Читать книгу Echo of a Curse - R. R. Ryan - Страница 4

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Terry loved Mary and once believed she nearly loved him, would have loved him, had not Vincent Border risen like a new star in her particular firmament. He suffered from the disadvantage of having known her since childhood. Familiarity blunts the edge of any thrill. He had little more sex-appeal for her than a brother.

Mary was the daughter of a doctor, Terry the son of a lawyer; they were neighbors in a large provincial town.

Terry’s was one of those old-fashioned loves—that last like gold.

Mary was not beautiful by any standard, except her own, and by that—for Terry at least—she was beautiful. Or perhaps she might be said to have inherited all the forms of female beauty because her face never looked the same three minutes together.

She was tall, undulating; had that curious grace one associates with the more lovely forest creatures, and tantalizing, quizzical eyes which put Terry in mind of deep pools flecked by shadows. There were hollows under her cheek-bones that gave her face an inimitable charm.

Gay? Yes, she was gay. Terry was as accustomed to seeing Mary smile as he was accustomed to see the sun shine; as accustomed to hear her gay songs as to hearing the birds sing.

The desire that accompanies even the most spiritual love awoke in him when she first wore evening dress. That was in 1912, almost the end of perhaps the happiest period this earth will ever know. Men still believed in the superiority of the human race and did not credit that man can be more savage than the fiercest beast.

Mary was eighteen then, Terry two years older. No thought of love had entered her care-free heart—until that night when he, a Territorial, marched to the station en route for France.

That night, had he spoken, perhaps his luck would have been in. He thought so then and has done ever since. Mary was full up with warm emotion, which, if not love, was its kin. She would, Terry believed, have said yes; and once her promise had been given, she’d have been true. That was Mary.

They’d been tremendous pals, constant companions, into all kinds of scrapes and out again—mostly by the gooseflesh of their skins. They’d lied for each other, suffered for each other. Often he’d been her Sydney Carton, she his Grace Darling. And bit by bit he’d grown to long for her until the longing became almost unbearable. But he said nothing, because it was clear to him that her only interest was life itself. However, that night he stood on the platform with his father (himself killed late in the war) and mother and sister (now married and living in Brazil), his shoulder touching Mary’s, when she suddenly looked up at him in quite a new way, as if some exalting realization had lit her soul.

The others were watching a high-spirited group, laughing at their antics; for that instant Mary and he were utterly alone. Alone on earth. Alone in the universe. Her teasing eyes were gentle.

“Terry!” He’d never heard that sound in her voice before. “Let’s steal away a minute.”

They linked arms and moved off unobserved. She was trembling. Presently her eyes were again raised to his with that earnestness so strange in Mary.

“Oh, Terry! I’ve only just realized what this means. We may never see each other again.”

It was then he saw the birth of love in her gaze—or believed he did. That was the moment when he could have bound her for life . . . But he wouldn’t. White honour. Chivalry. Selflessness. All that kind of thing. It was, he told himself, no time for a chap to grab all he could get. It was the time of supreme giving. A man was rotten who tied up a girl with tragedy and complications.

So all he said was:

“Don’t you believe it, old thing! We’ll be hitch-hiking when we’re a couple of gummy old guys.”

It was on that reckless note he went away, leaving Mary damped and curiously disheartened, though she failed to comprehend why she felt as she did, attributing her sudden and alien depression to the loss of one who had more than helped to fill her days and keep her gay. Never has chivalry so deserved its purpose. Had Terry burst out with his love instead of so nobly suppressing it, foul misfortune, appalling terror would have been averted.

Terry was a bundle of contradictions, for, whereas in both appearance and manner he was far from robust, his will and physical strength were uncommon. Fragile in appearance, his manner was deprecating, shy, diffident. His charming, friendly, modest eyes totally misled strangers in regard to his steel-like disposition, just as his nervous, fine-drawn bodily lines belied his true quality of muscle, sinew and constitution. His gentle ways pleased his superiors, even while filling them with doubts as to his fitness to handle men. But their qualms were speedily silenced. Though quiet and friendly with his men, he ruled them as if possessed of hypnotic powers. They obeyed him, they worshiped him. After they had followed him into battle they apotheosized him. His scorn of danger fired his men with the spirit of emulation and they performed prodigies of valour.

Perhaps because Fortune favours the fearless, or is piqued by indifference, Terry was not wounded until early 1917, by which time he was a captain, much family trouble had overtaken both Mary and him, and he had met Vincent Border.

Vincent was a few months older than Terry and had come to fill young Norrey’s place, left empty by a direct hit.

Major Black himself brought him, which was typical of the major, a man without side or egotism and a most capable officer.

“This is our new Lefty One Pip, Terry. Don’t let him get hit, he’s too beautiful.”

And this, Terry silently agreed, was true. And more: Mr. Lefty One Pip knew it. He was lovely. Tall, slim, well-shaped. Perfect features were crowned with clusters of sunny-brown curls, which even a military barber could not crop straight. His brilliant blue eyes were as gay as Mary’s, but larger and more heavily lashed. A delicious round chin lent emphasis to a mouth that reminded Terry of a bud about to break into some luscious flower. Small ears, delicate hands, slender feet were all in perfect accord.

“Welcome to Paradise Lost,” Terry said gravely and in rather a hushed voice.

Major Black grinned.

“You mustn’t speak to Mr. Border as if he’s holy, Terry. I’m told his very soul is washed in blood. Seen almost as much service as you, my boy.”

Terry glanced at the new-comer, who smiled. Now, indeed, he did not look holy, but satanic. His teeth, small and rather pointed, were plainly all his own and undecayed. Yet . . . However, a second glance discovered nothing wrong with the smile and nothing sophisticated in Border’s gaze, which was as ingenious as his unflawed beauty. This a soldier! It sounded fabulous.

“Well,” the major said, preparing to take himself off, “you’d better dig out the Psychic and a spot of tea.”

“The Psychic,” Terry explained to Border, “is our orderly.”

“Why Psychic?”

His voice, too, was attractive, almost purring.

“Wait till you get to know him—you’ll understand. He’s a bit weird, that’s all.”

Corporal Huges was a bit weird, in looks as well as in mentality. He looked like a man with a permanent grievance. An exiguous morsel, nature had assembled his features to scale, given him a pair of globulous eyes that were at once peevish and frightened. A somewhat fluent moustache hid a puffy, obstinate mouth. Whether it was true or not, the corporal had acquired a rather unhappy reputation for dismal prophecy that had an awkward way of proving true, and, seemingly, extraordinary powers of assessing the true natures of those with whom he mixed.

“Pore Mr. Norreys, ’e’s for it,” Huges had announced the night before that direct hit. “ ’E’ll be blown to bits termorrer.”

Boots were thrown and Huges fully instructed as to the desserts of bloody pessimists; but Norreys had been blown to bits next day.

Dug out, Huges stared at his new superior as if with awe—though it might have been merely astonishment; on the other hand it might have been for some reason quite apart from the commonplace.

“Gor bli!” he breathed; then fell silent.

And that was how Terry met Vincent Border, who was destined to become much more than a casual contact in his life.

The newcomer talked informally about the various danger spots with which he had been associated from the war’s early days; and it soon became apparent to all concerned that he was a soldier in more than name. Indeed, he was as fearless, as careless of danger as Terry himself. But he was more. He was a devotee to violence, bloodshed, frightfulness. The horrors of these front-line trenches were his sacrament. Mars was his deity.

In their dug-out Terry and the others found their new comrade placid, non-assuming, and each acknowledged his curious charm.

But Terry was strangely fascinated by “Second Lieutenant Adonis,” as he had been almost immediately nicknamed. It really seemed as if Border possessed a nature corresponding to his appearance, and an easy, agreeable mind, sufficiently well-informed. Life in the front-line had become more bearable, Terry concluded, for the coming of Vincent Border. But then two events happened that modified his views.

The first of these occurred one night quite soon after Border’s advent and when Terry was turning round the corner of Bone’s Lane into Dead Man’s Causeway, off which lay his dug-out. The uncertain illumination of Very lights had momentarily failed, but, as he turned into the Causeway, it seemed to Terry that two pin-points of light gleamed catlike in the gloom. Like a flash, someone turned and ran, lightly, soundlessly; but not before Terry had detected a strong smell of spirits. The truth was hardly in question, for he knew well that his better-known companions were not only temperate by nature but also entirely minus supplies. That lurker had been the new man. What had he been up to?

There had been something almost uncanny about that silent lurking—coupled as it was with that odd impression of shining eyes . . . Imagination, of course; or an illusion associated with the sudden ceasing of the Very lights.

Tired, and for some reason dispirited, Terry decided to get into bed without delay. They all had beds, curiously and ingeniously arranged by the admirable Huges, whose shining gift was extemporisation. Everyone was asleep except Border, who, in his night kit, sat with feet dangling over the side of his make-shift couch.

He stared at Terry in a strange, fixed fashion, his eyes alight, but expressionless. Something dead, but miraculously animated, might have been seated there. Terry realized at once that in an odd, contained, compos mentis way the man was drunk, dangerously, savagely drunk. Neither spoke and, half asleep in his fatigue, Terry undressed and got into bed.

He had, perhaps, been asleep an hour when that extra sense which war vouchsafes to its helots warned him of immediate danger. He awoke. Looked up. The glazed, drink-mad eyes of Border stared down at him with the fascination that blinkless eyes have for the startled.

Poised for instant descent was a wicked-looking, opened clasp-knife. A second more and that keen-edged knife would have ripped open his throat.

But, used to the alarms of war, Terry habitually awoke unflurried, prepared to grapple swiftly with any danger; and, drunk-strong or not, Border was immediately helpless in a grip cruelly powerful. The knife fell. Terry twisted the other’s somewhat fragile wrists, till anguish brought some sanity to those uncoordinated eyes.

“I’ll give him a little of his own medicine,” Terry thought. And taking Border by the throat he half-throttled him before changing pressure into violent shaking. Under this treatment Border’s whisky-elevated state suddenly subsided. He began to whimper and would have embraced Terry, had the latter consented. Instead he mercilessly slapped the drunk man’s cheeks. Subsiding on to his bed, Border began to mumble and Terry tossed him into his blankets, tucking him comfortably up. This done, he sat awhile on the edge of his own bed, watching for any fresh demonstration; but none came. Soon it was clear that Border had succumbed to the claims of drunken sleep.

The next morning nothing could have exceeded the humility and regret with which the culprit approached his senior officer.

Expecting penitence and disliking any drunkard’s abject repentance, Terry eyed the approaching figure quizzically.

“Hell of a hang-over, eh?”

“I say, please forgive . . .”

And now came the full flood of humility and confession.

“I should never touch whisky.”

“Hanged if you should. A few nips of special are not worth a man’s life.”

“I attacked you?”

“Oh dear me, yes. All but knifed me.”

“It’s my second warning. I swear I’ll never touch the beastly stuff again.”

“Certainly you’re no end of a fool to bring it into the trenches. It wouldn’t have made any difference to you last night had I been Number One Brass Hat. It’s my duty to report the matter.”

And then Border’s eloquence burst into full flood. Despite all, Terry had a strong reaction in his favour. The sinner’s penitence was as charming as his lapse had been horrible. Finally, at a plea for help, the stronger nature capitulated entirely. Terry never could resist an appeal for aid.

“The thing is, have you any more of the stuff?”

“No. I swear I haven’t.”

“Will you let me search your kit?”

“You doubt my word?”

“I doubt any whisky-addict’s word.”

“But I’m not an addict.”

“So you say; but, if you’ve none hidden, why this obstruction?”

“Go ahead. Search me and my things.”

Border’s reproachful dignity had the ironical consequence of making Terry feel guilty. Nevertheless, he took the other at his word, searching not only his person, but his kit with care. It seemed pretty evident from the empty bottles that Border had no secret reserve.

“Well, I don’t suppose you’re likely to get a new supply while we’re in the line. It’s when we’re relieved that you’ll get your chance . . . I warn you, Border, that I’d not treat a repetition leniently. You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you last night. I’d have been justified. It would be well to remember we’re here to kill Germans, not each other.”

“Look here, I see you guess. I have a craving; but, honest to God, I’m fighting it. You know, Cliffe, a hell of a lot goes on inside chaps out here that no one guesses. We’re all scared more or less; and it affects us in different ways. Some pray—secretly; some gamble; some drug; some drink. It’s to stifle imagination . . . Those chaps who have none or little are lucky. When we’re in camp, will you watch me? I’ll fight like hell; and I believe I could win through—with a pal. Someone strong to talk with and keep my mind off blood and bombs and mess in leisure hours. It’s the leisure hours that get me . . .”

And so Terry promised, half cursing himself for a fool. Wasn’t everything hell enough without saddling oneself with a troublesome responsibility like Border’s fear-complex?

However, he accepted the fear-complex with cordiality, glad to do so; for his conscience-charge had won his warmest regard. If he could help this lad, no younger than himself, he’d be proud. He was a chap worth reclaiming. Trench-nerves demanded sympathy, however they expressed themselves. He could well understand this sensitive-looking, yet undoubtedly brave, young fellow suffering from suppressed terror, dread of noise, dread of sights, dread of slaying, dread of being slain; and the general circumstances, not least of which—the rats. Yes, he’d look after Border when their lot were resting. He’d try and disperse this accumulated carnage-dread.

Or at least so he determined until he discovered that the object of his sympathy had no fear of war, of blood, of human offal lying about; but, on the contrary, a gruesome appetite for all. This occurred when during a push their regiment had captured some important enemy trenches after an exhausting and ferocious fight. Corpses of both sides lay piled upon each other. The slaughter had been so severe that some confusion now resulted. Border was needed, but seemed to be missing. Terry set off to find him and, while so engaged, let his thoughts dwell upon the subject of his recent commiseration. He felt puzzled. During that mad rush across No-man’s Land, he had turned to shout general encouragement and looked full into Border’s face—convulsed with sheer, demoniac joy, with murderous ecstasy. His eyes were as unfocused, as alight, as upon the occasion of his drunken bout. He was drunk now. With the delight of slaughter, with the smell of blood, with the sight of indiscriminate human butchery.

“Hell,” Terry thought, “I believe the fellow’s a dangerous devil, an evil fellow, a conscienceless liar.”

And then the idea occurred to him that perhaps the very effect he had seen during that short, sharp trip across hell was the off-spring of those causes in regard to which he had offered Border his sympathy and help.

Abruptly passing from one to another of these muddy, bloody corridors, he discovered Border, stooped over a body rent from neck to groin. For that instant they were isolated, he and his conscience-charge, who, absorbed in his grim survey, failed either to hear or to see the suddenly-arrived witness to his preoccupation. He was smiling at the flowing blood and presently glanced from left to right; but it was plain he did not see Terry, despite the fact that his gaze fell full upon him . . . He muttered. A little froth had gathered at his lips. Bending, he dipped his forefinger in the blood . . . then immersed his hand.

“Border!”

As if electrified, the possessed man shot erect, an exclamation that might have been pain issuing from his lips. He seemed literally to hurl himself out of his tranced condition, back to cognizance of his immediate surroundings and circumstances; but not before Terry had seen a flame of excited glee suffusing his eyes.

“What am I to think?” the would-be Samaritan asked himself later. “Was he temporarily off his head? Had his nerves gone?”

These seemed the most charitable conclusions. And there was one thing; even if he had not a sufficiently tough mentality to face war in its more ghastly forms, at least he had neither shirked the fighting nor fought badly. Terry knew many soldiers who literally exalted themselves into Ajaxes, Hectors, Hannibals, Davids when zero hour arrived and they must either kill or run.

The next day both Terry and Border were wounded and returned to the base where both woke to consciousness in neighbouring beds.

Simultaneously they rolled languid heads to see what manner of comrade they each had and lo:

“Hello!”

“Well!”

Even in pain, even affected by illness, Border’s smile, Terry thought, was ineffably sweet.

“I was a fool to believe rotten things. He wasn’t normal. Maybe I was not myself.”

This kindly opinion strengthened during convalescence in England, where both men became more than commonly intimate. Closer relationship with Border revealed no sinister qualities. Whisky might be poison to his lovely nature, Terry decided, but fundamentally he was as pure as his profile.