Читать книгу The Seed of Empire - Fred M. White - Страница 11

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The glorious news seemed almost too good to be true. It was incredible to believe that only a month ago scores of the Musketeers had been slaving over a desk, or at the best looking forward to a month's vapid holiday at the seaside. Only five weeks ago their minds had been intent on socks and tennis flannels, on golf clubs, and, in more sentimental mood, their thoughts had been of the moon and the sea and a cosy seat at the end of the pier. Now all this was wiped out as if a gigantic sponge had been drawn across the mind of the nation. It all seemed so futile and so small by comparison.

For the great adventure had come, and some day, when the history of it is written, the world will begin to understand the true inwardness and force of the uprising of the young blood of the British Empire almost before the bugles had been heard calling. Slackers there were, no doubt, but Bentley and Kemp had seen none of them; so far as they knew, everybody had responded to the cry for men.

It was glorious to think that the desk and the sweat and toil of the city had vanished when the first shot had been fired, and that the rest would be a breathless struggle to the end. Yet, at the same time, Harold Bentley could not shake off a certain vague, uneasy depression. It was not fear; he was not shrinking from what lay before him; on the contrary, the desire to be up and doing gnawed at him like the pangs of a fierce hunger. He wondered what it was, and why he should feel like this.

And then suddenly it came to him.

He glanced down the hall towards the doorway, where he could see Dorothy Kemp's slim, graceful figure and the light gleaming on her dark, beautiful features. She was talking interestedly to a thin, effeminate-looking man with pale features, a man whose eyeglass made him look still more womanly. He was beautifully dressed and beyond all question exceedingly good-looking. And it seemed to Harold that those two were perhaps a little more than friendly. The man was a stranger to him, but he was conscious of a tinge of jealousy all the same. And in that moment he realised that there was going to be something still more painful than the parting with his mother and Nettie. It was only a short walk from the Musketeers' camp to The Keep House, and, in spite of a lot of hard work, Harold had contrived to put in a good deal of time there in the evenings. And he knew now, as if somebody had opened up a book before him, that he had given his heart to Dorothy Kemp, without, so far, seeking anything in return.

"Who is the man talking to your sister, Ronnie?" he asked.

"Oh, that's a chap called Paul Venables," Kemp explained. "He's an American. No end of a clever fellow, but just a bit too sarcastic for me. But, in spite of his childish appearance, he's no end good at sport, and a splendid shot. He seems to have plenty of money, and I understand that he represents two or three American newspapers."

"Have you known him long?" Bentley asked, carelessly.

"About a year, I suppose. He's got a bungalow in this neighbourhood. He's rather a favourite with Dorothy."

Harold would have liked to ask further questions, but wisely refrained. If Dorothy and the American had been more than friends, Kemp would have been sure to have mentioned it.

"Look here," Bentley said suddenly; "there's no reason to say good-bye here. Let's go up to your place for half an hour, and we shall be able to tell them quietly what's going to happen. Then we can run over to the camp in one of your cars."

It was a good suggestion as far as it went, but it was not an easy matter to shake off the American. He strolled calmly alongside Mrs. Bentley, chatting casually to her, and he entered the house with them with the air of a man who has no doubt on the score of his welcome. It was some little time before Bentley contrived to detach Dorothy from the others with the suggestion that it was too lovely a night to stay indoors. He saw Venables raise his eyebrows, and the gesture somewhat irritated him; but he could afford to ignore it, since he had obtained his own way and was at last alone with Dorothy in the moon-flooded garden.

"Do you know, I am sure you have something to say to me," she said. "I have never seen Ronnie so absent-minded before. I do hope there is no trouble."

"Well, I should hardly call it that," Harold murmured. "But the fact is, we are going to the front."

It seemed to Harold that his companion's face changed a little in the moonlight.

"Do you mean at once?" she whispered.

"Yes, to-night. It is an absolute secret, of course. That is why I was rather sorry that your friend, Mr. Venables, came back with us. It was impossible to get rid of him without appearing to be rude, but we were specially cautioned not to breathe a word to anybody about it. Naturally, we should tell you and my mother and sister, but no one else. I believe, though the country knows nothing of it we have nearly two hundred thousand men in France already. It has been a marvellous bit of work. And I wanted to tell you before I told anybody else."

"That was very kind of you, Harold," the girl murmured. "Of course, in a way I'm glad and proud to think that you're going, but now that the time has come it is a terrible wrench. It makes me feel as if some weight is pressing on me—oh, I know it sounds cowardly, but we have been such friends all these years—"

Dorothy broke off abruptly, and turned her head away. On the impulse of the moment, Bentley stooped and took her hand in his.

"You make me feel like a coward, too," he said. "I felt just the same when Crighton told us just now that we were going. I did not know why at first; and then I found out. It was because I am going to leave you."

"And your mother and sister. I understand."

"No, I don't think you do," Harold murmured. "It isn't the same thing. A man may be very fond of his mother and sister, but there comes a time when somebody else gets in front of them. That's what you've done, Dorothy. And I am selfish enough to want to know before we go out whether I'm leaving behind me a friend, or something more. Very greedy of me, isn't it? Most men would be satisfied to be able to boast of the friendship of a glorious girl like you. They would say it was infernally selfish to ask for anything more at a time like this. And, really, it does seem a blackguard thing to try to tie a girl up to a man who might never come back again, But if you understood my feelings, I am quite sure that you would forgive me—"

"Stop!" Dorothy cried. She was facing Harold now, and her dark eyes were full of tender purpose. "It would have been selfish had you not told me. Oh, my dear boy, do you think I have not seen? Do you think any woman could be blind to the knowledge of the love that is there before her eyes? And do you think I, as a girl who loves my country, wouldn't really be happier to know that she has a man out there who was risking his life and young manhood for the Empire? Why, I should boast of it, I could not keep the knowledge to myself. I should be sorry for other girls less fortunate than myself. And if you never came back, and if you had never spoken at all, I should still have grieved for you as sincerely as if—"

She broke off and laid her hands upon Harold's shoulders. Then she raised herself up, and pressed her lips to his.

"There," she said, unsteadily. "Perhaps now you understand. And after that I'm not going to keep you from your mother and sister for another minute."

And Harold followed her without another word.