Читать книгу The Uncounted Cost - Mary Gaunt - Страница 7

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"Is it worth a tear, is it worth an hour

To think of things that are well outworn?

* * * * * *

Earth is not spoilt for a single shower!

But the rain has ruined the ungrown corn."

THE summer had gone when Cunningham stepped out of the station at Sheerness dockyard. The wind whistled drearily down the narrow paved streets, the little commonplace houses that he had always scorned seemed to be mocking him.

"You have laughed at us," they seemed to say, "but now it is we who may jeer. You are of no account."

He stepped on to the long windswept pier and looked out over the dull grey river with the tide racing in, but No. 7 buoy was vacant. He had known it would be. The great grey bulks of the Colossal and the Triumph broke the skyline, torpedo boats and destroyers were panting busily backwards and forwards, a couple of barges with red sails lent a note of colour to the seascape, but the Irrepressible had gone.

He went back to the naval barracks quickly. There was no necessity for hurry, but a fever was burning in his veins. The commander was sitting in his room and looked up as he entered.

"Hallo, Potiphar, old man, I thought the old Rippy went off to sea this morning."

"I've come to report myself as having missed my ship," said Cunningham sombrely.

The other sprang to his feet. "Potiphar, old chap," he cried, "don't look so glum about it. It isn't healthy. Did the South Eastern miss connection, or what?"

"I can only say I missed my ship," repeated Cunningham, his eyes on the crossed swords above the mantelshelf. He could not meet the other's friendly glance.

"Am I to report to the captain then?" asked Commander Carter, dropping all friendly chaff.

"Please."

Commander Carter rose up. "You might as well sit down till I come back. There's the paper."

But Cunningham did not sit down, nor did he read the paper. It is curious how little interest we take in the doings of the outside world. Such things are only for our hours of ease. He marched up and down the room until Carter returned.

"Come along to the captain," he said quietly enough, for he saw the other was in no mood either to be questioned or sympathised with.

The captain was an elderly man with kindly blue eyes.

"So you missed your ship, Cunningham," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"And how do you explain your absence?"

He asked the question lightly. It was a thing that surely might be explained quite easily, even though Captain O'Flaherty was Cunningham's superior officer and might desire to get his knife into him.

But no explanation was forthcoming.

"I'm very sorry, sir, but I forgot to leave an address."

"Tut, tut," said the old man, "that was a very unwise thing to do, and always requires a deal of explanation. I'm afraid, Cunningham, I must confine you to barracks till the return of your ship."

There was nothing for it but the dreariness of inactivity until the Irrepressible returned. And to have to sit still and do nothing is perhaps the hardest thing in life. To march up and down the room watching the hours, the precious moments that go to make up a life, mark themselves off uselessly, to know that they are only adding to one hopeless, undesired end, that is a thing that puts lines in a man's face, silver in his hair, and adds years to his life. Carter saw his old friend's trouble and was sympathetic, he wanted to sit with him, he got a couple of other fellows to play bridge, he came with drinks and offers of counsel, but Cunningham would have none of him. He had made a mess of things, he was savage, and he wanted to be alone. He had worn a track in the Government carpet right round the table across to the mantelpiece and back to the door before the Irrepressible was sighted and Carter came to report her as making for her old anchorage at No. 7 buoy. But he had made up his mind. There was in fact only one thing to be done. The matter must not be gone into. He could not give Kitty Pearce away. He must send in his papers to avoid a court martial. It was ruin, of course, socially, financially, every way; it was wrecking his career, but it had to be done. This was the price he was to pay for his folly, for a woman who was nothing to him, who never would be anything to him, who seemed to have passed out of his life. He had admired her, he had done more, he had loved her for the moment. He wondered in a dull sort of way what love was. Was it a desire to kiss a pretty woman? Well, he certainly did not want to kiss her now, but he had to protect her, though it would cost him everything he counted of value in the world. And in such wise was love never nurtured. For the woman who sacrifices herself on his account the man who does not love may feel some tenderness, but the surest way to kill love is to exact an unwilling sacrifice, and never was man more unwilling than Cunningham.

"I've got a boat for you, Potiphar," said Carter's sympathetic voice.

"Thank you," said Cunningham, and went out and into her without another word.

At the gangway Lieutenant Bullen met him.

"Potiphar, didn't you get my telegram? I know it was a beastly indiscretion touching your despatch box, but——"

"You are a good chap, Dicky. I'm infinitely obliged to you. It isn't many men who'd have been so ready and so equal to the occasion. I can't thank you enough. But this is the end. I'm going to send in my papers."

"Nonsense. Don't be a blooming idiot."

"There's nothing else for it."

They were on the quarter deck, and a soft rain coming out of the west beat against their faces, and for the moment the low shores with the dockyards and piers were blotted out. There were not many on board that ship who knew that Commander Cunningham had been absent without leave, but to him it felt as though everyone knew, and was wondering what excuse he would give, and what he was saying to his friend and chum, Lieutenant Bullen.

The officer of the watch knew, and had his eye upon them, but he stood apart a moment.

"She isn't worth it," burst out Bullen passionately. He was a staunch friend, and for Cunningham he had a great love and admiration. "I tell you she isn't worth it."

"You don't even know that there is a woman in the matter," said Cunningham. "I tell you there isn't, Dicky," and he turned away to the officer of the watch.

"Will you tell the captain I've come on board?"

Presently the officer of the watch came back again. "The captain will see you in his cabin."

Cunningham braced himself. Relations between him and O'Flaherty had always been strained, and he had been careful to walk the straight path, as if he strayed from it but an inch he felt he had but little mercy to expect from his superior officer. And now he was in the very worst possible mood to meet him. He was seeing red.

"Go slow, go carefully, Potiphar; do go slow," urged Dicky Bullen by his side.

"It won't make much difference, the end'll be all the same," said Cunningham, and he went down the companion to the captain's cabin.

O'Flaherty, a somewhat truculent Irishman, was standing in the middle of the wide cabin. He was rather a coarse-grained man, not perhaps altogether bad-hearted, but he and his commander had not pulled well together from the beginning. Possibly he himself was not aware how pleased he was to have a real grievance against him.

"Well, Commander Cunningham," he began, "what is the meaning of this? Of course, you have some explanation."

"I have no explanation, sir." Cunningham knew his voice was cold and steady. "I should prefer the matter not to be gone into, and request permission to send in my papers to avoid court martial."

"The devil!" Captain O'Flaherty was so astonished the exclamation broke from him before he was aware of what he was saying. Cunningham said nothing. He stood silently in front of his captain, his eyes on the great head of a bush cow that hung against the wall. The fierce horns were pointed at him, the glassy eyes were staring at him. Then O'Flaherty pulled himself together.

"I must take a little time to consider the matter," he said, evidently putting restraint upon himself. "I'll see you again presently."

So there was to be more waiting. Outside Bullen met him, sympathetic, and they went to Cunningham's cabin. He looked round it as if it were some strange place and all the things in it struck him afresh. He would not be looking at them for long.

"Well, I'm glad he was decent for once," said Bullen. "It's midsummer madness to talk of sending in your papers. If he only overlooks it, and he well might, you'll be all right, and, after all, if you're court martialled the very worst that can happen will be your being dismissed the ship."

"That's finish."

"Not for you. There's little Day will have you to-morrow. Do buck up, Potiphar, and take more cheerful views. A lot depends on you."

"I can't take cheerful views. You know very well the service was the only thing I really cared about."

"You don't care about her. No, never mind, I know you don't. What's the good of denying things. I know who she is."

Cunningham made a dissenting gesture.

"Tommy rot! Of course I know, but what I don't understand is why you didn't get my first telegram. It must have arrived."

"It was not delivered to me till next morning," said Cunningham monotonously.

"Carelessness or—no, by Jove, you don't mean to say she kept it back on purpose?" Bullen rose and walked angrily up and down the cabin. "A woman like that deserves—deserves——"

"One thing is quite certain, in this world," said Cunningham bitterly, "a woman never gets what she deserves."

"If I had anything to do with her——"

"You would be compelled to do exactly as I am doing."

"I don't know what you are doing yet. Do take my advice, and knuckle under to old shiver-the-mizzen. Ten minutes of holding your tongue even will do it."

Cunningham looked dubious. But he had done so well. His career lay before him so invitingly that Bullen's words were having some effect. Why throw it all away merely for the sake of quarrelling with his captain? He knew well enough he would have the sympathy of the rest of his messmates. A little courtesy to his superior, a little bending of his pride to sue——

Bullen saw the effect he was producing, and like a good fellow rammed the suggestion home.

"Look here, tell him the truth and throw yourself on his mercy. The man can't be a brute at bottom. You know yourself what you'd do for a man in a hole if his record was clean, even if you hated him personally."

"I can't tell him the truth. I can't tell you."

"No need to tell me. I know. Say to him, 'Look here, sir, I'm sorry, blessed sorry, beastly sorry'—any adjective you like to use, only pitch it strong enough—'I can only throw myself on your mercy. Of course I know you must have guessed there's a woman in the business, whom I can't give away. If you won't help me I'm a ruined man.'"

"I can't," said Cunningham.

But Bullen knew he was considering it.

"Potiphar, don't be a blooming idiot! Think of the ghastliness of drifting about wondering if you'll get another ship, and though I feel sure, if the worst comes to the worst, Day'll help you if he can, still, there it is against you. Something to be lived down. Five minutes' civility—five minutes—three minutes—two minutes—get one word of sympathy out of him and you're right as rain."

Cunningham got up and looked out of the scuttle. Then he turned to his friend.

"Upon my word, Dicky, there's sense in what you say. I've been like a raging savage ever since I got your telegram."

"Bloody-minded," said Bullen. "Don't make such heavy weather of it."

An orderly came to the door.

"Please, sir, the captain will see you now."

"Good luck, Potiphar; now keep your temper and hold a candle to the devil."

Outside the captain's cabin Cunningham met the first lieutenant. No. I was an excellent first lieutenant, but it was hardly likely he would ever be anything more than a lieutenant. He was older than Cunningham, who with Bullen, in the privacy of his cabin, had been wont to laugh at Somerville's little set ways. He was no man of the world; if he had been he might have got on better, but he was straight and conscientious to a degree. The younger man saw he was pitying him, and was irritated by the thought that he was in a position to be pitied by anyone. It added another touch of bitterness to the mood he was in, and heaven knows he wanted no bitterness.

The first lieutenant stepped back to allow him to pass and Cunningham pushed open the door.

"Well, sir," the captain's voice rang out, "I've thought over this matter. I suppose you were off with that woman of yours——"

Where were the wise counsels of Dicky Bullen? Where all his good resolutions—his intention to knuckle under?

"You damned hound!" Cunningham sprang forward, his arm upraised, and behind him stood the first lieutenant. He was not a ready man, and he stood there for a second too long. Then it dawned on him that he liked his commander, he did not like his captain, and he had heard a great deal too much. He turned to beat a hasty retreat.

"Mr Somerville," the captain's voice thundered, and Cunningham's sudden wrath died almost as soon as it was born. He stepped back, his hand fell to his side, but it was too late.

"Mr Somerville! Mr Somerville! Did you hear that? Did you hear Commander Cunningham threaten me?"

Mr Somerville cast about in that conscientious mind of his for something to say, and nothing but an affirmation came. Another man might have lied, and stuck to it that he had heard nothing. Not so No. I. He looked apologetically at Cunningham, as a dog who had stolen a bone might have looked, but he answered:

"Yes, sir, I heard."

"Commander Cunningham, you will consider yourself under arrest. This matter must be publicly investigated, and I shall apply to the Commander-in-Chief for a court martial."

Somerville followed Cunningham to his cabin, and there Dicky Bullen tackled them both.

"Back already! Why——"

"A court martial," said Cunningham dully. He was like a man who had fought Fate and been worsted. "I lost my temper and——"

"I am so sorry, sir," burst out Somerville. "It would have been all right if only I had not heard."

"And what the devil did you mean by hearing anything?" asked Bullen angrily. "What the dickens are your ears given you for, but to be deaf on occasion?"

"But I did hear the commander call the captain a d——d hound," protested Somerville, "nobody could have been sorrier than I, but——"

"You'll hear me call you a damned fool presently," went on Bullen. "Of all the unutterable idiots——" And then he changed his tone. "Look here, Somerville, you know you can't be certain. You might so easily be mistaken."

"I wasn't mistaken," said Somerville obstinately.

"Oh, nonsense; you might so easily have been. If you wern't deaf you were mistaken. It was you, not the captain, Cunningham cursed. He goes in to see the captain on an important and delicate matter and you come crowding in on his heels——"

"Unfortunately I know it wasn't me. I don't think Commander Cunningham knew I was there. I am extremely sorry."

"Oh, get out," said Bullen, "get out and be sorry in your own cabin. This extreme sorrow crowds us too mightily here. Get out."

Somerville cast one glance at Cunningham looking gloomily out of the scuttle at the grey sea beyond and then turned on his heel. He was a straight, honest man, but he considered the good of his own immortal soul above all else in the world, and not to have heard would have imperilled that soul's health. Bullen banged the door after him.

"No go. Lost your temper?" he asked.

"I wish I'd knocked the words down his blackguardly throat," said Cunningham, and he did not speak loudly but he spoke as a man without hope. "Court martialled. I shall plead guilty, and that'll finish it."

"Nonsense, man, nonsense. Cheer up, Potiphar. Tell me exactly what did happen?"

That was soon told, and Bullen cursed Somerville again, but Cunningham only laughed, though there was no mirth in his laughter.

"Poor old Somerville!" he said. "I shall plead guilty, and then——"

"Now, don't get bloody-minded," said Bullen. "With all your good record behind you, with all the influence you have made for yourself, it'll go hard if we can't circumvent this mad Irishman. Look here, there's Day and Inglis and——"

"I shall plead guilty," said Cunningham doggedly. "And when I am out of the service I shall kill O'Flaherty."

He was bloody-minded.