessness in it,—'I am afraid we are talking in the clouds,—I am afraid Lorna doesn't love me. If she does, she has shown no sign of it.'
'But are you going to let her go without a struggle?'
He looked at me with flashing eyes. 'I thought you knew me better than that,' he said. 'No, I am going to fight for her, fight to the very last. But if she will not have me as I am,—if she will not have me without my father's money, which I will not take, then—then——'
'You'll see her marry Springfield? I say, Jack, you know all we have thought and said about Springfield?'
'I have something to tell you about Springfield,' he said quietly.