by Anthology
Mabel opened her clear eyes wide, and drew back with a puzzled, hurt expression.
"I'm sorry," she said. She stood thoughtfully . watching her sister, unconsciously twining and untwining the silken stockings she held between her fingers, while Evelyn impatiently tugged at her heavy walking-shoes.
"Eve, precious," she said suddenly, "you're not happy — I can see it. Can't you trust me, dear? We've never had any secrets from each other before. If you're in any trouble— oh, my dear — my own dearest sister, I do so want to help you if I can."
She knelt beside Evelyn and taking one of her sister's hands in both of her own, pressed it against her bosom. But the other jerked her hand away roughly and pushed the younger girl from her.
"Don't be silly, Mabs," she replied sharply. "There's nothing the matter. I'm a little tired from my walk — that's all."
Mabel made no further effort and finished dressing in silence, but when, half an hour later, she went down to the sitting-room, her eyes were very red and her sensitive mouth was scarcely yet under control.
The days that followed were anything but comfortable ones. Evelyn was her usual self when in Jim's company, but at other times she displayed a nervous irritability wholly foreign to her nature; Mabel, hurt and anxious at her sister's persistent refusal to confide in her, went about with sober face and questioning eyes and found no distraction even in the society of her lover; Tom Hooker, feeling that he had lost control of the situation, was chronically absent-minded; and Jim Merriam, who ought, by his own calculations, to have been the happiest of men, discovered that for some unaccountable reason he was acutely unhappy.
He had chosen to do wrong deliberately, but he was surprised to find that the mere choice was not sufficient. For close on to thirty-five years, his strong will had dominated his life, had shaped his habits, his thoughts, his attitude towards his fellow-men. For nearly thirty-five years he had disciplined his character to choose right because it was right, to deal openly and honourably with all men because it was the only way worthy of a strong man. And now that character, moulded and tempered through long years, dominated him. Try as he might, he realised with great bitterness of spirit that he could not do wrong. In so far as the power to choose remained to him and to act upon that choice once made, he had overcome his nature, but the victory was an empty one. He had sought through evil to win to happiness, but his unaccustomed soul revolted at the evil and refused to let him be happy. He had builded better than he knew and the edifice, reared stone by stone and year by year with so much labour and anguish of spirit, could not be so readily thrust down.
Perhaps if Evelyn had cared, it could have been done. He admitted to himself that if she had shown for him one-half the love he gave to her, he could have stopped his ears against the promptings of his well-trained conscience and enjoyed, if not true happiness, at least contentment and peace. If she had loved him as he had sometimes dreamed that she might do, he could have schooled his troublesome soul and commanded it to be still; but strong as he was, he could not do this alone. Bitterly he realised that he had made a false step and must retreat, not for the sake of the woman he loved or the friend he would have betrayed, not for the sake of his own honour and good name, but to preserve what he could of that peace and happiness he had thought to gain.
It was characteristic of both his better and worse nature that, once he had decided upon what must be done, he lost no time in useless regrets. When the Sunday dawned that was to witness the break-up of the party, his plans were completed and after dinner, he asked Mabel to come into the library with him. He had something to tell her, he said, which closely concerned the happiness of her sister. The girl seated herself expectantly in the same chair in which her lover had passed his memorable night of wakefulness, and Merriam closed the door and stood with his back against it.
"Mabs," he said quietly, "you know that I asked Eve to marry me and that she consented, don't you?"
"Yes, Jim," Mabel answered in some surprise; "I know."
"I had no right to ask her, and I knew it at the time. She had no right to accept me, but this she didn't know."
"Why, Jim?"
"Because Leslie Gardiner is still alive."
She sat silent for an interval, striving to assimilate this new and unexpected idea, and he waited calmly while she pondered.
"How did you happen to learn this?" she asked presently.
"Tom told me. He met Leslie shortly before he himself was wounded. I won't go into the details of the story. You can get them from him. He suspected how things stood between Evelyn and me and told me — through he had promised Leslie not to — before I won her consent to our marriage."
He wondered a little that she took the startling news in such a matter-of-fact manner, but she was so overwhelmed by the possibilities the disclosure opened, that her ordinary emotions were dulled. Her woman's intuition told her that she was witnessing one of life's great tragedies and the aspect frightened her.
"Yet — and still you went ahead and asked her?"
"And yet I asked her."
"Did you know — was it before that evening — the first evening you were here that he told you?"
"No. I honestly believed then that the way was clear for me to win her if I could. He told me just before I went to bed — after I had spoken to Evelyn. But I went ahead just the same."
"I think I understand," she whispered.
"Well," he asked at length harshly; "why don't you tell me what you think of me? Why don't you call me what I am — a cad and an ingrate, who planned in cold blood to betray the friend who trusted him and break the heart of the girl he loved? Why don't you take back the friendship you have given me and tell me that you never want to see my face again?"
"It's not so! It isn't! Oh, Jim, I'm so sorry for you — so very, very sorry for you! My heart just aches to think of all you've suffered and this last cruel thing that's happened to you!"
She came swiftly to him and took both his hands in her own, her eyes starry with tears and her face filled with infinite pity and compassion.
"I've always believed you were a splendid man — and now — and now I think you're the noblest man I've ever known. You've borne more than any man was meant to bear — life had no right to treat you so."
He crushed convulsively the hands he held in his, and fought desperately to master the emotion that threatened to overpower him.
"I don't deserve it — I haven't any right to your sympathy — I meant to do wrong all along — I wanted to the worst way — I found I couldn't! Oh, I was mad — mad with waiting and longing for her — I knew I'd never have the chance again."
He freed one hand from her clasp and wiped his wet forehead, and she cried quietly, her head pillowed on his shoulder.
"There's only one thing for me to do now," he went on more calmly: — "find Leslie and bring him home. Tom will give me letters to the authorities at the front. I'll start to-night."
"Oh, Jim, you can't — it's too much to expect of you. And your work —"
"My work will have to take care of itself for a while. This is a bigger thing than work, dear girl. It's my duty to go. I owe it to her."
"What are you going to tell her, Jim?"
"I don't know — I'm not sure. That's why I wanted to speak to you."
"Then I wouldn't tell her anything, Jim. I can spare you that, at least. You can go without letting her know. I'll say you were called away suddenly and hadn't time to explain. Afterwards — when I've talked it over with Tom — perhaps it would be better to let her know the truth. You can trust me to do my best for you. She'll forgive you — I'm sure she will."
"It's like you, Mabs. You've always —"
"Please don't, Jim. I wish I could do more, but I can't — no one can but yourself — that's the cruel part of it. Oh, Jim, it's so terrible to think that your whole life has been spoiled —"
"It hasn't altogether, Mabs. First and last I've had a good deal — more than some men — your friendship, f
or one thing."
"I won't ask you to forget," she went on, taking his handkerchief to mop her eyes. "I know that's impossible. But try — some other girl — you're too fine a man not to find some one to love — and who will love you."
"I'm afraid it's too late," he answered wearily; "but I'll try. I think I'd better say good-bye now. They may be looking for us. You'll want a little time to compose yourself."
"Good-bye, Jim — and may God be good to you."
Outside the door he encountered the naval officer, who, anxious at their long absence, was coming to seek them.
"Tommy," said Jim abruptly, "I'm starting for the front this afternoon — to find Leslie if I can, and bring him back if it's humanly possible. You'll give me letters and recommendations to the powers and all that, won't you?"
The other gave vent to a long whistle. "Of course — gladly — anything you want. Say, old man, what's happened?"
"Mabs'll tell you. I don't feel up to going over it again. I'll catch the Slavic for London to-morrow night. You'd better send the letters to me on board her. You know what I'll need better than I do."
"Of course. I'll start on them at once. Say, Jim, you're — this is pretty white of you, you know. I've seen how things were going with you."
"It's no more than I ought to do. I don't need to tell you, Tommy —" He paused, frowning.
"I know. Every man may find the bottom of hell once in his life, but it takes a real man to scramble out again. I count it an honour to call you my friend." He held out his hand and Merriam grasped it gratefully. "Good-bye and good luck!"
***
That same evening, Mabel drove the navy Captain down to the station in the yellow roadster. He intended to obtain from headquarters at New York some letters for Merriam more potent than he himself could give, and a day was none too long for what he wished to do. The train was late and while they waited, the two paced the concrete platform in silent, meditation.
"Tommy," said Mabel suddenly, when they had penetrated beyond the glare of the last electric light, "you'll marry me, won't you?"
"Great God!" exclaimed the astonished officer, and the pipe he was in the act of lighting fell from his hand and broke on the hard stone at his feet.
"Won't you?" she persisted.
"Mabs — my darling — it isn't true! It can't be — a rough fellow like me —"
"It is, Tommy. I've loved you ever since that first day — when you came with that message for Eve. I saw then what a splendid, true-hearted man you were, and the longer I've known you, the more I've seen in you to admire — and love."
"I can't believe it!" he repeated. "You're worlds too good for me, Mabs — and yet — and yet, my God, how I want you!"
"And I want you, Tommy — oh, I do — I do! I'm not half worthy of you, Tommy, but if I was and a hundred times more, I could never love any man as I do you. Well," she added, after a short pause; "aren't you going to kiss me?"
"Good Lord!" said the officer hastily, and gathered her in his arms. As he felt the contact of her slim body, he crushed her to him and fiercely kissed the warm lips that sought his own, and then, fearing that he might have hurt her by his roughness, he loosened his clasp with stammered words of apology. But she clung to him, half laughing, half crying.
"I'm glad," she murmured, nestling her hot cheek against his own, "that I didn't propose to you when you were as strong as you used to be." Then, as her arms tightened about his neck, "Oh, my dear, I'm so tired — so very tired of deciding things and of all the trouble in the world. You must save me from it, dear — and help me to forget!"
Chapter XXI
Leslie Hears His Own Name Again
"MAJOR SMITH?" said the staff officer sadly. "My dear sir, we have, on a conservative estimate, at least fifty Major Smiths with the English and American troops, besides captains and lieutenants innumerable and even a colonel or two. What's his first name — John?"
"No," answered Merriam, laughing in spite of himself; "it's not as bad as that. I believe the full name is Benjamin Smith."
"Benjamin Smith?" repeated the officer, as though the sound of the name awakened memories. "I say, you don't mean the chap who blew up the tunnel, do you? For if you do —"
"That's just whom I mean," interrupted Jim. "Can you tell me —"
"He was promoted, you know, after Yentai. Lieutenant-Colonel now. Riley, bring me Colonel Benjamin Smith's record — 12th corps."
The clerkly young Irish sergeant opened a long drawer in one of the lead-coloured steel filing-cases and, after a short search, drew forth a card which he placed before his superior.
"Benjamin Smith — appointed captain of volunteers, June 3rd — commissioned major for distinguished services, July 5th, and assigned to the 92nd infantry — D.S.M., July 10th — promoted to lieutenant-colonel for bravery in action, October 21st. Where's the 92nd infantry, Riley?"
"On the lines south of Liaoyang, sir," replied the sergeant, consulting his records. "The 23rd division holds the railway."
"You'd best go direct by rail. That you'll have to see the railway officer in charge of the south Manchuria section about. Riley, take this gentleman to Major Eberhard and help him arrange for his transportation — oh, it's nothing, sir. Glad to oblige you."
Guided by the sergeant, Merriam sought the office of the railway chief and his business with that functionary satisfactorily concluded, made his way, escorted by a railway battalion lieutenant, to the huge depot. There was much orderly confusion at the station, for Harbin was the base of operations for two great armies, one fighting the Japanese in the east and the other, the Chinese in the south; but the Professor's guide pushed through the hurry and bustle with little ceremony and quickly installed his charge in a passenger coach, coupled onto the rear of a long line of trucks loaded with boxes of cartridges and shells for the big guns, where he left him with many courteous wishes for a comfortable and speedy journey.
The other occupants of the car were commissioned officers, returning to their commands upon the completion of their leave or detachment duty, and here and there faces were distinguished by the pallor which spoke of long days in the hospital. There were big, blond giants from the Scandinavian peninsula, bearded Russians, red-faced Englishmen, stolid, heavily-built Germans, and at Merriam's end of the coach, a little group of restless Americans. And the talk was all of the war and the chances of the war.
"The Japs can't hold out much longer," said a captain, who bore the letters A.S.C. on his shoulder-straps. "They've been tied up around Vladivostok for nearly a month now, and our navy's established a strict blockade off the coast. Their only way to get supplies and ammunition through is by airships and that is risky work."
"The last two attempts failed," said an officer, whose arm was adorned with the red cross band; "I had it from one of von Erlen's aides, who came into the hospital with pneumonia day before yesterday. They picked thick weather to make the run both times, but it wasn't any use. The fleet was on the lookout with fog reflectors on the searchlights and got the first one, and on the second try, the Jap commander missed his reckoning and landed ten miles down the coast."
"The sooner they give up the better," observed an infantry major. "Then Remy can shift our northern army to the, southern front and smash the Chinese in a hurry."
"Well, I won't quarrel if the end comes pretty soon," remarked a cavalryman. "I'm tired of winter campaigns. Been through two of 'em now. I'd like to get home again."
"You can thank us for most of your success," said the Army Service Corps officer. "There hasn't been a hitch in the transport and supply since the war began. The Germans showed us the value of organisation in '14, and our general staff was clever enough to follow their example. That's common sense. The best troops in the world are no good if they haven't enough ammunition, and men can't fight on empty bellies."
"Common sense is the thing," the surgeon assented. "It's common sense not to try operative work in field hospitals, even permanent ones. That's why our base ho
spitals can show such good records and why we can send so many men back to the front."
"You fellows make me tired," said an artilleryman, curled up next to the car window. "What wins battles, anyhow? 'Tisn't the medical staff, nor even the commissary department. It's the men on the firing-line — the men who can shoot. Give me an army with good gunners as opposed to one without, and I'll pick the winner every time."
"Yes," retorted the infantry major, "and what happened to your good gunners on the Sungari? If it hadn't been for Hunter's brigade —"
The story was evidently well known, for the speaker was interrupted by a roar of laugher so contagious that Merriam himself was fain to join in, although he was totally ignorant of the cause.
"Never mind, Jack," the infantry officer condoled; "it takes genius to conduct a masterly retreat, even if you do have to abandon your guns. Only you mustn't forget that the Line's the thing — always has been and always will be."
Seated near Merriam was a boyish first lieutenant, who wore on the collar of his overcoat the number 92 in bronze figures, and recollecting that that was the regiment to which his friend belonged, the Professor moved closer and produced a well-filled cigar case.
"Say," said the boy, gratefully accepting the proffered weed, "that's awfully good of you. Tobacco's something the quartermaster-general leaves out of his little list." He bit the end of the cigar eagerly and inhaled the first puffs with intense satisfaction. "Goin' to the front?"
"Yes," answered Merriam, and observing that his companion regarded his civilian garb with an air of doubt, he hastened to add, "I'm going to look up an old friend of mine, who, I think, belongs to your regiment — Lieutenant-Colonel Smith."
"Oh, Colonel Smith!" replied the boy. "Yes, he commands us now. Colonel Hopkins came down with enteric couple of weeks ago. Smith's a good man — a damn' good man. One of the best field officers in the division."
"You know him well, then?"
"I should say I do! He commanded my battalion at Yentai."
