by W. F. Morris
“English! But look here, Charles,” began Baron.
“Don’t you think, Dicky,” put in Clare quietly, “that it would be better if we let—” she hesitated a second—“let Charles tell us what happened.”
Baron nodded. “Right ’o. You go ahead, Charles; you have the Speaker’s eye.”
Pagan related his adventures of the previous evening.
“Poor devil!” exclaimed Baron when he had finished.
“Poor, poor fellow,” murmured Clare.
“Griffin knows,” said Pagan. “I had to tell him something, and I thought it better to tell him the truth. But I told him to keep it to himself. I hope he will.”
“He ought to be pretty safe in a case like this,” said Baron. “There are not many things the gentle Griffin respects but war derelicts are certainly one of them.”
“Is there nothing we can do for that poor man?” asked Clare with troubled eyes.
“I asked him that,” said Pagan; “and he said no. But I would like to do something for him.”
Baron nodded his head. “Poor devil!” he repeated. “But he ought to have gone back to his people, you know,” he added thoughtfully. “After all, there must be quite a number of fellows who have done so, and their people are probably only too glad to have them, crippled as they are.”
“But he is thinking of his people, Dicky,” said Clare gently. “He is trying to spare them.”
“I know,” said Baron. “But do you think his people would worry about the deformity. Don’t you think they would be only too glad to know that he was alive?”
“In the case of an ordinary cripple—yes,” said Pagan. “But think of this fellow’s face.”
“Is it very terrible?” asked Clare in a low voice.
“Frightful. Horrible. I’m not squeamish, but it gave me the creeps. And I could hardly keep my eyes off it: it had a sort of horrible fascination. However much one’s relations might care for one, after all they are only human, and they couldn’t stand that. Don’t you agree?” He turned to Clare.
She held her spoon upright in her cup and regarded it with a little frown of concentration on her forehead. “I don’t know,” she answered slowly. “I am trying to think. He is the same person, of course, however different his face may be. And one can get used to anything—almost. Mere plainness, of course, does not matter; but real ugliness, hideousness …”
“Ghastliness, nightmare horror all day and every day,” supplemented Pagan.
“I—I don’t know whether he is right or not,” she went on in an awed voice. “Perhaps he has chosen the kindest course.”
“He might wear a mask,” suggested Baron. “They make some wonderful things nowadays.”
“And would you have the mask as like his original face as possible?” asked Pagan. “Think of it, an expressionless travesty of the face one once knew—always grinning or always solemn. Personally I think that would get on my nerves so much that I would rather have the straightforward horror.”
Baron nodded his head gloomily. “And of course if the mask were not like his original face, one would always feel it was someone else.”
“And besides, he is a sensitive fellow,” went on Pagan. “He was good-looking once. He told me so himself half-jokingly. But it was true: I could see it for myself. Back view he was as fine and well proportioned a man as one could wish to see.”
“Poor chap!” repeated Baron.
“Poor, poor fellow,” repeated Clare. “Was he married, I wonder?”
“I don’t know,” answered Pagan. “I don’t think so. But from something he said, I fancy there was a girl.”
“Poor, poor girl,” she murmured.
Baron offered her his cigarette case. “Um! I suppose that makes a difference. You think that he is right then, Charles?”
Pagan held a match to Clare’s cigarette. “Well, honestly, isn’t it the kindest thing? To his people he has been dead now ten years and more; they had one sharp blow instead of years of wearing hammering.”
Baron nodded his head. “Kindest to them, yes. But what about the poor devil himself. Do you think he regrets his decision? Is he content?”
Pagan shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “He says he is. Though he admitted he is bored at times.”
“Poor fellow, he must be,” murmured Clare.
“Good lord, yes, he must get tired of everlasting work, reading, reading, work,” exclaimed Baron. “And he has nothing else, you say, not even a wireless.”
“By Jove, that’s an idea!” exclaimed Pagan.
“What is?” asked Baron.
“Why wireless. If I got him a wireless it might liven things up a bit. He could listen to plays and when they put on those old musical comedy programmes he would hear some of those old tunes he likes so much.”
“Yes, that certainly is an idea,” agreed Baron.
“You do not think it might bring back old times too vividly,” suggested Clare thoughtfully. “We do not want to make things harder for him.”
Pagan considered a moment. “It might,” he said doubtfully. “But surely he would get more pleasure than sadness out of it in the long run. He would not feel quite such an outcast, and he would hear his own language. It was jolly pathetic the way he listened to me talking English.”
“Poor devil!” murmured Baron again. “Well, old Charles, I will go halves with you. But remember I’m a poor man.”
“And please include me,” said Clare.
“Thanks awfully, both of you,” said Pagan. “We will go and see what the local Harrods can do in the way of wireless, shall we.”
II
It was arranged that Pagan should take the set up to the inn and ask Kleber to deliver it to the lonely Englishman. After much consideration he had with great care written a note which he hoped would overcome any reluctance which this obviously sensitive man might feel about accepting the gift. It was a short but exceedingly tactful composition in which the fact that they were brother officers was gently stressed. Clare’s eyes were suspiciously misty as she handed him back the rough draft. “It is the kindest note I have ever read,” she said.
“Old Charles isn’t much to look at, but he has a kind heart when you get to know him,” agreed Baron cheerfully.
“Yes, he certainly improves upon acquaintance,” said Clare. Her tone was light but the eyes that smiled into his were very kind.
The late afternoon sunlight was gilding the wooded hill sides across the valley when Pagan knocked at the door of the inn. It was opened by Bertha, and he knew at once by the expression in her eyes that she had heard something of his adventure of the previous night. He stepped into the long brick-floored room and dumped his heavy parcel upon a table. “Bon jour, Bertha,” he cried. “Is Herr Kleber in?”
She shook her head half sullenly while her eyes remained fixed upon his face. “No, M’sieu. He ees abroad.”
Pagan ordered a drink, and when she had brought it, he untied the knots of the parcel with slow deliberation. She watched him in silence as he removed the wrappers one by one, and only when the polished wood case of the set was disclosed, did her eyes flutter from it half-questioningly to his. He lifted the set clear of the wrappings and placed it on a table by itself. Then he sat down and drank from his glass.
“Bertha,” he said presently, “you are angry with me for what happened last night.”
She did not reply, but watched him with resentful eyes.
“I am angry with myself now; I wish I had taken your advice,” he went on. “But don’t be afraid. I have no intention of pushing myself in again, or of making him unhappy or trying to take him away. My wish is the same as yours—to make him happy.”
Still she was silent, but her eyes were less resentful and suspicious.
“You were right to stop us from going out the other night, and we are so glad to know that he has such loyal friends in you and your father. And we want to thank you for all your kindness to a fellow countryman of ours. We can never do anything f
or him such as you have done; but we should like to do something. And so we have bought this wireless set, and we want you to give it to him. Will you?”
She did not answer, but her eyes travelled from him to the set and back again.
“You see,” went on Pagan, “he will be able to hear music when he is working. And when he is lonely he can turn it on and hear people talking and singing. Will you give it to him for us, Bertha?”
She did not reply, and for a moment he thought that she was going to refuse. Then suddenly her eyes filled, and two large tears ran down her broad cheeks. “Vous êtes très, très gentil, M’sieu,” she murmured. “Oh, M’sieu, it will make him so happy.” She dabbed her cheek with a handkerchief, and went on quickly, “When you arrived that night I had fear. You were English and I think that perhaps you know the pauvre M’sieu and you take him away. I had fear very much that you take him away, an’ I say you not take him away.”
Pagan nodded his head understandingly. “We are not going to take him away from you, Bertha,” he said gently. “We only want to make him happy. And I want you to give him this set, will you? If I gave it to him myself I should have to push in again; and I don’t want to do that. And then he might not take it from me; he might be too proud and sensitive, you understand? But you will know how to persuade him.” He handed her the note. “I have written this little note to him asking him to accept it, but it is really you that I am relying upon. Will you do it?”
She nodded her head and bit her lip in an effort to keep back the tears that seemed inclined to flow again. He took her by the elbow and led her to the table on which the set stood.
“I will show you how to work it, and then you will be able to show him.”
She watched with a childlike concentration of attention upon her face as he switched on and manipulated the dials; and when the syncopated strains of a dance band grew suddenly and filled the long room, she put her hands upon her hips and listened attentively with her head on one side. Then her eye caught his, and she broke into a frank delighted smile that transfigured her homely face and made it almost beautiful. “It will make him so happy, M’sieu,” she murmured.
“You will have to get the batteries renewed for him,” said Pagan when he was satisfied that she understood how to manipulate the set. “There isn’t a spare one at present, but they promised to have one ready for me to-morrow, and I will send it up.”
Bertha went to the little bar in the corner of the room. From its recesses she produced a bottle which she dusted with a solemn care that showed that it was no ordinary bottle. Then without speaking she brought two glasses to the table and reverently filled them with golden liquid from the bottle. She raised her glass and regarded him gravely across the top. “Votre santé, M’sieu,” she said, with a gracious inclination of her head.
Pagan thanked her and raised his own glass. “To your heart’s desire, Bertha,” he said and drank. She bowed her head quickly in acknowledgement, but not before he had seen the wave of colour which momentarily flooded her brown healthy cheeks.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE hot midday sun beat down upon the irregular pavé of the Place du Marche in Munster. On the hot pavements the gay striped awning of the Café de la Cigogne threw hard edged shadows like water spilled on sand. The rows of trees on the opposite side of the square stood dusty and listless against the dazzling white walls and blistered shutters of the buildings behind them, and every projecting stick and twig of the big stork’s nest perched on top of a pyramidical roof above the trees was etched black and clear cut upon the cloudless blue sky.
Pagan, in the shadow of the awning, drained his iced bock and put the glass down on the little table before him. He passed his handkerchief across his moist forehead. “Beware the noonday devil!” he murmured. “By the way, what is the noonday devil?”
Baron shook his head. “I have no idea, Charles,” he answered languidly. “But he would need to be a hardy little devil to function in this square.” He leisurely turned his head so that through the glass of the side screens he could see the brown sandstone tower of the florid Lutheran church that seemed to flame in the sunlight at the top of the square. At the lower end of the square the rustic whitewashed walls and slender lead spire of the Catholic church rose against the green background of hills.
Pagan grunted and pulled out his pipe. They sat in lethargic silence for some moments. Pagan tilted back his chair and idly snapped his fingers to an Alsatian dog that was sniffing among the little tables.
Presently Baron murmured, “There’s friend Kleber.”
Pagan turned his head and idly watched the square form of the innkeeper coming along the pavement towards them.
“Bon jour!” cried Baron as Kleber drew level. The man turned his head and then stepped under the awning towards them.
“Have a drink,” invited Pagan.
Kleber thanked them and asked to be excused as he was in a hurry. He pulled a letter from his pocket and held it out. It was for M’sieu Pagan. He was on his way to the hotel to deliver it, but perhaps M’sieu Pagan would be good enough to accept it now and so save him the remainder of the journey. Then he raised his hat, said good day and passed on.
Pagan tore open the envelope.
“From that poor devil with the smashed face, I suppose,” murmured Baron.
“Yes—thanking us for the wireless set,” answered Pagan still reading.
“Is he pleased with it?” asked Baron.
Pagan turned over the letter and then passed it to Baron. “Seems to be. Signs himself ‘yours very gratefully, R. V.’”
Baron withdrew his hands from his pockets and took the note.
Pagan pulled out his pouch and began filling his pipe. A long silence ensued. “He seems quite pleased, doesn’t he?” said Pagan at last as he fumbled in his pocket for a match.
“Yes,” answered Baron in a voice that was strangely quiet. “And he signs himself R. V.—the initials of Roger Vigers.”
Pagan, his pipe in one hand and the other in the act of withdrawing a matchbox from his pocket, became suddenly motionless like a wax figure. Then he slowly turned his head and looked at Baron. Baron appeared to be staring at the note which he held in his hand, but there was a frown of concentration upon his forehead, and his eyes were in reality fixed upon the sunlit pavement beyond the shadow of the awning.
“But, my dear chap, you don’t think …” began Pagan at last.
“No, I don’t think, I know,” answered Baron quietly.
Pagan allowed the matchbox to drop back into his pocket. “The same initials, yes,” he began. “But just a coincidence surely. There is no …”
“It is not merely the initials,” interrupted Baron. “Though they do add the final touch.” He tapped the note with his hand. “This is Vigers’ own handwriting.”
Pagan carried the unlighted pipe slowly to his mouth. “Are you sure?”
“My dear Charles, I’ve seen Vigers’ writing on orders and things hundreds of times—too often, anyway, not to recognise it now.”
Silence settled down again. With knit brows Pagan regarded the high perched stork’s nest that looked so hard and brittle in the harsh sunlight. “Clare,” he said at last, “how will she take this?”
“Thank God, she doesn’t know!” said Baron.
Pagan removed his pipe again and rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. “But she will have to.”
Baron raised his head sharply. “Why has she to? What good will it do?”
Pagan rubbed the back of his neck. “But she must be told. Hang it all we can’t …”
“Look here, Charles,” interrupted Baron, “we have got to think this out from every point of view; from hers, Roger’s and yours. What effect it would have upon her, God only knows—or upon him. She is happy now, and so is he in his way. I wish to God we had never poked our noses into this.”
“So do I,” murmured Pagan fervently.
Baron stared at the sunny pavement with knit brows for some mo
ments. “We have hung together for a good long time, old Charles, you and I,” he said at last without looking up. “And we have been through some pretty bloody times together too, and … well, I ask you as man to man are you serious about Clare? You know what I mean.”
Pagan took the cold pipe from his mouth and regarded the unlighted tobacco in the bowl. “More serious than I have ever been about anything in my life, Dicky,” he answered at last.
Baron nodded. “I thought so.” He pulled out his own pipe and remained staring at the pavement. “I know Clare pretty well, Charles. She doesn’t spread herself over people—particularly men, but … well, she’s taken things from you that I would have sworn she wouldn’t take from any man on earth. I warned you that I was convinced that she would never marry, and … well, I’m beginning to change my opinion now.” He stuck his pipe in his mouth and unrolled his pouch. “I would give anything to see her happy and married and all that. I’m damned fond of Clare, you know, in a brotherly way, and … well, I can stick you better than I can stick most blighters, so you can imagine that I have been rather bucked with the way things seemed to be turning out.”
He put his pipe in his pouch and began to fill it jerkily. He went on rather diffidently: “I don’t know how far you have got, Charles. I don’t know whether you have come to any understanding with her.”
Pagan shook his head.
“You don’t mind my saying this, old Charles, do you? But … as a … well a naturally rather interested observer, my diagnosis of the situation at the moment between you and Clare is that it has reached a critical stage. Personally I think that Clare is damned fond of you and doesn’t know it. Now if she hears that poor old Roger is alive it might, it might, I say, have the effect of making her realize that she is more fond of you than she thought: on the other hand it might not. Anyway, she’d feel that she wasn’t free, and it would certainly finish your chances for the present—and perhaps for good.” He turned his head and looked at Pagan. “Why not leave it alone then?”
Pagan was gazing miserably at the sunlit pavement. He seemed to rouse himself with an effort. “But don’t you see, Dicky,” he said at last in a tired voice, “that that is just why I cannot leave it alone? I’m too interested in it personally. Suppose I did say nothing and suppose my luck was in, could I honestly take her, knowing that I had won her by what after all would be a pretty mean trick? And what would she think of me if ever she found out! And think of that poor devil Vigers himself—one of us, knocked out in the war. I’m not a sentimental cove, Dicky, but damn it all there is some sort of camaraderie among us who went through it. God help us if there isn’t.”
