Читать книгу Voices in the Night - Flora Annie Webster Steel - Страница 11

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'Mr. Raymond!'

Lady Arbuthnot's voice was insistent, yet soft. She wanted to rouse the sleeper without attracting attention, and now that the waning of daylight had ended out-door amusements, people had begun to drift into the club. The library tables were being rifled of the new picture papers, the smoking bar was fast filling with men, and sounds of women's laughter came from the quaint vaulted rooms where Badminton was being continued by electric light.

But an almost Eastern peace still lingered in certain nooks between the interlacing aisles of the building (which had once been the palace of kings)--and in one of these Grace Arbuthnot had run her quarry, Jack Raymond, to earth in a lounge-chair fast asleep over a French novel.

The remains of a stiff whisky-peg stood on a small table, and Grace Arbuthnot looked at it vexedly, then at the face, but half visible in the dim light; for the lamp had been deliberately turned down.

She had not seen it closely for twelve years except for those brief minutes at the race-meeting, now nearly a week ago; for, rather to her indignation, Mr. Raymond had not followed up the renewal of their acquaintance by calling. What is more, he had emphasised the omission by writing his name in the visitor's book, as a perfect stranger might have done. The fact had roused her antagonism; she had told herself that she would decline to have that past of theirs treated as if it were not past and forgotten. For though, ten years ago, she had certainly been engaged to Jack Raymond, they had broken off their engagement by mutual consent, with their eyes open; so it was foolish to fuss about it now. And so, partly from this antagonism, partly from a diametrically opposite motive--the inevitable woman's desire to keep some hold on the man she has once loved--it had occurred to her, when the days passed and brought no news of the missing jewel-box, that if she were to consult any one regarding the letter, it might be well to choose Jack Raymond. He was one, she knew, absolutely to be trusted by any woman; his position--miserable as it was from an official point of view--gave him unusual opportunities of being able to help her; and finally---- Why! Oh! why should he go off at a tangent and make her feel responsible?

And yet, as she looked at his sleeping face, noting its change, the unfamiliarity where once all had been so familiar, she frowned and turned as if to go, wondering what had induced her to think of consulting this man. What could he do now? Once upon a time, when he was different--when he was, as she recollected him----

The thought softened her face, and sent her back to call again, 'Mr. Raymond!'

He did not stir. Was the whisky-peg responsible for the soundness of his sleep? And was she responsible for the whisky-peg? She had known for years that he had drifted away, as it were, from everything that made life seem worth living to her, but the contrast between her fate and his had never come home to her before. The wife of a Lieutenant-Governor--as he might have been if he had not thrown up the service in a pet--and the Secretary to the club! What a miserable failure for such a man! A man who for two long years had been her ideal--who even now could do, should do---- She bent towards him suddenly, quite irrationally, and whispered, 'Jack!'

As she paused expectant, there was a half-mischievous smile in her pretty eyes; and yet they held a suspicion of tears. It was such an odd world. Why could not a woman forget when she had ceased to care? Men did; this one certainly had--no!----

The still small voice had apparently taken time to filter through to its destination; but it had found the chord of memory, and struck it sharply.

'Yes! what is it, dear?' came the answer drowsily. Then Jack Raymond stirred, stared, finally woke to facts.

'I beg your pardon, Lady Arbuthnot,' he began, rising hurriedly, 'I had been playing some hard games at racquets and----'

'But you always do sleep about this time, don't you? I've noticed you in the distance,' she said coolly. The suggestion in her words that she still had some right to criticise, added to his surprised irritation at finding that he had somehow gone back to the past. Why the deuce should the memory of the very inflection of her voice as she used to say 'Jack' have come back to confuse his brain, and absolutely make his heart beat?

'Yes!' he replied, with palpable hardihood, 'you're right. I generally do sleep. There's nothing else to do, you see, between tennis and whist. But if you want any stores from the go-down,^[5] I am quite at your commands. There is an awfully good Stilton on cut, if you'd like some.'

She beat her foot impatiently. This thrusting forward of his duties as a sort of high-class grocer was impayable! He could not think she had sought him out in order to buy Stilton cheese of him! And yet--how like the old headstrong Jack it was!

'Do tennis and whist make up your day now, Mr. Raymond,' she said swiftly. 'It used not to be so.'

The reproach in her voice was plain, and he resented it. She had left him to go his own way, and he had gone it. What business was it of hers now?

'You forget the racing and the betting,' he answered coolly; 'and my incurable idleness has at least this virtue--it leaves me, as I said, at Lady Arbuthnot's disposal.'

He gave a little formal bow, which sent another pang of memory through her. The fact annoyed her. How intolerable it was, that despite his degeneration into a high-class grocer--here she smiled faintly--he could scarcely speak a word to her, here in the semi-darkness--they two alone--without bringing back---- Ah! so much! Yes! it was intolerable. It must be ignored; or rather the solid, sensible facts must be dragged out into the daylight and given their real significance.

'I am glad of that,' she replied, 'for I want you to help me. But let us sit down--people will be less likely to disturb us then.'

He obeyed, feeling restive under her calm superiority, yet admiring it. She was no failure, anyhow; he had been right in his choice, years ago. Not that it mattered; since all that had once been between them had been forgotten--by him at any rate. Absolutely forgotten.

'Mr. Raymond!' she began suddenly, leaning closer to him over the table, 'surely it would be foolish in either of us to be ashamed, or to pretend forgetfulness of the close tie that was between us--once.'

'I have not forgotten,' he said involuntarily, then paused disconcerted at his own collapse. Which was true, his denial or affirmation of memory? Both, in a way.

She smiled, as women do, at remembrance, even when they believe they wish forgetfulness.

'I said pretend, Mr. Raymond!' she corrected. 'We are not likely to forget. Why should we?'

'On the other hand, why should we remember?' he asked. 'The past, Lady Arbuthnot, is past.'

The very idea of his thinking it necessary to assert this made her frown.

'Exactly so; therefore I come to you because memory gives me a friend, nothing more. And I need a friend just now.'

'You have plenty of them to choose from,' he began, 'you always had----'

'And I choose you,' she put in, with a charming little nod.

He sat bewildered for a moment, then said stiffly, 'May I ask why?'

'If I may answer by the question, why not? Surely we need not be strangers? And besides----'

'And besides?'--he echoed grimly, 'a woman's second reason is generally better than her first.'

Lady Arbuthnot's face grew grave. 'Mine is, Mr. Raymond, infinitely better. What I want your help for is no mere personal matter; it is something in which you might do a yeoman's service to the Government----'

'You are very kind,' he interrupted brusquely; 'but, as I thought you knew, I found out twelve years ago that the Government could do very well without my services.'

'It might have done better with them----'

'You are very kind,' he repeated; 'and this difficulty of yours?'

She flushed up. 'Excuse me! It was you, not I, who wandered from the point. I knew my reasons for choosing your help. However, let us stick to business. I have lost a jewel-case.'

'So I heard,' he said, 'and I am sorry it should have contained your pearls.'

Pearls! she thought vexedly; did he think she had come to him about the pearls? That was but a step better than Stilton cheese. His following words, however, disarmed her.

'They belonged to your mother, I remember; they were beautiful pearls!'

'Yes!' she assented softly, and paused. 'But it is not the pearls,' she went on. 'I will tell you what it is, and why I am anxious.'

He sat listening to her story with rather a bored look.

'It is most unlikely the letter will turn up,' he said at last. 'An Indian thief would throw it away, even though, as you say, it was in a sealed official envelope; he knows nothing of the value of documents. But it is a pity you kept it; for that matter, had it. That sort of thing is a mistake.'

Something in his tone made her say quickly, 'You blame father--why? You know how he trusted me-how you----' She felt inclined to remind him of his own confidence in her, but she refrained. 'Remember I have always----'

'Been in the swim,' he suggested.

'Could I help that?' she asked, feeling him unfair. 'What I mean is, that every one, even my husband----'

'I have always heard you do a great deal for Sir George,' he said nastily, regretting his unfairness even as he spoke. He need not have done so, save for his own sake, since her defence annihilated him.

'As I would have done for you, Mr. Raymond.'

'I--I beg your pardon,' he said limply, feeling himself a brute. 'This paper or letter, then, as I understand it, would have been a sort of safe-conduct to prevent the authorities rounding on Sir George after the event, as they are apt to do. As--a thought seemed to strike him, and he looked at her sharply--'as they did on me. Your experience has been useful to you, Lady Arbuthnot!'

She flushed up again. 'How could I prevent its being so? I am not a fool. But you know quite well I do not come to you on his account. It is because I am so afraid of the contents of that unfortunate letter leaking out. With this general election going on----'

He shrugged his shoulders and rose. 'I am no politician, as I told you; but as a personal matter----'

She rose also and challenged him with eyes, voice, and manner. 'I do not choose it to be a personal matter. It is more than that; it might concern the prestige, the honour of our Government! Surely you must still care for that? You used----'

He interrupted her with a laugh. 'It would be in a parlous state if it depended on me. I don't trouble my head about patriotism nowadays, I assure you.'

She came a step nearer, as if to bar a hint he gave of leaving. 'Is that possible?' she asked, almost sternly; 'within gunshot, as we stand now, of a place where Englishmen died in hundreds to keep the hand of their race upon the plough of India.'

The lightness had no choice but to pass from his face.

'Mine left it ten years ago, Lady Arbuthnot,' he said, his voice matching hers; 'and yours, excuse me, is not the one to wile it back. But for your husband's sake--not for yours, that past is past--I will----'

She lost her temper absolutely then. 'Who thinks, who wishes it otherwise? Can you not understand my motive in coming to you?'

'Perfectly,' he said coolly. 'You feel responsible--why, God knows!-- for the hash I have made of my life. I speak from your point of view, remember. Of course, nothing I can say will mitigate this feeling; it is a habit you good women have. Now I, as a man, should have thought that the palpable result of my going my own way, instead of yours, would have given you the certainty of having been right in refusing to countenance it.'

She did not speak for a second, and when she did there was a tremor in her voice. 'That doesn't lessen--the--the pity of it,' she said, half to herself; 'it is pitiful. Even if you had any one, wife or child----' She broke off and added apologetically, 'One can scarcely help regrets.'

Once more the man in him felt annihilated by the revelation of the woman in her. 'My--my dear, kind lady,' he said, touched in spite of himself, 'I can assure you I get along splendidly all round. You're all too kind. And as for the kids,' he added half nervously, for she looked as if she would cry, and he wished to cheer her up, 'I'm chums with the lot of them. Jerry, for instance! What a ripping little chap he is--such a lot of go; but he isn't a bit like you.'

She stood looking at him without replying for a moment, and the half-puzzled expression which had been in her face when she had watched him and the child standing hand-in-hand at the racecourse returned to it. 'No!' she said. 'Nor like his father. He has harked back in face to my mother's people--she was a distant cousin of your father's, you remember. And in mind--who knows? But I'm glad you like him; he returns the compliment.'

It seemed so, indeed, for Jerry himself, appearing that instant, had his hand tucked into Jack Raymond's even before he delivered his message, which was to the effect that dad was wanting mum to go home. He gabbled this through, in order to say, with a military formality learned, to his great delight, from Captain Lloyd, 'Ah, sir! I'm glad it's you; 'cos it isn't weally dark, an' Miss Dwummond's weading the Spectator, so it's just the time for you to show me the pwoperest places in the Garden Mound, please, as you pwomised you would. I mean the places where people was blown up--or deaded somehow!'

'You bloodthirsty young ruffian!' laughed Jack Raymond, feeling relieved at the interruption. 'All right! come along! I promised to take him round and tell him about the defence, Lady Arbuthnot,' he explained; 'but perhaps you will allow me to find your carriage for you first.'

'Thanks,' she replied curtly, 'my husband will do that. Good-night, Mr. Raymond. I am sorry I was not so successful in my request as--as my son.'

He stared after her yet once more. Women were inexplicable. Here was this one quite happily married--he had known that for years--and yet she would have liked--what the deuce would she have liked? He turned half impatiently to the child, and said, 'Come along, young Briton, and be sentimental over the past! Come and contemplate the deeds of your ancestors and make believe you're a hero. That's the game!'

'But I am going to be one when I'm growed up, you know,' protested Jerry.

The man paused and looked down at the child. 'If you get the chance, dear little chap,' he said bitterly, 'but the mischief is that what with express trains and telegrams, you've seldom to do more than you're told to do. And so most of the C.B.'s and V.C.'s are given for doing one's simple duty.'

'My dad's a C.B.,' commented the child sagely; 'but then he can do his compound duties too. Can you?'

'Can I?' echoed the man, and his voice belied the inevitable smile on his face. 'Well! I don't know. I expect I could, Jerry--if I tried.'

So hand-in-hand the two, boy and man, crossed the carriage-drive which lay between the club and the rising ground beyond it. Ground kept as a garden in memory of the deeds which had blossomed in its dust. For on that scarce perceptible mound, the English flag, taking advantage of every available inch to stand its highest, had floated for nine long months over the rebel town of Nushapore. Had floated securely, though the hands which held it grew fewer and weaker day by day. Had floated royally, though kings' palaces challenged it from the right, challenged it from the left.

And now, more than forty years after, the mound--set thick with blossoming trees--stretched as a peaceful lawn between those palaces still; but the one was an English club and the other Government House.

'That's the gate, Jerry,' said Jack Raymond, 'where Gunner Smith asked the mutineers--they were only three feet from the wall, you know--to oblige him with a pipe light, because he had been so long on duty that he had run short.'

Jerry laughed vaingloriously, uproariously.

'That was to cheek 'em, sir, wasn't it, sir? For, of course, he didn't care if he never smoked no more, so long as he kept 'em outside! Oh! isn't it just orful nice?'--here he heaved a sigh of pure delight--' and now, please, I want where boys like me did sentry, an' where the guns got wed-hot and boomed off of 'emselves, an' where every one blowed 'emselves up like in a stwawbewwy-cweam smash, becos' the enemy was cweepin', cweepin' in, don't you know?'

The child's voice ran on, eager, joyous, hopeful, and the man was conscious of a thrill that seemed to pass into his own veins from that little clasping hand.

'All in good time, Jerry! don't rush your fences,' replied Jack Raymond, and the thrill seemed to have invaded his voice.

So across the lawns, and along the winding walks bosomed in tall trees, where the birds were twittering their nightly quarrel for the uppermost roosting-place, those two, boy and man, the present and the future of the race, with its unforgotten past linking them, strolled hand-in-hand.

And the daylight lingering with the moonlight lay hand-in-hand also; lay softly, kindly, upon all things.

'This is the east battery, Jerry,' said the man in a hushed voice, to match the peace of the garden. 'Campbell--he was a relation of your mother's, by the way, and so a sort of relation of mine--never left it for five months. He is here still, if it comes to that, for he was literally blown to bits at last by a shell he was trying to throw back on the enemy. He'd done it dozens of times before, but this time--was the last!'

There was not much to see. Only a slab in the dim grass with 'East Battery' cut upon it.

'Mum told me about that,' said Jerry in an awed whisper. 'His name was Gerald, same as mine,'--he paused to look doubtfully at the face above him--'she said it was an eggsample to me. But I'm not goin' to be blowed up first. My shells'll always burst just in the vewy wightest places, bang in the middle of the enemy, so I can laugh at 'em before I dead.'

Jack Raymond, passing on, felt a pang. 'Always in the very rightest places!' That had been the dream of another boyhood.

The sky was as a pearl overhead; a pearl set in a darkening tracery of trees. The moon began to stretch faint fingers of shadow after the retreating day, and still those two, man and boy, passed from one immemorial deed to another, while the small hand sent its thrill to the big one, so that Jack Raymond wondered at the tremor in his voice as he said, pointing through the trees--

'And there's the general's house with the English flag flying still!'

Jerry stiffened like a young pointer on its first covey, every inch of him centred on the grey tower, its flagstaff draped dimly with the royal ensign, which rose against the sky. Then, standing square, head up, he saluted.

'Mum told me to do that always when I saw it,' he explained, 'because it's the only place in all the wide, wide world where the flag flies day and night, to show, you know, that it never was hauled down--never--never.' He heaved another sigh of satisfaction, but his face took a puzzled expression. 'Only, you know, I've been here before. I weally have. I wemember it quite, quite well. An' the guns was booming, an' they was wanting to pull down the flag, an' I wouldn't let them.'

Jack Raymond looked down at the child and smiled. 'You, or some one of your sort, dear old chap; and I'll bet you'd do it again, wouldn't you, Jerry?'

Jerry pulled himself together from the mysterious inheritance of the past. 'I'm goin' to, some day,' he said succinctly. 'An' now, please, I want where they buried 'em after dark. All pwoper wif surplices an' "Safe, safe home in port," and all that; but torches and crack-bang firings over the walls--though they was deaders already.'

The description, confused though it was by excess of picturesqueness, sent Jack Raymond unerringly towards the little cemetery where so many heroes rest. But ere they reached the gate, a woman's figure showed upon a side-path.