Chapter IX

• I VHE little sleeping compartment for two was dim and ghostly looking within as the Rome to Paris train de luxe ten days later ran mile after mile through the southern plains of France as the dawn began to come up, and its light filtered in through the drawn flapping blinds, to mingle with the shaded glow of the lamp in the roof.

Val turned over once again, and rested' his cheek on the edge of his upper berth, looking down into the compartment beneath. He had been awake since three o'clock, and had now given up all idea of sleep. He just lay, listening to the measured beat of the train sounding above the steady roar of the wheels, to the flapping of the blind, to the long, faraway scream of the engine as it tore through sleeping stations, to the banging of a door left unfastened somewhere down the corridor — he lay there listening and thinking.

Now, however, he opened his eyes, and began mechanically to study the bird's-eye view of the compartment behind him — the heap of Austin's clothes on the cane-seat by the window, a couple of Italian newspapers on the floor; his own overcoat and hat swinging from the peg by the window, an open cigarette-box that he had hidden for Austin a few miles out of Modane, and produced again afterwards; and, finally, the edge of the red coverlet from the berth beneath where Austin lay sleeping. And as he saw this he leaned over yet further to see whether Austin's bandaged arm, now, however, almost healed, were lying as it should, in the sling across his breast. The doctor had said it must not be knocked against anything.

Then he lay back again in his own place and remained still.

Ten minutes later he roused himself with a jerk and sat up. His tweed suit was hanging at the foot of his berth, and he kneeled forwards to get his leather letter-case out of the breast-pocket of his coat. Out of this he drew a folded paper, and then lay back again to read it through, as well as he could in the dim light, for perhaps the fiftieth time. It was written in a strong, but rather school-girlish handwriting.

" I have thought over everything you have said; and my answer is what it was at the beginning; and nothing you can ever say or do again can make any difference. I cannot marry a coward. When I made our engagement I thought you were a brave man; and I certainly shall never forget that you once saved my life. But that can make no difference now. When you had a real test you failed and you allowed your brother to take your place. I need not say how sorry I am to have brought all this trouble on you; but perhaps it is best so, as it has showed me what you really are before it was too late. Marriage without love would be bad enough; but marriage without respect far worse; and I could never respect a coward. As for our engagement, I trust to your honour never to tell anyone that it ever existed. If I think it right I shall tell May or your mother myself; but I don't see that I need.

"Of course, we shall have to be friends, in a way, at any rate so long as we are in Rome, and until we get back to England.

" GERTRUDE MARJORIBANKS."

He read it through slowly, all the cruel phrases, the hints at melodrama, the sensible, reasonable sentiments, half-childish, half -womanly, even though he knew it practically by heart. It was the last communication he had had from her about the affair. There had been two or three interviews first, and, finally, a week after the duel, and three days before the doctor would allow Austin to travel, she had written and put this note on his table. He had not answered it.

If his state of mind must be summed up under one word one would say that it consisted of dreaminess. There were moments and even hours when he felt desperately inspired to do some really great thing to prove his courage; there were other moments when he was shaken by a passion of despair. But both these were passing; there seemed to him for the most part now to be nothing anywhere but dreaminess; there was no good in anything anywhere; nothing mattered. He had lost not only the respect of everyone else, but, what is infinitely worse, his own self-respect as well. It was no good twisting and shamming and excusing any more. He was found out; and he had found himself out.... A huge gulf separated him from his kind. Gertie \vas gone, as irreparably as if she were dead; May seemed to stand off from him, almost as if she were frightened of him; Austin, with his pain and his gallantry, accepted as a matter of course all the infinite attentions which Val gave him, and once or twice even had snapped at him rather brutally, once telling him that " he might be a bit more thoughtful under the circumstances," once that he " wished he wouldn't come bothering, but would leave him alone " And, as for his parents at home, well, his chief misery on this journey was the thought that every mile brought him nearer to Medhurst.... They had both written to May, but Val's name was not mentioned in either letter. One single figure glimmered with hope, and that was Benty.

He had found himself out then. But he stood now at a point from which this was more wretched than to be found out by other people.

" Val! are you awake? "

He leant over the edge instantly.

"Yes.... Can I do anything?"

" I wish you'd come and look at this string; the knot's got behind my neck."

Val threw his legs over the side and dropped to the ground. Austin drew his breath sharply.

" I wish you wouldn't do that," he said. " I asked you not last night. It jars me."

" Sorry. Let's see the knot."

" Gently! " said Austin presently, " you touched my wrist."

" Sorry. Is that all right? Anything else? "

" What's the time? I suppose you couldn't get some coffee."

" I'll go and see. I think it's about six."

In ten minutes he returned with a tray.

" You've been a long time," said Austin.

" I thought I'd better take some to the girls too."

Austin said nothing, and Val poured out the coffee and held the saucer for him.

" That's better," said Austin more graciously, leaning back at last. " And now, if you'd give me a cigarette "

This was done, and Val drank his own coffee, put the tray on the floor outside, and prepared to climb back to his berth.

" Do you want to go to sleep again? " asked Austin.

"Not particularly. Why?"

" Well, we might have a talk. The girls will be up soon, and we may not have another chance."

" All right. Wait a sec., and I'll put on a coat."

Then Austin settled himself down for a lecture.

It must be confessed that Austin was not wholly miserable at the turn things had taken. Certainly he had suffered considerably; his wound had given him really severe pain for some days, and when Val handled him clumsily it still hurt a good deal. And he was sincerely upset at the blow to the family honour; it seemed to him appalling that his brother should have behaved like a cur. And yet there were consolations. It was pleasant to be treated as a hero and adored like a god by Gertie and May, by Gertie especially; it was pleasant to be travelling home to parents who, though they would certainly find fault with his discretion, as their letters had hinted, would equally certainly respect him in a new kind of way altogether. To have fought a duel at all was not without distinction; and lastly, and perhaps chiefly, though mostly subconsciously, it was pleasant to know that Val's relations with him were finally decided henceforth and for ever; no longer could there be any question at all as to which ruled and which served. He himself had behaved as a model elder brother; Val had already shown by his attentions and his humility that he knew the duties of a younger, and recognised their obligations.

It was with all this behind him therefore that Austin settled down comfortably for his first deliberate lecture of Val.

" Look here," he began, " you won't mind my saying this first of all — that I think you look after the two girls a little more than they like. May said something to me yesterday after lunch, when you'd gone. You don't mind my saying that? "

" Please tell me."

" Well, you know, they're both awfully upset just now. And it looks rather as if... as if you were trying to propitiate them.... Just leave it alone a bit; it'll come right. At least..."

Val was silent.

" You don't mind my telling you? "

" No. Thanks very much."

" I mean things like taking coffee in to them. They'd much rather ring and ask for it themselves. Honestly, I think you'd better keep rather aloof than otherwise."

Val nodded.

" Well, but," went on Austin, " what I particularly wanted to talk about was what was to happen when we got home — what to say to them, and so on."

" I ought to be back at Cambridge. Fall term began last week. I rather thought "

" Oh! but you mustn't shirk coming home. You must face the music."

" I didn't mean I wasn't coming home," said Val humbly. " I only meant that it couldn't be for more than a day or so."

" Well," interrupted Austin rather irritably, " that makes it no better. Whatever has got to be said will be said at once, I imagine. I hope you aren't expecting them to behave as if nothing at all had happened."

"No; I wasn't."

" Well, the point is, what line are we to take? Lord knows, I don't want a fuss. The point is, is there any way we can tone the thing down a bit?"

" I propose to tell them the truth."

" Good God, Val! You seem unable to think of anybody but yourself, even now. Hasn't it occurred to you that this will be about the most ghastly blow to father that he's ever had? I wasn't thinking of you, my good chap, but of him. The point is, can we say anything that'll make it less ghastly — that you were really ill, for instance? I don't think you realise in the least that honour and courage and that sort of thing is about the most What's the matter?"

" Nothing; go on."

Austin looked at him with a touch of uneasiness. Val had flinched just now, flinched as from a blow in the face; he looked, even now in this half-light — for he had omitted to turn back the shade of the lamp — curiously pale and worn. Austin determined to be less rhetorical, but felt he must continue to be explicit.

" Look here, Val; I know this isn't easy for you. But you really must face things. You know father's ideas. Do you remember that jaw he gave us both before we went to school about standing up... and so on? Well, we've got to get this thing through as easily as we can for his sake and mother's. And I think the illness line is about the best."

" I am afraid that's no good now," said Val almost soundlessly.

"What? I can't hear."

" I am afraid that's no good now. You must remember that May and Gertie know the whole thing."

" I know. You would go and tell them outright. And I begged you not to."

" Well, it's done now."

Austin was silent a moment.

"What have you to suggest, then?" he snapped at last.

Val stood up, feeling in his coat pocket for his cigarette-case. (Obviously this was to soften the situation, thought Austin. ) And as he put his cigarette between his lips he answered.

" I have nothing whatever to suggest, except the whole truth. I propose to tell that, without modifications; and... and to face the music, as you said. It's no good, Austin; he's got to be told. Of course, I'm perfectly willing that anyone else should tell him who wishes to. I'm not — er — exactly keen on doing it myself. I imagine he knows the outline?"

" He knows that you... that you refused to fight at the last moment, and that I had to instead, of course."

" Well, those are the facts, aren't they? "

Austin was silent. Secretly he knew it must be so; that the facts must come out. And he shrank from that, even now.

" Look here," he said, " I'll take you at your word. May and I will tell him. We'll do what we can, for everybody's sake. But I'm afraid you must be prepared for — well — remarks."

" I suppose so."

' There's one other thing," added Austin presently. " It's about Gertie. You remember we had a row about it before. Well, look here, have you — er — any secret understanding with her? One or two things "

" Do you mean am I engaged to her? "

''' Well, yes, or practically engaged, without any actual promise, you know."

" I am not," said Val. " There's not the faintest understanding of any sort or kind."

" Well, that's all right. Because I was going to tell you that it really won't do, now at any rate. People under a cloud mustn't Eh! what's up? "

" I burnt my lip," said Val.

" Well, then, that's really all... Val? "

" Yes."

" I'm afraid you're feeling pretty beastly about all this "

He did not finish his sentence. Val was gone out into the corridor, leaving the door open. Austin snorted to himself. " What a chap! " he said aloud.

(m)

It was already dark when the boat express from Folkestone drew up at the little wayside station to let the Medd party disembark. It was one of the Medhurst privileges — understood rather than actually stated — since the line ran for a couple of miles through an outlying tongue of the estate. It was not used often, of course; but a telegram had been handed to Austin on the quay at Folkestone, telling him it would be so to-night.

There, too, the brougham waited at the foot of the steps that led down from the high platform, its lamps blazing, and its two horses stamping and tossing their heads after the long wait, ready to take them over the fourteen miles to Medhurst. A cart was drawn up behind the brougham for the luggage.

Val dawdled at the carriage door, pretending to oversee the taking out of the hand-luggage, in reality strangely unwilling to see even one familiar face; and by the time that he reached the head of the steps, the girls were already at the bottom, and Austin was going down gently and carefully on the arm of Simpson, his father's own body-servant. This was an enormous distinction. Usually one of the younger footmen would have been sent to meet such a party.

Three minutes later Austin was in his place, propped by cushions, with Gertie beside him and May opposite. Then Val climbed in. Simpson shut the door, mounted beside the coachman, and the brougham moved off.

The day had passed for Val like a terrible dream. They had lunched in the restaurant-car shortly before reaching Paris; had driven straight across Paris and caught the boat-train at the Gare du Nord. The Channel had been wet and stormy; but they were up to time. But the chief horror of the day, to him, had been the sense of a gulf that deepened and widened between him and the others, as every mile brought them nearer home. He had taken Austin's hint, and had attempted no more officious services; for he perceived that his brother had been perfectly right, and that it had been from a vague sense of propitiation that he had done so much already. And others had met him at least half-way. No one except Austin had spoken to him at all; and indeed they had hardly talked among themselves, at any rate when he was there. And he had only been with them at meal-times, or when they had to change carriages, and for a few minutes on the boat. From Folkestone they had travelled together, because there was a reserved carriage.

It was the actual increase of a sense of alienation that was weighing on him so terribly; for he felt it to be a symptom of the kind of reception he would have at home. If, even after ten days, Austin and May could treat him so, what might he not expect at Medhurst?... except... except perhaps from Benty.

And now there was dead silence in the brougham. Five minutes after starting he had touched Gertie's foot with his own, and she had withdrawn it without a word; and this afforded him a theme for further meditation.

Then Austin, in despair, had said something about the rain that was now coming on again more heavily than ever; and May had answered him with almost hysterical effusiveness. And then again silence fell.

" Val."

" Yes."

'' Was my little brown bag put into the cart, do you know? " pursued Austin.

:t Yes. At least, I saw it taken downstairs all right."

" Oh, thanks."

And then again a long silence, broken only by the beating of the rain against the windows, and the steady cloppetty-clops of the horses' hoofs over the splashy roads.

Perhaps three or four other sentences were uttered during the fourteen-mile drive. Once May leant forward and asked Austin whether his arm was all right. Once Gertie, in answer to another question from May, said that she must go home to her own people in two days at the latest. Once Austin wondered aloud whether there would be anyone staying at Medhurst; and May said she thought not. And that was all. The intensity of the silence deepened every instant; it seemed as if it were only when this became unbearable that anyone spoke; but for the last three miles they gave it up; and all four sat absorbed in the silent darkness within here, thinking, listening to the beat of the rain and the cloppetty-clop of the hoofs, and again — thinking.

The brougham drew up at the lodge-gate; and it was then perhaps that the boy's anguish drew to a point For he had always remembered this pause — the sudden cessation of hoofs and wheels, and then the faint creak of the harness and the jingle of a chain as a horse tossed his head, or the faint swing of the carriage — and then the footsteps across the gravel and the sound of the unlocking of the gate — remembered it from his old schooldays, when the pause seemed intolerable to his impatience to be home. Whereas now!

It was a mile's drive to the house from the lodge; first through rhododendrons and along the swan-pond, then upwards gently through the woods till they came out on to the grass where the rabbits fed on summer evenings, then up again to the top of the hill, whence the descent went down to the great house dreaming among its trees.

Still no one spoke. But as the carriage topped the hill, Gertie leaned forward suddenly, as if to see the lights of the house; the glare from the carriage-lamps on her side fell full on her face; and Val, taken unaware, saw even so the look of strain in those beautiful eyes and the downcurved mouth. She leaned back almost instantly; but as she did so, glanced at Val, and their eyes met.

The carriage passed straight on along the front of the house, as was the custom on wet nights. Val saw the grey terrace slip past in the lamplight; but it was not until at last the wheels stopped at the south porch that he remembered that it was in this porch, closed on the night of the ball last Christmas, that Gertie and he had sat and kissed.

Yet even this memory was not so poignant as the present fact that faced him; it was but an ironical background to the meeting with his father and mother that was now imminent; and he sat, his heart hammering him sick, not daring even to lean forward into the glare of light that now poured out of the open door.

The carriage-door too was open now; he perceived that without moving his eyes from the ground. Fortunately he sat on the further side.... He heard voices talking; and then the carriage creaked as Austin was helped out.

" Gently now, Simpson," said his father's voice, sharp and anxious....

There was a pause. Then May was out; and he heard his mother's voice murmuring something. Yet still he sat motionless. And then Gertie slipped across and was gone. Yet still he sat motionless.

" Master Val, sir," said a voice.

He looked up, and old Masterman was peering in. He raised his eyes over the man's shoulder and saw that the doorway was no longer darkened. Yet still he gave them a moment or two to get clear of his presence, and he pretended to search under the seat for something.

"I'll take everything out, Master Val."

"Ah! it'll be in the cart, I expect.... Thanks."

He went slowly up the two steps into the porch;

and then he could see that the brightly lit corridor beyond was empty. Then he heard the swing door into the hall bang, and knew that the way was clear up the back stairs. They had gone, all of them, leaving him.

When he reached the head of the back stairs he stood and listened; but there was no sound anywhere in the great house; then on tip-toe he ran, like a hunted creature, along the passages, through the upper swing door, along the gallery, down a couple of stairs, and so to his own room in the north wing. He caught a glimpse of an old capped face peering out from beyond the baize door that led to Benty's rooms, but he would not see her and ran on.

There he locked the door, and stood listening again.... He was only a boy.

The stable clock struck ten before he was disturbed. He had heard the bell for the servants' supper soon after he had reached his room, three-quarters of an hour before. Then he had washed, and changed his shoes. He was almost grateful to find hot water ready for him, and shoes and socks set out before the fire. He wondered whether Charles, the young footman, had done it on his own responsibility, or was it Benty, perhaps. Then he had sat before the fire, motionless, thinking.

Somehow, the reality was a hundred times worse than the anticipation. He had rehearsed, of course, scene after scene — each of which had ended in his being turned out of the house. He knew, in a way, that this was ridiculous; yet his imagination was not fertile enough to picture any other way in which his father could adequately deal with the situation. And it had been even a relief to think of himself as an outcast; for suicide or death from exposure had formed the sequel of his interior drama. But the reality was worse. He was to be treated physically with ordinary kindness — he was to have hot water, and a fire, and the curtains drawn; and yet he was, morally, to be treated as if he did not exist. The others must have finished supper by now; and the shameful story must have been told in full. It was all known by now... in detail.

When the tap came at his door he started up.

"Yes. Who's there?"

" It's Masterman, Master Val."

He unlocked the door and stood there, barring-entrance, still holding out of sight in his left hand a small packet slung on a string, which he had taken from round his neck as he changed and had been holding almost unconsciously ever since.

" Her ladyship says, will you come down and have supper at once, please, Master Val. And when you've had supper, her ladyship says, will you go into master's study."

Val nodded. He could see that the old man was puzzled. Or was it, perhaps, that he too had been told, and that they were- laughing over the story in the servants' hall.

" I'll come down.... Have the others finished?"

" Yes, sir. They're all in her ladyship's room. Miss Marjoribanks has gone to bed."

" Very well. I'll come directly."

When the footsteps had died away again and he had locked the door, he went to the fire once more and stood there motionless. He had come to his tragic little determination during the journey across France; he had almost carried it out on the boat, but it had seemed to him more judicial and more final to finish the affair at home. So he had taken off his little packet of Gertie's photograph and her letters, and held it now, looking at it....,- Then he kissed it suddenly and passionately. Then he dropped it carefully into the red heart of the fire.

' They're all in her ladyship's room," the old man had said just now. As he left his room at last the words came back to him.

He could see all so well — his mother in her chair, his father standing on the rug, Austin perhaps on the sofa, and May beside him. Austin would be telling the story....

Down in the dining-room three people had supped; the fourth place was still untouched. They had expected him to sup with them then!

There was some soup — growing cold. He ate some of this, glancing over his shoulder at the door as he helped himself from the sideboard; he did not wish to be taken unprepared, and he moved his place round to where he could watch this door. Then he ate something cold and drank a couple of glasses of wine. And all the while he listened, and the moment was come.

Yet for a while he still sat, fumbling his bread and staring with sick eyes at the portraits that watched him. There were half a dozen rather inferior portraits here — inferior, that is, compared with the priceless collection in the great hall. Four were women, but two were men, and these two were soldiers; the one young and smooth-faced, in breast-armour: he had fought at Naseby, and died there, aged nineteen; the other in flowing wig and scarlet, with lace at his wrists — this one had been one of Marlborough's captains, who had fought at Blenheim and been wounded.... It seemed horrible to Val that these should be hanging opposite him; he remembered his father telling him their stories more than once, when he was a child.... And then, unconscious that he had made any decision to move, conscious only that he rose up from table, as might a machine, he went to the door, opened it, passed out, crossed the length of the hall with his head lowered and his eyes upon the floor, put his hand on the handle of the study door, went in without knocking, closed the door behind him, and stood looking at his father, who was looking at him.

(v)

His father was in the tall chair by the fire, facing him, with his head on his hand. Another chair stood drawn up on the hearth-rug, evidently by design, and, without a word, the old General signed to this.

" There," he said.

Val went straight to it and sat down.

It is hardly possible to say that he was suffering consciously. In mental pain, as in physical, there comes a point beyond which reflection on the pain (which is the essence of suffering) becomes impossible. It was in this state th&t Val sat and faced his father; he could even notice how the green light from the shaded lamp at his father's side glimmered on the silver hair above the old man's ears; how the long knotted hand that lay on the little table beneath the lamp writhed itself into lines and shadows as the fingers contracted and relaxed. Even the old familiar fear of his father seemed gone — absorbed in a vaster emotion.

Then his father cleared his throat and began to speak; and again Val was more conscious of the huskiness of the tone than of anything else. Another part of him than that of attention received and stored every word that he listened to.

" I'm not going to say much to you, sir. I have decided to do you the honour of thinking still that there is no need. It is rather of the future that I am going to speak."

He stopped and swallowed in his throat.

" Your mother and I have talked the matter over. We knew, of course, all that happened, from the letters; and we have just heard the last details. Your brother has said all that he can for you; he has told us that you seemed really ill; he has done his utmost to defend you. How far all this may seem an excuse to you, I do not know. I cannot any longer pretend to understand you or your code. May too has pleaded for you. And this is our decision.

" Henceforth I do not wish one word spoken on the subject to any living being. When I have finished what I have to say to-night I shall never refer to the subject again to you or anyone else. Neither will your mother nor Austin nor May. May is now with Miss Marjoribanks, telling her our decision, and asking her to observe the same conditions. And I expect you — in fact, I order you, now, to do the same. You are not to discuss the matter with anybody — not even with Austin. So far as speech is concerned, the matter is finished.

" As regards action, I shall do what I think right. I do not mean that I shall exclude you from the house or take you away from Cambridge. Things will go on as before in those ways. I shall not disgrace you publicly. But if, at any time, you have reason to think I am treating you unfairly, or showing any want of confidence in you, you will kindly remember the reason. Do you understand? "

" Yes."

"Have you anything to say?"

"No."

' You will leave here to-morrow by the nine-fourteen train, and go straight up to Cambridge. You will breakfast alone, therefore. When we see you again at Midsummer we shall take up our old life again with you so far as that may be possible."

He paused.

Then he called out aloud, sharply:

" Beatrice."

The door leading from his study into his wife's morning-room was pushed open behind him, and Val saw his mother come in. She came steadily forward, upright and magnificent, but her hand on her stick shook a little. Val too stood up, and remained waiting.

" Beatrice, I have told him. From this time onwards no one will mention the subject again. He must redeem his honour as best he can."

The old man turned again to Val.

" Good night," he said. " Kiss your mother."

And then her arms were round the boy, and he burst into sudden uncontrollable weeping.