 CHAPTER 19 PART 2 With the lightest heart I drove to Wellings Park, Marigold, straight as a ramrod, sitting in front by the chauffeur. As soon as Pardo the butler had brought out my chair and Marigold had settled me in it, Sir Antony, very red and flustered, appeared, and, shaking me nervously by the hand, said without preliminary greeting, come into the library. He, I think, had come from the morning-room on the right of the hall. The library was on the left. He flung open the door. I steered myself into the room, and there, standing on the white bearskin hearth-rug, his back to the fire, his hands in his pockets, his six inches of stiff white beard stuck aggressively outward, I saw Daniel Gedge. While I gaped in astonishment, Sir Antony shut the door behind him, drew a straight-backed chair from the wall, planted it roughly some distance away from the fire, and, pointing to it, Bad Gedge sit down. Gedge obeyed. Sir Antony took the hearth-rug position, his hands behind his back, his legs apart. This man said he has come to me with a ridiculous beastly story. At first I was undecided whether I should listen to him or kick him out. I thought it wiser to listen to him in the presence of a reputable witness. That's why I've sent for you, Duncan. Now you just begin all over again, my man, said he, turning to Gedge, and remember that anything you say here will be used against you at your trial. Gedge laughed. I must admit with some justification. You forget, Sir Antony, I'm not a criminal and you're not a policeman. I'm the mayor to this town, Sir, cried Sir Antony, I'm also a justice of the peace. And I'm a law-abiding citizen, retorted Gedge. You're an infernal, socialistic, pro-German, exclaimed Sir Antony. Prove it. I only ask you to prove it. No matter what your private opinions may be, you just try to bring me up under the defence of the realm act and you'll find you can't touch me. I held out a hand. Forgive me for interrupting, said I, but what is all this discussion about? Gedge crossed one leg over the other and drew his beard through his fingers. Sir Antony was about to burst into speech, but I checked him with a gesture and turned to Gedge. It has nothing to do with political opinions, said he. It has to do with the death nearly two years ago of Miss Althea Fenimore, Sir Antony's only daughter. Sir Antony, his face congested, glared at him malevolently. I started, with a gasp of surprise, and stared at the man who, caressing his beard, looked from one to the other of us with an air of satisfaction. Get on, said Sir Antony. You are going to give a civic reception today to Colonel Boyce V.C., aren't you? Yes, I am, snapped Sir Antony. Do you think you ought to do it when I tell you that Colonel Boyce V.C. murdered Miss Althea Fenimore on the night of the 25th June, two years ago? Yes, said Sir Antony, and do you know why? Because I know you to be a liar and a scoundrel. I can never describe the awful horror that numbed me to the heart. For a few moments my body seemed as lifeless as my legs. The charge, astounding almost to grotesqueness in the eyes of Sir Antony and rousing him to mere wrath, deprived me of the power of speech. For I knew, in that dreadful instant, that the man's words contained some elements of truth. All the pieces of the puzzle that had worried me at odd times for months fitted themselves together in a vivid flash. Boyce and Althea, I had never dreamed of associating their names. That association was the key of the puzzle. Out of the darkness, disturbing things shone clear. Boyce's abrupt retirement from Wellingsford before the war, his cancellation by default of his engagement, his morbid desire a year ago to keep secret his presence in his own house, Gage's veiled threat to me in the street to use a way that'll knock all you great people of Wellingsford off your high horses. His extraordinary interview with Boyce, his generally expressed hatred of Boyce. Was this, too, the secret which he let out in his cups to Randall Holmes, and which drove the young man from his society? And Betty? Boyce was a devil. She wished he were dead. And her words, you have behaved worse to others, I don't wonder at your shrinking from showing your face here. How much did Betty know? There was the lost week in Carlisle, in poor Althea's life. And then there were Boyce's half-confessions, the glimpses he had afforded me into the tormented soul. To me he had condemned himself out of his own mouth. I repeat that sitting there paralyzed by the sudden shock of it I knew not that the man was speaking the literal truth, God forbid, but that Boyce was, in some degree, responsible for Althea's death. Calling me names won't alter the facts, Sir Anthony, said Gage, with a touch of insolence. I was there at the time. I saw it. If that's true, Sir Anthony retorted, you're an accessory after the fact, and in greater danger of being hanged than ever. He turned to me in his abrupt way. Now that we've heard this blaggard shall we hand him over to the police? Being directly addressed I recovered my nerve. Before doing that, said I, perhaps it would be best for us to hear what kind of a story he has to tell us. We should also like to know his motives in not denouncing the supposed murderer at once, and in keeping his knowledge hidden all this time. With regard to the last part of your remarks I dare say you would, said Gage. Only I don't know whether I'll go so far as to oblige you. Anyhow you must have discovered that I don't particularly care about your class. I've been preaching against your idleness and vanity and vices, and the strangling grip you have on the throats of the people ever since I was a young man. If one of your lot chose to do in another of your lot, a common story of seduction and crime. At this slur in his daughter's honour Sir Anthony broke out fiercely, and for a moment I feared lest he would throw himself on Gage and ring his neck. I managed to check his outburst and bring him to reason. He resumed his attitude on the hearth-rug. As I was saying Gage continued, rather frightened, from my sociological point of view I considered the affair no business of mine. I speak of it now because ever since war broke out your class and the parasitical bourgeoisie have done your best to reduce me to starvation. I thought it would be pleasant to get a bit of my own back. Just a little bit, he added, rubbing his hands. If you think you've done it you'll find yourself mistaken. Gage shrugged his shoulders and pulled his beard. I hated the light in his little crafty eyes. I feel sure he had been looking forward for months to this moment of pure happiness. Having given us an insight into your motives, which seemed consistent with what we know of your character, said I, judicially, will you now make your statement of facts? It's the good of listening further to his lies, interrupted Sir Anthony. I'm a magistrate. I can give the police at once a warrant for his arrest. Again I pacified him. Let us hear what the man has to say. Gage began. He spoke by the book like one who repeats a statement carefully prepared. It was past ten o'clock on the night of the 25th June 1914. I had just finished supper when I was rung up by the landlord of the three feathers on the Fairfield Road. It's the inn about a quarter of a mile from the locked gates. He said that the district secretary of the Red Democratic Federation was staying there, his brother-in-law if you want to know, and he hadn't received my report. I must explain that I am the local secretary and as there was to be an important conference of the Federation at Darby the next day the district secretary ought to have been in possession of my report on local affairs. I had drawn up the report, my daughter Phyllis had typed it, and she ought to have posted it. On questioning her I found she had neglected to do so. I explained this over the wires and said I would bring the report at once to the three feathers. I only tell you all this in which you can't be interested so that you can't say what were you doing on a lonely road at that time of night. My daughter and the landlord of the three feathers can corroborate this part of my story. I set out on my bicycle. It was bright moonlight. You know that for about two hundred yards before the locked gate and for about twenty after the towing path is raised above the level of the main road which runs parallel with it a few yards away. There were strips of market garden between. When I got to this open bit I saw two persons up on the towing path. One was a girl with a loose kind of cloak and a hat. The other was a man wearing a soft felt hat and a light overcoat. The overcoat was open and I saw that he was wearing it over evening dress. That caught my attention. What was this swell in evening dress doing there with a girl? I slowed down and dismounted. They didn't see me. I got into the shadow of a white thorn. They turned their faces so that the moon beat full on them. I saw them as plain as I see you. They were Colonel Boyce, V.C., Major then, and your daughter, Mr. Mayor, Miss Althea Fenimore. He paused as though to point the dramatic effect and twisted round sticking out his horrible beard at Sir Antony. Sir Antony, his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets and his bullet head bent forward, glared at him balefully out of his old blue eyes. But he said never a word. Gedge continued. They didn't speak very loud, so I could only hear a scrap or two of their conversation. They seemed to be quarreling. She wanted him to do something which he wouldn't do. I heard the words, marriage and disgrace. They stood still for a moment, then they turned back. I had overtaken them, you know. I remounted my bicycle and rode to the three feathers. I was there about a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes. Then I rode back for home. When I came inside of the lock there I saw a man standing alone sharp in the moonlight. As I came nearer I recognized the same man, Major Boyce. There were no lights in the lockkeeper's cottage. He and his wife had gone to bed long before. I was so interested that I forgot what I was doing and ran into the hedge so that I nearly came down. There was the noise of the scrape and drag of the machine which must have sounded very loud in the stillness. It startled him, for he looked all round, but he didn't see me, for I was under the hedge. Then suddenly he started running. He ran as if the devil was after him. I saw him squash down his trilby hat so that it was shapeless. Then he disappeared along the path. I thought this a queer proceeding. Why should he have taken to his heels? I thought I should like to see him again. If he kept to the towing path his shortest way home he was bound to go along the Chestnut Avenue where as you know the road and the path again come together. On a bicycle it was easy to get there before him. I sat down on a bench and waited. Presently he comes, walking fast, his hat still squashed in all over his ears. I walked my bicycle, slap in front of him. Good night, Major, I said. He stared at me as if he didn't know me. Then he seemed to pull himself together and said, Good night, Gedge, what are you doing out at this time of night? If it comes to that, sir, said I, what are you? Then he says, very haughty, as if I was the dirt under his feet. I suppose, under Antony Fenimore and Major Meredith, you think that me and my class are, by divine prescription, the dirt beneath your feet, but you're damn well mistaken. Then he says, What the devil do you mean, and catches hold of the front wheel of the bicycle, and swings it and me out of his way, so that I had a nasty fall, with a machine on top of me, and he marches off. I picked myself up furious with anger. I am an elderly man, and not accustomed to that sort of treatment. I yell out, What have you been doing with the Squire's daughter on the towing path? It pulled him up short. He made a step or two towards me, and again he asked me what I meant, and this time I told him. He called me a liar, swore he had never been on any tow-path, or had seen any Squire's daughter, and threatened to murder me. As soon as I could mount my bicycle, I left him and made for home. The next afternoon, if you remember, the unfortunate young lady's body was found at the bottom of three fathoms of water by the locked gates. He had spoken so clearly, so unfalteringly, that Sir Antony had been surprised into listening without interruption. The bulldog expression on his face never changed. When Gedge had come to the end, he said, Will you again tell me your object in coming to me with this disgusting story? Gedge lifted his bushy eyebrows. Don't you believe it even now? Not a word of it, replied Sir Antony. I ought to remind you of another point, said Gedge. Was Major Boyce ever seen in Wellingsford after that night? No. He went off by the first train the next morning, went abroad and stayed there till the outbreak of war. I happened to know he had made arrangements to start for Norway that morning, said Sir Antony. He had called here a day or two before to say good-bye. Did he write you any letter of condolence, Gedge asked, sneeringly? I saw a sudden spasm pass over Sir Antony's features, but he said in the same tone as before, I am not going to answer insolent questions. Gedge turned to me with the air of a man giving up argument with a child. What do you think of it, Major Meredith? What could I say? I had kept a grim iron face all through the proceedings. I could only reply. I agree entirely with Sir Antony. Gedge rose and thrust his hand into his jacket pocket. You gentlemen are hard to convince. If you want proof positive, just read that. And he held a letter out to Sir Antony. Sir Antony glared at him and abruptly plucked the letter out of his hand. For the fraction of a second he stood irresolute. Then he threw it behind him into the blazing fire. Do you think I'm going to soil my mind with your dirty forgeries? Gedge laughed. You think you've queered my pitch, I suppose? You haven't. I've heaps more incriminating letters. That was only a sample. Publish one of them at your peril, said I. Pray, Mr. Major Meredith, said he, what is to prevent me? Penal servitude for malicious slander. I should win my case. In that event they would get you on your own showing for being an accessory after the fact of murder and for blackmail. Suppose I risk it. You won't, said I. Sir Antony turned to the bell-push by the side of the mantelpiece. What's the good of talking to this double-eyed scoundrel, he pointed to the door. You infamous liar, get out, and if I ever catch you prowling round this house I'll set the dogs on you. Gedge marched to the door and turned on the threshold and shook his fist. You'll repent your folly till your dying day. To hell with you, cried Sir Antony. The door slammed. We were left alone. An avalanche of silence overwhelmed us. Heaven knows how long we remained speechless and motionless. I, in my wheelchair, he's standing on the hearth-rug, staring awfully in front of him. At last he drew a deep breath and threw up his arms and flung himself down on a leather-covered couch, where he sat, elbows on knees, and his head in his hands. After a while he lifted a drawn face. It's true, Duncan, said he, and you know it. I don't know it, I replied stoutly, any more than you do. He rose in his nervous way and came swiftly to me and clapped both his hands on my frail shoulders and bent over me. He was a little man, as I have told you, and put his face so close to mine that I could feel his breath on my cheek. Upon your soul as a Christian you know that man wasn't lying. I looked into his eyes about six inches from mine. Voice never murdered Althea, I said. But he is the man, the man I've been looking for. I pushed him away with both hands, using all my strength. It was too horrible. Suppose he is, what then? He fell back a pace or two. Once I remember saying, if I ever get hold of that man, God help him. He clenched his fists and started to pace up and down the library, passing and repassing my chair. At last my nerves could stand it no longer and I called on him to halt. Gage's story is curiously incomplete, said I. We ought to have cross examined him more closely. Is it likely that Voice should have gone off leaving behind him a witness of his crime who he had threatened to murder and who he must have known would have given information as soon as the death was discovered? And don't you think Gage's reason for holding his tongue very unconvincing? His full hatred of our class, instead of keeping him cynically indifferent, would have made him lodge information at once and gloat over our discomforture. I could not choose but come to the defence of the unhappy man whom I had learned to call my friend, although for all my trying I could conjure up no doubt as to his intimate relation with the tragedy. As Sir Anthony did not speak, I went on. You can't judge a man with Leonard Boyce's record on the ex parte statement of a malevolent beast like Gage. Look back, if there had been any affair between Althea and Boyce, the merest foolish flirtation even, do you think it would have passed unnoticed? You, Edith, Betty, I myself would have cast an uneasy eye. When we were looking about some months ago at the time of your sister-in-law's visit for a possible man, the thought of Leonard Boyce never entered our heads. The only man you could rush at was young Randall Holmes, and I laughed you out of the idea. Just throw your mind back, Anthony, and try to recall any suspicious incident. You can't. I paused rhetorically, expecting a reply. None came. He just sat looking at me in a dead way. I continued my special pleading, and the more I said the more was I baffled by his dead stare and the more unconvincing platitudes did I find myself uttering. Some people may be able to speak vividly to a deaf and dumb creature. On this occasion I tried hard to do so and failed. After a while my words dribbled out with difficulty and eventually ceased. At last he spoke in the dull, toneless way of a dead man, presuming that the dead could speak. You may talk till you're black in the face, but you know as well as I do that the man told the truth, or practically the truth. What he said he saw he saw. What motives have been at the back of his miserable mind I don't know. You say I can't recall suspicious incidents? I can. I'll tell you one. I came across them once about a month before the thing happened among the green houses. I think we were having one of our tennis parties. I heard her using angry words and when I appeared her face was flushed and there were tears in her eyes. She was taken aback for a second and then she rushed up to me. I think he's perfectly horrid. He says that Gingo, pointing to the dog, you remember Gingo the sealing him. She was devoted to him. He died last year. He says that Gingo is a mongrel, a throwback. Boyce said he was only teasing her and made pretty apologies. I left it at that. Hit a dog or a horse belonging to Althea and you hit Althea. That was her way. The incident went out of my mind till this morning. Other incidents too. One thinks pretty quick at times. Again this scoundrel hit me on the raw. Boyce never wrote to us, sent us through his mother a conventional word of condolence. Edith and I were hurt. That was one of the things that made me speak so angrily of him when he wouldn't come and dine with us. Once more I pleaded, your sealing him incident doesn't impress me. Why not take it at its face value? As for the letter of condolence that may have twenty explanations. He passed his hand over his crop-dye-and-grey head. What are you driving at, Duncan? You know as well as I do. You know more than I do. I saw it in your face ever since that man opened his mouth. If you're so sure of everything, said I foolishly, relaxing grip on my self-control, why did you hound him out of the place for a liar? He leaped to his feet and spread himself into a fighting attitude for all the world like a half-dead bantam cock springing into a new lease of combative life. Do you think I'd let a dung-hill beast like that crow over me? Do you think I'd let him imagine for a minute that anything he said could influence me in my public duty? By God, sir, what kind of a worm do you think I am? His sudden fury disconcerted me. All this time I had been wondering what kind of catastrophe was going to happen during the next few hours. I am afraid I haven't made clear to you the ghastly racket in my brain. There was the town all be flagged, everyone making holiday, all the pomp and circumstance at our disposal awaiting the signal to be displayed. There was the blind conquering hero almost on his way to local apotheosis. And here were Sir Anthony and I with the revelation of the man Gedge. It was a fantastic baffling situation. I had been haunted by the dread of discussing it, so in reply to his outburst I simply said, What are you going to do? He drew himself up with his obstinate chin in the air and looked at me straight. If God gives me strength I am going to do what lies before me. At this moment Lady Fenimore came in. After winter-bottom would like to speak to you a minute, Antony, it's something about the school-children. All right, my dear, I'll go to him at once, said Sir Anthony. You'll stay and lunch with us, Duncan? I declined on the plea that I should have to nurse myself for a strenuous day. Sir Anthony might play the Roman father, but it was beyond my power to play the Roman father's ghast. End of Chapter 19 Part 2 Chapter 20 of The Red Planet This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Red Planet by William J. Locke Chapter 20 How he passed through the ordeal I don't know. If ever a man stood captain of his soul it was Antony Fenimore that day, and his soul was steel-armored. Perhaps if proof had come to him from an untainted source it might have modified his attitude, I cannot tell. Without doubt the navery of Gage set aflame his indignation, or rather the fierce pride of the great old Tory gentleman. He would have walked through Hellfire sooner than yielded an inch to Gage. So much would scornful defiance have done. But behind all this, and I am as certain of it as I am certain that one day I shall die, burned even fiercer, steadier and clearer the unquenchable fire of patriotic duty. He was dealing not with a man who had sinned terribly towards him, but with a man who had offered his life over and over again to his country, a man who had given to his country the sight of his eyes, a man on whose breast the king himself had pinned the supreme badge of honour in his gift. He was dealing not with a private individual, but with a national hero. In his small capacity as mayor of Wellingsford he was but the mouthpiece of a national sentiment. And more than that this ceremony was an appeal to the unimaginative, the sluggish, the faint-hearted. In its little way, and please remember that all tremendous enthusiasm are lit by these little fires, it was a proclamation of the undying glory of England. It was impersonal, it was national, it was imperial. In its little way it was of vast, far-reaching importance. I want you to remember these things in order that you should understand the mental processes or soul processes or whatever you like of Sir Anthony Fenimore. Picture him, the most unheroic little man you can imagine. Clean shaven, bullet headed, close cropped, his face ruddy and wrinkled like a withered apple, his eyes a misty blue, his big nose marked like a network of veins, his hands glazed and reddened like his face by wind and weather, standing even under his mayoral robes like a jockey. Of course he had the undefinable air of breeding, no one could have mistaken his class, but he was an undistinguished, very ordinary-looking little man, and indeed he had done nothing for the past half-century to distinguish himself above his fellows. There are thousands of his type, masters of English country houses, and of all the thousands every one brought up against the stern issues of life would have acted like Anthony Fenimore. I say would have acted, but anyone who has lived in England during the war knows that they have so acted. These incarnations of the common place, the object of the disdain before the war of the self-styled intellectuals, if the war sweeps the insufferable term into oblivion it will have done some good. These honest, unassuming gentlemen have responded heroically to the great appeal. And when the intellectuals have thought of their intellects or their skins, they have thought only of their duty. And it was only the heroical sense of duty that sustained Sir Anthony Fenimore that day. I did not see the reception at the railway station or joined the triumphal procession, but went early to the town hall and took my seat on the platform. I glibly say took my seat. A wheelchair sent there previously was hoisted with me inside onto the platform by Marigold and a porter. After all these years I still hate to be publicly paraded like a grizzled baby in Marigold's arms. For convenient sake I was posted at the front left hand corner. The hall soon filled. The first three rows of seats were reserved for the recipients of the municipality's special invitation. The remainder were occupied by the successful applicants for tickets. From my almost solitary perch I watched the fluttering and excited crowd. The town band in the organ gallery at the further end discoursed martial music. From the main door beneath them ran the central gangway to the platform. I recognized many friends. In the front row with her two aunts sat Betty, very demure in her widow's hat relieved by its little white band of frilly stuff beneath the brim. She looked unusually pale. I could not help watching her intently and trying to divine how much she knew of the story of Boyce and Althea. She caught my eye, nodded and smiled wanly. My situation was uncanny. In this crowded assemblage in front of me whispering, talking, laughing beneath the blare of the band, not one, save Betty, had a suspicion of the tragedy. At times they seemed to melt into a shadow mass of dreamland. Time crawled on very slowly. Anxious forebodings oppressed me. Had Sir Antony's valiancy stood the test, had he been able to shake hands with his daughter's betrayer? Had he broken down during the drive side by side with him amid the hurraying of the town's folk? And Gedge, had he found some madman's means of proclaiming the scandal aloud? Every nerve in my body was strained. Marigold, in his uniform and medals and patch and gray service cap plugged over his black wig, stood sentry by the side of the platform next to my chair. All of a sudden he pulled out of his side pocket a file of red liqueur and a medicine-glass. He poured out the dose and handed it to me. I turned on him wrathfully. What the dickens is that? Dr. Cliff's orders, sir. When did he order it? When I told him what you looked like after interviewing Mr. Daniel Gedge, and he said if you was to look like that again I was to give you this. So I'm giving it to you, sir. There was no arguing with Marigold in front of a thousand people. I swallowed the stuff quickly. He put the file and glass back in his pocket and resumed his wooden sentry attitude by my chair. I must own to feeling better for the draft. But, thought I, if the strain of the situation is so great for me, what must it be for Sir Anthony? Presently the muffled sounds of outside cheering penetrated the hall. The band stopped abruptly to begin again with see the conquering hero comes when the civic procession appeared through the great doors. There was little Sir Anthony in his robes, grave and imposing, and beside him Mrs. Boyce flushed bright-eyed and tearful. Then came Lady Fenimore with Boyce, black-spectacled, soldierly, bull-net, his little bronze cross conspicuous among the metals on his breast, his elbow gripped by a weather-beaten young soldier, one of his captains as I learned afterwards, Homan Leave, who had claimed the privilege of guiding his blind footsteps. And behind came the Alderman and the counsellors, and the general and his staff, and the Lord Lieutenant and Lady Laylam and the other members of the reception committee. The cheering drowned the strains of the conquering hero. Places were taken on the platform, to the right of the mare sat Boyce, to the left his mother. On the table in front were set scrolls and caskets. You see, we had arranged that Mrs. Boyce should have an address and a casket all to herself. The gallery soon was picturesquely filled with the nurses, and the fire brigade bright-helmeted was massed in the doorway. God gave the steel-hearted little man strength to go through the ordeal. He delivered his carefully prepared oration in a voice that never faltered. The passages referring to Boyce's blindness, he spoke with an accent of amazing sincerity. When he had ended, the responsive audience applauded tumultuously. From my seat by the edge of the platform I watched Betty. Two red spots burned in her cheeks. The addresses were red, the caskets presented. Boyce remained standing, about to respond. He still held the casket in both hands. His phytus achates, guessing his difficulty, sprang up, took it from him and laid it on the table. Boyce turned to him with his charming smile and said, Thanks, old man. Again the tumult broke out. Men cheered and women wept and waved wet handkerchiefs. And he stood smiling at his unseen audience. When he spoke, his deep, beautifully modulated voice held everyone under its spell, and he spoke modestly and gaily like a brave gentleman. I bent forward as far as I was able and scanned his face. Never once during the whole ceremony did the telltale twitch appear at the corners of his lips. He stood there the incarnation of the modern knights, sans fear and sans reproach. I cannot tell which of the two, he or Sir Anthony, the more moved my wondering admiration. Each exhibited a glorious defiance. You may say that Boyce, receiving in his debonair fashion the encomiums of the man whom he had wronged, was merely exhibiting the familiar callousness of the criminal. If you do, I throw up my brief. I shall have failed utterly to accomplish my object in writing this book. I want no tears of sensibility, shed over Boyce. I want you to judge him by the evidence that I am trying to put before you. If you judge him as a criminal, it is my poor presentation of the evidence that is at fault. I claim for Boyce a certain splendor of character for all his grievous sins, a splendor which no criminal in the world's history has ever achieved. I beg you therefore to suspend your judgment until I have finished as far as my poor powers allow my unraveling of his tangled scheme. And pray remember, too, that I have sought all through to present you with the facts paripassu with my knowledge of them. I have tried to tell the story through myself. I could think of no other way of creating an essential verisimilitude. Yet even now, writing in the light of full knowledge, I cannot admit that when Boyce in that town hall faced the world, for in the deep tragic sense Wellingsford was his world, anyone knowing as much as I did would have been justified in calling his demeanor criminal callousness. I say that he exhibited a glorious defiance. He defied the concrete gauge. He defied the more abstract but nonetheless real tormenting furies. He defied remorse. In accepting Sir Anthony's praise, he defied the craven in his own soul. After a speech or two more, to which I did not listen, the proceedings in the town hall ended. I drew a breath of relief. No breakdown by Sir Anthony, no scandalous interruption by Gedge had marred the impressive ceremony. The band in the gallery played God Save the King, the crowd in the body of the hall who had stood for the anthem sat down again, evidently waiting for Boyce and the Notables to pass out. The assemblage on the platform broke up. Several members, among them the general who paused to shake hands with Boyce and his mother, left the hall by the private side door. The Lord Lieutenant and Lady Laylam followed him soon afterwards. Then the less magnificent crowded round Boyce, each eager for a personal exchange of words with the hero. Sir Anthony remained at his post, keeping on the outskirts of the Throng, bidding formal adieu to those who went away. Presently I saw that Boyce was asking for me, for someone pointed me out to his officer attendant, who led him down the steps of the platform and round the edge to my seat. Well, it has gone off all right, said he. Let me introduce Captain Winslow, more than ever my right-hand man. Major Meredith. We exchanged bows. The old mother's as pleased as punch, she didn't know she was going to get a little box of her own. I should like to have seen her face. I did hear her give one of her little squeals, did you? No, said I, but I saw her face. It was that of a saint in an unexpected beatitude. He laughed. Dear old mother, said he, she has deserved a show. He turned away unconsciously, and, thinking to address me, addressed the first row of spectators. I suppose there's a lot of folks here that I know. By chance he seemed to be looking through his black glasses straight at Betty a few feet away. She rose impulsively, and before all Wellingsford went up to him with hand outstretched. There's one at any rate, Colonel Boyce. I'm Betty Conner. No need to tell me that, said he, bowing. Winslow at his elbow most scrupulous of prompters, whispered, she wants to shake hands with you. So their hands met. He kept hers an appreciable second or two in his grasp. I hope you will accept my congratulations, said Betty. I have already accepted them very gratefully. My mother conveyed them to me. She was deeply touched by your letter. And may I, too, say how deeply touched I am by your coming here. Betty looked swiftly round, and her cheeks flushed, for there were many of us within earshot. She laughed off her embarrassment. You have developed from a man into a Wellingsford institution, and I had to come and see you inaugurated. My aunts, too, are here. She beckoned to them. They are shyer than I am. The elderly ladies came forward and spoke their pleasant words of congratulation. Mrs. Holmes and others encouraged followed their example. Mrs. Boyce suddenly swooped from the platform into the middle of the group and kissed Betty, who emerged from the excited ladies' embrace, blushing furiously. She shook hands with Betty's aunts and thanked them for their presence, and in the old ladies' mind the reconciliation of the two houses was complete. Then with cheeks of a more delicate natural pink than any living valetudinarian of her age could boast of, and with glistening eyes, she made her way to me, and reaching up and drawing me down kissed me, too. While all this was going on the body of the hall began to empty. The program had arranged for nothing more by way of ceremonial to take place. But a public gathering always hopes for something unexpected, and when it does not happen takes its disappointment philosophically. I think Betty's action must have shown them that the rest of the proceedings were to be purely private and informal. The platform also gradually thinned until at last, looking round, I saw that only Sir Anthony and Lady Fenimore and Winterbottom the town clerk remained. Then Lady Fenimore joined us. We were about a score myself perched on the edge and corner of the platform, the rest standing on the floor of the hall in a sector round me, marigold, of course, in the middle of them by my side, like an ill-graven image. As soon as she could Lady Fenimore came up to me. Don't you think it's splendid of Betty Conner to bury the hatchet so publicly, she whispered? The war, said I, is a solvent of many human complications. It is indeed. Then she added, I am going to have a little dinner party sometime soon for the voices. I sounded him today and he practically promised. I'll ask the laylums. Of course you'll come. Now that things have shown themselves so topsy-turvy, I've been wondering whether I should ask Betty. Does Anthony know of this dinner party I inquired? What does it matter whether he does or not, she laughed. Dinner parties come within my province and I'm mistress of it. Of course boys had half promised. What else could he do without discurtecy? But the banquet which in her unsuspecting innocence she proposed seemed to me a horrible meal. Doubtless it would seem so to Sir Anthony. At the moment I did not know whether he intended to tell Gage's story to his wife. At any rate hitherto he had not done so. All the same, my dear Edith, I replied, Anthony may have a word to say. I happen to know he has no particular personal friendship for boys, who, if you'll forgive my saying so, has treated you rather cavalierly for the past two years. Anthony's welcome to-day was purely public and official. It had nothing to do with his private feelings. But they have changed. He was referring to the matter only this morning at breakfast and suggesting things we could do to lighten the poor man's affliction. I don't think a dinner party would lighten it, I said, and if I were you I wouldn't suggest it to Anthony. That's rather mysterious, she looked at me shrewdly, and there's another mysterious thing. Anthony's like a yapping sphinx over it. What were you two talking to Gage about this morning? Nothing particular. That's nonsense, Duncan. Gage was making himself unpleasant. He never does anything else. If you want to know, said I, with a convulsive effort of invention, we heard that he was preparing some sort of demonstration, going to bring down some of his precious anti-war league people. He wouldn't have the pluck, she exclaimed. Anyhow, said I, we thought we had better have him in and read him the riot, or rather the defense of the realm act. That's all. Then why on earth couldn't Anthony tell me? You ought to know the mixture of sugar and pepper in your husband's nature better than I do my dear Edith, I replied. Her laugh reassured me. I had turned to difficult corner. No doubt she would go to Sir Anthony with my explanation and either receive his acquiescence or learn the real truth. She was bidding me farewell when Sir Anthony came along the platform to the chair. I glanced up, but I saw that he did not wish to speak to me. He was looking grim and tired. He called down to his wife. It's time to move, dear, the troops are still standing outside. She bustled about giving the signal for departure, first running to Boyce and taking him by the sleeve. I had not noticed that he had withdrawn with Betty a few feet away from the little group. They were interrupted in an animated conversation. At the sight I felt a keen pang of repulsion. Those two ought not to talk together as old friends. It outraged decencies. It was all very well for Betty to play the magnanimous and patriotic English woman. By her first word of welcome she had fulfilled the part. But this flushed, eager talk lay far beyond the scope of patriotic duty. How could they thus converse over the body of the dead Althea? With both of them was I indignant. In my inmost heart I felt horribly and vulgarly jealous. I may as well confess it. Deeply as I had sworn blood brotherhood with Boyce, regardless of the crimes he might or might not have committed, I could not admit him into that inner brotherhood of which Betty and I alone were members. And this is just a roundabout, shame-faced way of saying that, at that moment, I discovered that I was hopelessly, insanely in love with Betty. The knowledge came to me in a great wave of dismay. You'll let me see you again, won't you? he asked. If you like. I don't think I heard the words, but I traced them on their lips. They parted. Sir Antony descended from the platform and gave his arm to Mrs. Boyce. Lady Fenimore is still clung to Boyce. Winter bottom came next bearing the two caskets which had been lying neglected on the table. The sparse company followed down the empty hall. Marigold signaled to the porter and they hoisted down my chair. Betty, who had lingered during the operation, walked by my side. Being able now to propel myself, I dismissed Marigold to a discreet position in the rear. Betty, her face still slightly flushed, said, I'm waiting for congratulations which seem to be about as overwhelming as snow in August. Don't you think I've been extraordinarily good? Do you feel good? More than good she laughed, Christian-like, aren't we told in the New Testament to forgive our enemies? And love those that despitefully use us, I misquoted maliciously. A sudden gust of anger often causes us to do worse things than trifle with the text of the Sermon on the Mount. She turned on me quickly as though stung. Why not? Isn't the sight of him maimed like that enough to melt the heart of a stone? I replied soberly enough. It is indeed. I had already betrayed my foolish jealousy. Further altercation could only result in my betraying voice. I did not feel very happy. Conscious of having spoken to me with unwanted sharpness, she sought to make amends by laying her hand on my shoulder. I think, dear, she said, we're all on rather an emotional edge today. We reached the front door of the hall. At the top of the shallow flight of broad stairs, the little group that had preceded us stood behind Boyce, who was receiving the cheers of the troops, soldiers and volunteers and the Godbury School Officers' Training Corps, drawn up in the market square. When the cheers died away, the crowd raised cries for a speech. Again Boyce spoke, The reception you have given my mother and myself, he said, we refuse to take personally. It is a reception given to the soldiers and the mothers and wives of soldiers of the empire, of whom we just happen to be the lucky representatives. Whole regiments, to say nothing of whole armies, can't all every Jack man receive Victoria crosses, but every regiment very jealously counts up its honors. You'll hear men say, Our regiment has two VCs, five DSOs, and twenty distinguished conduct medals. And the feeling is that all the honors are lumped together and shared by everybody from the colonel to the drummer Boyce. And each individual is proud of his share because he knows that he deserves it. And so it happens that those whom Chance has set aside for distinction, like the lucky winners in a sweepstake, are the most embarrassed people you can imagine, because everybody is doing everything that they did every day in the week. For instance, if I began to tell you a thousandth part of the daredevil deeds of my friend here, Captain Winslow of my regiment, he would bolt like a rabbit into the town hall and fall on his knees and pray for an earthquake. And whether the earthquake came off or not, I'm sure he would never speak to me again. And they're all like that. But in honoring me you are honoring him, and you're honoring our regiment, and you're honoring the army. And in honoring Mrs. Boyce, you are honoring that wonderful womanhood of the empire that is standing heroically behind their men in the hell upon God's good earth which is known as the front. It was a soldier like little speech delivered with the man's gallant charm. Young Winslow gripped his arm affectionately and I heard him say, You are a brute, sir, dragging me into it. The little party descended the steps of the town hall. The words of command rang out. The parade stood at the salute, which Boyce acknowledged, guided by Winslow and his mother he reached his car, to which he was attended by the mayor and mares. After formal leave-taking, the boyses and Winslow drove off amid the plaudits of the crowd. Then Sir Antony and Lady Fenimore. Then Betty and her aunts. Last of all, while the troops were preparing to march away and the crowd was dispersing and all the excitement was over, Marigold picked me out of my chair and carried me down to my little grey two-seater. End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 of The Red Planet This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Red Planet by William J. Locke Chapter 21 Of course after this, in the words of my young friends, I crocked up. The confounded shell that had played the fool with my legs had also done something silly to my heart. Hence these collapses after physical and emotional strain. I had to stay in bed for some days. Cliff told me that as soon as I was fit to travel I must go to Bournemouth, where it would be warm. I told Cliff to go to a place where it would be warmer. As neither of us would obey the other, we remained where we were. Cliff informed me that Lady Fenimore had called him in to see Sir Antony, whom she described as being on the obstinate edge of a nervous breakdown. I was sorry to hear it. I suppose you've tried to send him, too, to Bournemouth? I haven't, Cliff replied gravely. He has got something on his mind, I'm sure of it. So is his wife. What's the good of sending him away? What do you think is on his mind? I asked. How do I know? His wife thinks it must be something to do with Boyce's reception. He went home dead beat and is very irritable off his food, can't sleep, and swears cantankerously that there's nothing the matter with him, the usual symptoms. Can you throw any light on it? Certainly not, I replied rather sharply. Cliff said, hmph, in his exasperating professional way, and proceeded to feel my pulse. I don't quite see how Friday's mild exertion could account for your breakdown, my friend, he remarked. I'm so glad you confess at last not to seeing everything, said I. I was fearing this physical reaction in Ser Antony. It was only the self-assertion of nature. He had gone splendidly through his ordeal having braced himself up for it. He had not braced himself up, however, sufficiently, to go through the other and far longer ordeal of hiding his secret from his wife. So, of course, he went to pieces. After Cliff had left me with his desire for information unsatisfied, I rang up Wellings Park. It was the Sunday morning after the reception. To my surprise Ser Antony answered me, for he was an old-fashioned country church-goer, and plague, pestilence, famine, battle, murder, and sudden death had never been known to keep him out of his accustomed pew on Sunday morning. Edith, he informed me, had gone to church. He himself, being as nervous as a cat, had funked it. He was afraid lest he might get up in the middle of the sermon and curse the vicar. If that so, said I, come round here and talk sense, I've something important to say to you. He agreed, and shortly afterwards he arrived. I was shocked to see him. His ruddy face had yellowed and the firm flesh had loosened and sagged. I had never noticed that his stubbly hair was so gray. He could scarcely sit still on the chair by my bedside. I told him of Cliff's suspicions. We were a pair of conspirators with unavowable things on our minds which were driving us to nervous catastrophe. Edith, said I, was more suspicious even than Cliff. I also told him of our talk about the projected dinner party. That, he declared, would drive me stark staring mad. So will continuing to hide the truth from Edith, said I. How do you suppose you can carry on like this? He grew angry. How could he tell Edith? How could he make her understand his reason for welcoming boys? How could he prevent her from blazing the truth abroad and crying aloud for vengeance? What kind of a fool's counsel was I giving him? I let him talk until tired with reiteration. He had nothing more to say. Then I made him listen to me while I expounded that which was familiar to his obstinate mind, namely the heroic qualities of his own wife. It comes to this, said I, by way of parolration, that you're afraid of Edith letting you down, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. At that he flared out again. How dared I, he asked, eating his words, suggest that he did not trust the most splendid woman God had ever made. Didn't I see that he was only trying to shield her from knowledge that might kill her? I retorted by pointing out that worry over his insane behaviour, please remember that above our deep unchangeable mutual affection a violent surface quarrel was raging, would more surely and swiftly kill her than unhappy knowledge. Her quick brain had already connected Gedge, Boyce, and his present condition as the main factors of some strange problem. Her quick brain, I cried, a half idiot child would have put things together. Presently he collapsed, sitting hopelessly, nervously in his chair. At last he lifted a piteously humble face. What would you suggest my doing, Duncan? There seemed to me to be only one thing he could do in order to preserve, if not his reason, at any rate his moral equilibrium in the position which he had contrived for himself. To tell him this had been my object in seeking the interview, and the blessed opportunity only came after an hour's hard wrangle in current metaphor after an hour's artillery preparation for attack. He looked so battered, poor old Antony, that I felt almost ashamed of the success of my bombardment. It's not a question of suggesting, said I, it's a question of things that have to be done. You need a holiday. You've been working here at high pressure for nearly a couple of years. Go away, put yourself in the hands of Cliff, and go to Bournemouth or Bieritz or Bahia or any beastly place you can fix up with him to go. Go, frankly, for three or four months. Go to-morrow. As soon as you're well out of the place, tell Edith the whole story. Then you can take counsel and comfort together. He was in the state of mind to be impressed by my argument. I followed up my advantage. I undertook to send a ruthless flaming angel of a cliff to pronounce the inexorable to Cree of Exile. After a few faint-hearted objections he acquiesced in the scheme. I fancy he revolted against even this apparent surrender to Gage, although he was too proud to confess it. No man likes running away. Sir Antony also regarded as pusillanimous the proposal to leave his wife in ignorance until he had led her into the trap of a holiday. Why not put her into his confidence before they started? That, said I, is a delicate question which only you yourself can decide. By following my plan you get away at once, which is the most important thing. Once comfortably away you can choose the opportune moment. There's something in that, he replied, and after thanking me for my advice, he left me. I do not defend my plan. I admit it was Machiavellian. My one desire was to remove these two dear people from Wellingsford for a season. Just think of the horrible impossibility of their maintaining social relations with the Boyces. By publicly honoring Boyce, Sir Antony had tied his own hands. It was a pledge to Boyce, although the latter did not know it, of condonation. Whatever stories Gage might spread abroad, whatever proofs he might display, Sir Antony could take no action. But to carry on a semblance of friendship with the man responsible for his daughter's death, for the two of them, mind you, since Lady Fenimore would sooner or later learn everything, was, as I say, horribly impossible. Let them go then on their nominal holiday during which the air might clear. Boyce might take his mother away from Wellingsford. She would do far more than uproot herself from her home in order to gratify the wish of her adored and blinded son. He would employ his time of darkness in learning to be brave, he had told me. It took some courage to face the associations of dreadful memories unflinchingly for his mother's sake. Should he learn, however, that the Fenimore's had an inkling of the truth, he would recognize his presence in the place to be an outrage, and such an inkling, who would give it him? Perhaps I myself. The Boyce's would go, the Fenimore's could return. Anything, anything rather than that the Fenimore's and the Boyce's should continue to dwell in the same little town. And there was Betty, with all the inexplicable feminine worrying inside her, socially reconciled with Boyce. Where the deuce was this reconciliation going to lead? I have told you how my lunatic love for Betty had stood revealed to me. Had she chosen to love and marry any ordinary gallant gentleman, God knows I should not have had a word to say. The love that such as I can give a woman can find its only true expression in desiring and contriving her happiness. But that she should sway back to Leonard Boyce. No, no, I could not bear it. All the shuddering pictures of him rose up before me, the last that of him standing by the lock gates and suddenly running like a frightened rabbit with his jaunty soft-felt hat squashed shapelessly over his ears. Gage could not have invented that abominable touch of the squashed hat. I have said that possibly I myself might give Boyce an inkling of the truth. Thinking over the matter in my restless bed I shrank from doing so. Should I not be disingenuously serving my own ends? Betty stepped in, whom I wanted for myself. Neither could I go to Boyce and challenge him for a villain and summon him to quit the town and leave those dear to me at peace. I could not condemn him. I had unshaken faith in the man's noble qualities. That he drowned Althea Fenimore I did not, could not believe. After all that had passed between us I felt my loyalty to him irrevocably pledged. More than ever was I enmeshed in the net of the man's destiny. As yet, however, I could not bear to see him. I could not bear to see Betty, who called now and then. For the first time in my life I took refuge in my invalidity, whereby I earned the commendation of Cliff. Betty sent me flowers, Mrs. Boyce sent me grapes and an infallible prescription for heart attacks, which, owing to the hopeless mess she had made in trying to copy the wriggles indicating the quantities of the various drugs, was of no practical use. Phyllis Gedge sent me a few bunches of violets with a shy little note. Lady Fenimore wrote me an affectionate letter bidding me farewell. They were going to Butte in Cornwall, Anthony having put himself under Dr. Cliff's orders like a wonderful lamb. When she came back she hoped that her two sick men would be restored to health and able to look more favourably upon her projected dinner-party. Marigold also brought into my bedroom a precious old waterford claret jug which I had loved and secretly coveted for twenty years, with a card attached bearing the inscription, with love from Anthony. That was his dumb, British way of informing me that he was taking my advice. When my self-respect would allow me no longer to remain in bed I got up, but I still shrank from publishing the news of my recovery, in which reluctance I met with a hearty encouragement both of Cliff and Marigold. The doctor then informed me that my attack of illness had been very much more serious than I realized, and that unless I made up my mind to lead the most unruffled of cabbage-like existences, he would not answer for what might befall me. If he could have his way he would carry me off and put me into solitary confinement for a couple of months on a sunny island where I should hold no communication with the outside world. Marigold heard this announcement with smug satisfaction. Nothing would please him more than to play jailer over me. At last one morning I said to him, I'm not going to submit to tyranny any longer. I resume my normal life. I'm at home to anybody who calls. I'm at home to the devil himself. Very good, sir, said Marigold. An hour or two afterwards the door was thrown open and there stood on the threshold the most amazing apparition that ever sought admittance into a gentleman's library. An apparition, however, very familiar during these days to English eyes. From the shapeless tamashanter to the huge boots that was caked in mud, over a filthy sheepskin were slung all kinds of paraphernalia, covered with dirty canvas which made it look a thing of mighty bulges among which a rifle was poked away. It wore a kilt covered by a khaki apron. It also had a dirty and unshaven face. A muddy warrior fresh from the trenches, of course. But what was he doing here? I see, sir, you don't recognize me, he said with a smile. Good Lord, I cried with a start. It's Randall. Yes, sir, may I come in? Come in? What infernal nonsense are you talking? I held out my hand and, after greeting him, made him sit down. Now, said I, what the deuce are you doing in that kit? That's what I've been asking myself for the last ten months. Anyhow, I shan't wear it much longer. How's that? Commission, sir, he answered. Oh, said I. His entrance had been so abrupt and unexpected that I hardly knew as yet what to make of him. Speculation as to his doings had led me to imagine him engaged in some elegant fancy occupation on the fringe of the army if indeed he were serving his country so creditably. I found it hard to reconcile my conception of master Randall Holmes with this businesslike Tommy who called me sir every minute. I'll tell you about it, sir, if you're interested, but first how is my mother? Your mother? You haven't seen her yet? Here at least was a bit of the old casual Randall. He shook his head. I've only just this minute arrived, left the trenches yesterday, walked from the station, not a soul recognized me. I thought I had better come here first and report just as I was and not wait until I had washed and shaved and put on Christian clothes again. He looked at me and grinned. Seeing is believing. Your mother is quite well, said I. Haven't you given her any warning of your arrival? Oh, no, he answered. I didn't want any brass bands. Besides, as I say, I wanted to see you first, then to look in at the hospital. I suppose Phyllis Gedge is still at the hospital? She is, but I think, my dear chap, your mother has the first call on you. She wouldn't enjoy my present abominable appearance as much as Phyllis, he replied coolly. You see, Phyllis is responsible for it. I told you she refused to marry me, didn't I, sir? After that she called me a coward. I had to show her that I wasn't one. It was an awful nuisance, I admit, for I had intended to do something quite different. Oh, not gaging or anything of that sort. But he dived beneath his sheepskin and brought out a tattered letter case, and from a mass of greasy documents, shades of superior Oxford, selected a dirty, ragged bit of newspaper. But, said he, handing me the fragment, I think I've succeeded. I don't suppose this caught your eye, but if you look closely into it you'll see that 11003 Private R. Holmes, 1st Gordon Highlanders, a couple of months ago, was awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal. I may be any kind of a fool or knave she likes to call me, but she can't call me a coward. I congratulated him with all my heart, which, after the first shock, was warming towards him rapidly. But why, I asked, still somewhat bewildered, didn't you apply for a commission? A year ago you could have got one easily. Why enlist? And the first Gordon's. That's the regular army. He laughed and asked permission to help himself to a cigarette. By George that's good, he exclaimed, after a few puffs. That's good after months of woodbines. I found I could stand everything except Tommy's cigarettes. Everything about me has got as hard as nails except my palette for tobacco. Why didn't I apply for a commission? Any fool could get a commission. It's different now. Men are picked and must have seen active service, and then they're sent off to cadet training corps. But last year I could have got one easily. And I might have been kicking my heels about England now. Yet at the sight of a Sam Brown Belt, Phyllis would surely have recanted, said I. I didn't want the girl I intended to marry and pass my life with, to have her head turned by such trappings as a Sam Brown Belt. She has had to be taught that she is going to marry a man. I'm not such a fool as you may have thought me, major, he said, forgetful of his humble rank. Suppose I had got a commission and married her. Suppose I had been kept at home and never gone out and never seen the shot fired, like heaps of other fellows. Or suppose I had taken the line I had marked out. Do you think we should have been assured a happy life? Not a bit of it. We might have been happy for twenty years. And then—women are women and can't help themselves—the old word. By George, sir, she spat it at me from a festering sore in her very soul. The old word would have wrangled all the time, and some stupid quarrel having arisen she would have spat it at me again. I wasn't taking any chances of that kind. My dear boy, said I, subbridedly, you seemed to be very wise. And he did. So far as I knew anything about humans, male and female, his proposition was incontrovertible. But where did you gather your wisdom? I suppose, he replied seriously, that my mind is not entirely unaffected by a very expensive education. I looked at the extraordinary figure in sheepskin, bundles, and mud, and laughed out loud—the hands of Esau and the voice of Jacob, the garb of Thomas Atkins, and the voice of Baliel. Still as I say the fellow was perfectly right, his highly trained intelligence had led him to an exact conclusion. The festering sore demanded drastic treatment, the surgeon's knife. As we talked I saw how coldly his brain had worked. And side by side with that working I saw to my amusement the insistent claims of his vanity. The quickest way to the front, where alone he could re-establish his impugned honor, was by enlistment in the regular army. For the first time in his life he took a grip on essentials. He knew that by going straight into the heart of the old army his brains, provided they remained in his head, would enable him to accomplish his purpose. As for his choice of regiment, there his vanity guided. You may remember that after his disappearance we first heard of him at Aberdeen. Now Aberdeen is the depot of the Gordon Highlanders. What on earth made you go there, I asked. I wanted to get among a crowd where I wasn't known and wasn't ever likely to be known, he replied, and my instinct was right. I was among farmers from Skye and butchers from Inverness and drunken scallywags from the slums of Aberdeen, and eleven of old soldiers from all over Scotland. I had no idea that such people existed. At first I thought I shouldn't be able to stick it. They gave me a bad time for being an Englishman. But soon I think they rather liked me. I set my brains to work and made them like me. I knew there was everything to learn about these fellows and I went scientifically to work to learn it. And by heaven, sir, when once they accepted me I found I had never been in such splendid company in my life. My dear boy, I cried in a burst of enthusiasm. Have you had breakfast? Of course I have. At the Union Jack Club, the Tommys placed the other side of the river, bacon and eggs and sausages. I thought I'd never stop eating. Have some more? He laughed, couldn't think of it. Then said I, get yourself a cigar. I pointed to a stack of boxes. You'll find the corona, corona's the best. As I am not a millionaire I don't offer these coronas to everybody. I myself can only afford to smoke one or two a week. When he had lit it, he said, I was led away from what I wanted to tell you. My going to Aberdeen and plunging into the obscurity of a Scottish regiment. I was absolutely determined that none of my friends, none of you good people, should know what an ass I had made of myself. That's why I kept it from my mother. She would have blabbed it all over the place. But my good fellow said I, why the Dickens shouldn't we have known? That I was making an ass of myself? No, you young idiot, I cried that you were making a man of yourself. I preferred to wait, said he coolly, until I had a reasonable certainty that I had achieved that consummation, or rather something that might stand for it in the prejudiced eyes of my dear friends. I knew that you all ultimately, you and Mother and Phyllis, would judge by results. Well, here they are. I've lived the life of a Tommy for ten months. I've been five in the thick of it over there. I've refused stripes over and over again. I've got my DCM. I've got my commission through the ranks practically on the field. And of the draft of two hundred men who went out with me, only one other and myself remain. It's a splendid record, my boy, said I. He rose. Don't misunderstand me, Major. I'm not bragging. God forbid. I'm only wanting to explain why I kept dark all the time, and why I'm springing smugly and complacently on you now. I quite understand, said I. In that case he laughed I can proceed on my rounds. But he did not proceed. He lingered. There's another matter I should like to mention, he said. In her last letter my mother told me that the Mayor and Town Council were on the point of giving a civic reception to Colonel Boyce. Has it taken place yet? Yes, said I. And did it go off all right? In spite of wisdom learned at Baliel and Shell Craters, he was still an ingenuous youth. Gage was perfectly quiet, I answered. He started as he had for months learned not to start, and into his eyes sprang an alarm that was usually foreign to them. Gage, how do you know anything about Gage and Colonel Boyce? Good Lord, he hasn't been spreading that poisonous stuff over the Town. That's what you were afraid of when you asked about the reception? Of course, said he. And you wanted to have your mind clear on the point before interviewing Phyllis. You're quite right, sir, he replied, a bit shame facedly. But if he hasn't been spreading it, how do you know it? And he looked at me sharply. What do you know? You gave your word of honour not to repeat what Gage told you. I think you may be absolved of your promise. Gage came to Sir Anthony and myself with a lying story about the death of Althea Fenimore. Yes, said he, that was it. Sit down for another minute or two, said I, and let us compare notes. He obeyed. We compared notes. I found that in most essentials the two stories were identical, although Gage had been maudlin drunk when he admitted Randall into his confidence. But in pitching you his yarn, cried Randall, he left out the blackmail. He bragged in his beastly way that Colonel Boyce was worth a thousand a year to him, all he had to live upon now that the bloodsuckers had ruined his business. Then he began to weep and slobber, he was a disgusting sight, and he said he would give it all up and beg with his daughter in the streets as soon as he had an opportunity of unmasking that shocking wicked fellow. What did you say then, I asked? I told him if I ever heard of him spreading such infernal lies abroad I'd wring his neck. Very good, my boy, said I, that's practically what Sir Anthony told him. Sir Anthony doesn't believe there's any truth in it. Sir Anthony, said I boldly, knows there's not a particle of truth in it. The man's malignancy has taken the form of a fixed idea, he's crackbrained. Between us we put the fear of God into him, and I don't think he'll give any more trouble. Randall got to his feet again. I'm very much relieved to hear you say so. I must confess I've been horribly uneasy about the whole thing. He drew a deep breath. Thank goodness I can go to Phyllis, as you say, with a clear mind. The last time I saw her I was half crazy. He held out his hand a dirty, nubbly, ragged, nailed hand, the hand that was once so irritatingly manicured. Goodbye, Major. You won't shut the door on me now, will you? I wrung his hand hard and bade him not be silly, and looking up at him said, What was the other thing quite different you were intending to do before you, let us say, quarreled with Phyllis? He hesitated, his forehead knit in a little web of perplexity. Whatever it was I continued, let us have it. I'm your oldest friend, a sort of father. Be frank with me, and you won't regret it. The splendid work you've done has wiped out everything. I'm afraid it has, said he ruefully, wiped it out clean. With a hitch of the shoulders he settled his pack more comfortably. Well, I'll tell you, Major, I thought I had brains. I still think I have. I was on the point of getting a job in the Secret Service, Intelligence Department. I had the whole thing cut and dried to get at the ramifications of German espionage in socialistic and so-called intellectual circles in neutral and other countries. It would have been ticklish work, for I should have been carrying my life in my hands. I could have done it well. I started out by being a sort of intellectual myself. All along I wanted to put my brains at the service of my country. I took some time to hit upon the real way. I hit upon it. I learned lots of things from Gedge. If he weren't an errant coward he might be dangerous. He would be taking German money long ago but that he's frightened to death of it. He laughed. It never occurred to you, I suppose, a year ago, he continued, that I spent most of my days in London working like a horse. But I cried. I felt myself flushing purple. And when I flush purple, the unregenerate old soldier in me uses language of a corresponding you. But I cried, and in this language I asked him why he had told me nothing about it. The essence of the Secret Service, sir, replied this maddening young man, is, well, secrecy. You had a billet offered to you of the kind you describe? The offer reached me very much belated, one day when I was half dead, after having performed some humiliating fatigue duty. I think I had persisted in trying to scratch an itching back on parade. Military discipline, I need not tell you, major, doesn't take into account the sensitiveness of a recruit's back. It flatly denies such a phenomenon. Now I think I can defy anything in God's quaint universe to make me itch. But that's by the way. I tore the letter up and never answered it. You do these things, sir, when the whole universe seems to be a stumbling block and an offence. Phyllis was the stumbling block and the rest of the cosmos was the other thing. That's why I have reason on my side when I say that all through Phyllis' gedge I made an ass of myself. He clutched his rude coat with both hands, an ass in sheep's clothing. He drew himself up, saluted, and marched out. He marched out the young scoundrel with all the honors of war. End of Chapter 21 Chapter 22 of The Red Planet This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Red Planet by William J. Locke. Chapter 22 So, in drawing a bow at a venture I had hit the mark. You may remember that I had wrapped out the word blackmail at Gedge. Now Randall justified the charge. Boyce was worth a thousand a year to him. The more I speculated on the danger that might arise from Gedge, the easier I grew in my mind. Your blackmailer is a notorious saver of his skin. Gedge had no desire to bring Boyce to justice and thereby incriminate himself. His visit to Sir Antony was actuated by sheer malignity. Without doubt he counted on his story being believed, but he knew enough of the hated and envied aristocracy to feel assured that Sir Antony would not subject his beloved dead to such ghastly disinterment as a public denunciation of Boyce would necessitate. He desired to throw an asphyxiating bomb into the midst of our private circle. He reckoned on the mere taking some action that would stop the reception and thereby put a public affront on Boyce. Sir Antony's violent indignation and perhaps my appearance of cold incredulity upset his calculations. He went out of the room a defeated man, with a secret load, as I knew now, of blackmail on his shoulders. I snapped my fingers at Gedge. Randall seemed to do the same undesirable father-in-law in prospectu as he was, but that was entirely Randall's affair. The stomach that he had for fighting with Germans would stand him in good stead against Gedge, especially as he had formed so contemptuous an estimate of the latter's valor. I emerged again into my little world. I saw most of my friends. Phyllis Layon wait for me at the hospital, radiant and blushing, ostensibly to congratulate me on recovery from my illness—really, little baggage—to hear from my lips a word or two in praise of Randall. Apparently he had come in his warrior garb, seen, and conquered on the spot. I saw Mrs. Holmes, who, gladdened by the distinguished conduct medallist's return, had wiped from her memory his abominably unfilial behaviour. I saw Betty, and I saw Boyce. Now here I come to a point in this chronicle where I am faced by an appalling difficulty. Hitherto I have striven to tell you no more about myself and my motives and feelings than was demanded by my purpose of unfolding to you the lives of others. Primarily I wanted to explain Leonard Boyce. I could only do it by showing you how he reacted on myself, myself being an unimportant and uninteresting person. It was all very well when I could stand aside and dispassionately analyse such reactions—the same with regard to my dear Betty. But now if I adopted the same method of telling you the story of Betty and the story of Boyce, the method of reaction, so to speak, I should be merely whining into your ears the dolerous tale of Duncan Meredith, paralytic and idiot. The deuce of it is that for a long time nothing particular or definite happened, so how can I describe to you a very important period in the lives of Betty and Boyce and me? I had to resume my intimacy with Boyce. The blind and lonely man craved it and claimed it. It would be an unmeaning pretense of modesty to underestimate the value to him of my friendship. He was a man of intense feelings. Torture had closed his heart to the troops of friends that so distinguished a soldier might have had. He granted admittance but to three—his mother, Betty, and for some unaccountable reason, myself. On us he concentrated all the strength of his affection. Mind you, it was not a case of a maimed creature clinging for support to those who cared for him. In his intercourse with me, he never for a moment suggested that he was seeking help or solace in his affliction. On the contrary, he ruled it out of the conditions of social life. He was as brave as you please. In his laughing scorn of blindness he was the bravest man I have ever known. He learned the confidence of the blind with marvellous facility. His path through darkness was a triumphant march. Sometimes when he refought old battles and planned new ones, forecast the strategy of the great advance, word-painted scenes and places, drew character sketches of great leaders and quaint men, I forgot the tragedy of Althea Fenimore. And when the memory came swiftly back, I wondered whether, after all, Gage's story from first to last had not been a malevolent invention. The man seemed so happy. Of course you will say it was my duty to give a hint of Gage's revelation. It was. To my shame, I shirked it. I could not find it in my heart suddenly to dash into his happiness. I awaited an opportunity, a change of mood in him, an allusion to confidences of which I alone of human beings had been the recipient. Betty visited me as usual. We talked war and hospital and local gossip for a while, and then she seemed to take refuge at the piano. We had one red-letter day when a sailor cousin of hers, fresh from the North Sea, came to luncheon and told us wonders of the navy which we had barely imagined and did not dare to hope for. His tidings gave subject for many a talk. I knew that she was seeing Boyce constantly, the former acquaintance of the elders of the two houses flamed into sudden friendship. From a remark artlessly let fall by Mrs. Boyce, I gathered that the old ladies were deliberately contriving such meetings. Boyce and Betty referred to each other rarely and casually, but enough to show me that the old feud was at an end. And of what save one thing could the end of a feud between lovers be the beginning? What did she know? Knowing all, how could she be drawn back under the man's fascination? The question maddened me. I suffered terribly. At last one evening I could bear it no longer. She was playing Chopin. The music grated on me. I called out to her. Betty! She broke off and turned round with a smile of surprise. Again she was wearing the old black evening dress in which I have told you she looked so beautiful. No more music, dear. Come and talk to me. She crossed the room with her free step and sat near my chair. What shall I talk about, she laughed. Leonard Boyce. The laughter left her face and she gave me a swift glance. Magie, dear, I'd rather not, she said, with a little air of finality. I know that, said I. I also know that in your eyes I am committing an unwarrantable impertinence. Not at all, she replied politely. You have the right to talk to me for my good. It's impertinence in me not to wish to hear it. Betty, dear, said I, will you tell me what was the cause of your estrangement? She stiffened. No one has the right to ask me that. A man who loves you very, very dearly, said I, will claim it. Was the cause Althea Fenimore? She looked at me almost in frightened amazement. Is that mere guesswork? No, dear, said I quietly. I thought no one knew except one person. I was not even sure that Leonard Boyce was aware that I knew. Another bow at a venture. That one person is Gedge. You're right. I suppose he has been talking, she said, greatly agitated. He has been putting it about all over the place. I've been dreading it. Then she sprang to her feet and drew herself up and snapped her fingers in an eroical way. And if he has said that Althea Fenimore drowned herself for love of Leonard Boyce, what is there in it? After all, what has Leonard Boyce done that he can't be forgiven? Men are men, and women are women. We've tried for tens of thousands of years to lay down hard and fast lines for the sexes to walk upon, and we've failed miserably. Suppose Leonard Boyce did make love to Althea Fenimore, trifle with her affections in the old-fashioned phrase. What then? I'm greatly to blame. It has only lately been brought home to me. Instead of staying here while we were engaged, I would have my last fling as an emancipated young woman in London. He consoled himself with Althea. When she found he meant nothing, she threw herself into the canal. It was dreadful. It was tragic. He went away and broke with me. I didn't discover the reason till months afterwards. She drowned herself for love of him it's true. But what was his share in it that he can't be forgiven for? Millions of men have been forgiven by women for passing loves. Why not he? Why not a tremendous man like him, a man who has paid every penalty for wrong if wrong there was? Blind. She walked about and threw up her hands and halted in front of my chair. I'll own that until lately I accused him of unforgivable sin, deceiving me and making love to another girl and driving her to suicide. I tore him out of my heart and married Willie. We won't speak of that. But since he has come back, things seem different. His mother has told me that one day when he was asleep she found he was still wearing his identification-disc. There was an old faded photograph of me on the other side. It had been there all through the war. You see, she added, after a pause during which her heaving bosom and quivering lip made her maddeningly lovely, I don't care a brass button for anything that Gage may say. And that was all my clean-sold Betty knew about it. She had no idea of deeper faithlessness, no suspicion of Boyce's presence with Althea on the bank of the canal. She stood pathetic in her half-knowledge. My heart ached. From her pure woman's point of view she had been justified in her denunciation of Boyce. He had left her without a word. A wall of silence came between them. Then she learned the reason. He had trifled with the young girl's affections and out of despair she had drowned herself. But how had she learned? I had to question her. It was then that she told me the story of Phyllis and her father to which I have made previous illusion. How Phyllis, as her father's secretary, had opened a letter which had frightened her. How her father's crafty face had frightened her still more. How she had run to Betty for the easing of her heart. And this letter was from Leonard Boyce. I cannot afford one penny more, so the letter ran according to Betty's recollection of Phyllis's recollection. But if you remain loyal to our agreement you will not regret it. If ever I hear of your coupling my name with that of Miss Fenimore I'll kill you. I am a man of my word. I think Betty crystallized Phyllis's looser statement, but the exact wording was immaterial. Here was Boyce branding himself with complicity in the tragedy of Althea and paying Gedge to keep it dark. Like Sir Antony, Betty remembered trivial things that assumed grave significance. There was no room for doubt. Catastrophe following on his villainy had kept Boyce away from Wellingsford, had terrified him out of his engagement, and so her heart had grown bitter against him. You may ask why her knowledge of the world had not led her to suspect Blacker wrong, for a man does not pay Blackmail because he has led a romantic girl into a wrong notion of the extent of his affection. My only answer is that Betty was Betty, clean-hearted and clean-sold, like the young Artemis she resembled. And now she proclaimed that he had expiated his offence. She proclaimed her renewed and passionate interest in the man. I saw that deep down in her heart she had always loved him. After telling me about Phyllis, she returned to the point where she had broken off. She supposed that Gedge had been talking all over the place. I don't think so, dear, said I. So far as I know he has only spoken first to Randall Holmes, that was what made him break away from Gedge, whose society he had been cultivating for other reasons than those I imagined. You remember telling me Phyllis's sorrowful little tale last year? She nodded. And secondly to Sir Antony and myself a few hours before the reception. She clenched her fists and broke out again. The devil, the incarnate devil, and Sir Antony pretended to treat Gedge's story as a lie, threw into the fire without reading it an incriminating letter, possibly the letter that Phyllis saw. Ordered Gedge out of the house and, like a great gentleman, went through the ceremony. Does Leonard know? Not that I'm aware of, said I. He must be told. It's terrible to have an enemy waiting to stab you in the dark and you blind to boot. Why haven't you told him? Why, why, why? It was so hard to keep to the lower key of her conception of things. I made a little gesture signifying, I know not what, that it was not my business, that I was not on sufficient terms of intimacy with voice, that it didn't seem important enough. My helpless shrug suggested, I suppose, all of these excuses. Why hadn't I warned him? Cowardice, I suppose. Either you or I must do it, she went on. You're his friend. He thinks more of you than of any other man in the world. And he's right, dear. She flashed me a proud glance, sweet and stabbing. Don't I know it? Then suddenly a new idea seemed to pass through her brain. She bent forward and touched the light shawl covering my knees. For the last month or two you've known what he has done. It hasn't made any difference in your friendship. You must think with me that the past is past, that he has purged his sins or whatever you like to call them, that he is a man greatly to be forgiven. Yes, dear, said I with a show of bravery, though I dreaded lest my voice should break, I think he is a man to be forgiven. Her logic was remorseless. With her frank grace she threw herself in her old attitude by the side of my chair. I'm so glad we have had this talk, Magie Darling. It has made everything between us so clear and beautiful. It is always such a grief to me to think you may not understand. I shall always be the little girl that looked upon you as a wonderful hero and divine dispenser of chocolates. Only now the chocolates stand for love and forbearance and sympathy and all kinds of spiritual goodies. I passed my hand over her hair. Silly child. I got it into my head, she continued, that you were blaming me for my reconciliation with Leonard. But my dear, my dear, what woman's heart wouldn't be turned to water at the side of him. It makes me so happy that you understand. I can't tell you how happy. Are you going to marry him? I think my voice was steady and kind enough. Possibly, some day, if he asks me. I still stroked her hair. I wouldn't let it be too soon, said I. Her eyes were downcast. On account of willy, she murmured. No, dear, I don't dare touch on that side of things. Again a whisper. Why then? How could I tell her why without betrayal of voice? I had to turn the question playfully. I said, what should I do without my Betty? Do you really care about me so much? I laughed. There are times when one has to laugh or overwhelm oneself in dishonor. Now you see my nature in all its vile egotism, said I, and the statement led to a pretty quarrel. But after it was over to our joint satisfaction, she had to return to the distressful main theme of our talk. She harked back to Sir Antony, touched on his splendid behavior, recalled with a little dismay, the hitherto unnoted fact that after the ceremony he had held himself aloof from those that thronged round boys. Then, without hint from me, she perceived the significance of the Fenimore's retirement from Wellingsford. Leonard's ignorance, she said, leaves him in a frightful position, more than ever he ought to know. He ought indeed, my dear, said I, and I will tell him, I ought to have done so before. I gave my undertaking. I went to bed upgrading myself for cowardice and resolved to go to Boyce the next day. Not only fate, but honour and decency forced me to the detested task. Alas, next morning I was nailed to my bed by my abominable malady. The attacks had become more frequent of late. Cliff administered restoratives, and for the first time he lost his smile and looked worried. You see, until quite lately I had had a very tranquil life, deeply interested in other folk's joys and sorrows, but moved by very few of my own. And now there had swooped down on me this ravening pack of emotions which were tearing me to pieces. I lay for a couple of days tortured by physical pain, humiliation, and mental anguish. On the evening of the second day Marigold came into the bedroom with a puzzled look on his face. Colonel Boyce is here, sir. I told him you were in bed and seeing nobody, but he says he wants to see you on something important. I asked him whether it couldn't wait till to-morrow, and he said that if I would give you a password, Vilbox Farm, you'd be sure to see him. Quite right, Marigold said I, show him in. Vilbox Farm, fate had driven him to me instead of me to him. I would see him though it killed me and get the horrible business over for ever. Marigold led him in and drew up a chair for him by the bedside after pulling on the lights and drawing the curtains, for the warm May evening was drawing to a close. Anything more, sir, for the present, he asked? Could I have the materials for a whiskey and soda to hand? said Boyce. Of course, said I. Marigold departed. Boyce said, if you're too ill to stand me, send me away, but if you can stand me, for God's sake, let me talk to you. Talk as much as you like, said I. This is only one of my stupid attacks which a man without legs has to put up with. But, Marigold, Marigold's an old hen, said I. Are you sure you're well enough? That's the curse of not being able to see. Tell me frankly. I'm quite sure, said I. I have never been able to get over the curious embarrassment of talking to a man whose eyes I cannot see. The black spectacles seemed to be like a wall behind which the man hid his thoughts. I watched his lips. Once or twice the odd little twitch had appeared at the corners. Even with his baffling black spectacles he looked a gallant figure of a man. He was precisely dressed in perfectly fitting dinner-jacket and neat black tie, well groomed from the points of his patent leather shoes to his trim, crisp brown hair. And beneath this scrupulousness of attire lay the suggestion of great strength. Marigold brought in the tray with decanter siphon and glasses and put them on a table together with cigars and cigarettes by his side. After a few deft touches so as to identify the objects, Boyce smiled and nodded at Marigold. Thanks very much, Sergeant, he said. If there is one thing Marigold loves it is to be addressed as sergeant. Marigold might indicate a butler, but sergeant means a sergeant. Perhaps I might fetch the Colonel a more comfortable chair, sir, said he. But Boyce laughed. No, no. And Marigold left us. Boyce's ear listened for the click of the door. Then he turned to me. I was rather mean in sending you in that password, but I felt as if I should go mad if I didn't see you. You're the only man living who really knows about me. You're the only human being who can give me a helping hand. It's strange, old man, the halt leading the blind, but so it is. And Vilbock's farm is the damned essence of the matter. I've come to you to ask you for the love of God to tell me what I am to do. I guessed what had happened. Betty Conner has told you something that I was to tell you. Yes, said he, this afternoon, and in her splendid way she offered to marry me. What did you say? I said that I would give her my answer tomorrow. And what will that answer be? It is for you to tell me, said Boyce. In order to undertake such a terrible responsibility, said I, I must know the whole truth concerning Althea Fenimore. I've come here to tell it to you, said he.