He broke the silence by saying:
"Have you ever seriously considered the real problems of the Balkans?"
Now what on earth had the Balkans to do with the thoughts that must have been rolling at the back of the man"s mind? I was both disappointed and relieved. I expected him to resume the personal talk, and I dreaded lest he should entrust me with embarra.s.sing confidences.
After three strong whiskies and sodas a man is apt to relax hold of his discretion.... Anyhow, he jerked me back to my position of host. I made some sort of polite reply. He smiled.
"You, my dear Meredyth, like the rest of the country, are half asleep.
In a few months" time you"ll get the awakening of your life."
He began to discourse on the diplomatic situation. Months afterwards I remembered what he had said that night and how accurate had been his forecast. He talked brilliantly for over an hour, during which, keenly interested in his arguments, I lost the puzzle of the man in admiration of the fine soldier and clear and daring thinker. It was only when he had gone that I began to worry again.
And before I went to sleep I had fresh cause for anxious speculation.
"Marigold," said I, when he came in as usual to carry me to bed, "didn"t I tell you that Major Boyce particularly wanted no one to know that he was in the town?"
"Yes, sir," said Marigold. "I"ve told n.o.body."
"And yet you showed him in without informing him that Mrs. Connor was here. Really you ought to have had more tact."
Marigold received his reprimand with the stolidity of the old soldier.
I have known men who have been informed that they would be court-martialled and most certainly shot, make the same reply.
"Very good, sir," said he.
I softened. I was not Marigold"s commanding officer, but his very grateful friend. "You see," said I, "they were engaged before Mrs.
Connor married--I needn"t tell you that; it was common knowledge--and so their sudden meeting was awkward."
"Mrs. Marigold has already explained, sir," said he.
I chuckled inwardly all the way to my bedroom.
"All the same, sir," said he, aiding me in my toilet, which he did with stiff military precision, "I don"t think the Major is as incognighto"
(the spelling is phonetic) "as he would like. Prettilove was shaving me this morning and told me the Major was here. As I considered it my duty, I told him he was a liar, and he was so upset that he nicked my Adam"s apple and I was that covered with blood that I accused him of trying to cut my throat, and I went out and finished shaving myself at home, which is unsatisfactory when you only have a thumb on your right hand to work the razor."
I laughed, picturing the scene. Prettilove is an inoffensive little rabbit of a man. Marigold might sit for the model of a war-scarred mercenary of the middle ages, and when he called a man a liar he did it with accentuaton and vehemence. No wonder Prettilove jumped.
"And then again this evening, sir," continued Marigold, slipping me into my pyjama jacket, "as I was starting the Major"s car, who should be waiting there for him but Mr. Gedge."
"Gedge?" I cried.
"Yes, sir. Waiting by the side of the car. "Can I have a word with you, Major Boyce?" says he. "No, you can"t," says the Major. "I think it"s advisable," says he. "Those repairs are very pressing." "All right,"
says the Major, "jump in." Then he says: "That"ll do, Marigold.
Good-night." And he drives off with Mr. Gedge. Well, if Mr. Gedge and Prettilove know he"s here, then everyone knows it."
"Was Gedge inside the drive?" I asked. The drive was a small semicircular sort of affair, between gate and gate.
"He was standing by the car waiting," said Marigold. "Now, sir." He lifted me with his usual cast-iron tenderness into bed and pulled the coverings over me. "It"s a funny time to talk about house repairs at eleven o"clock, at night," he remarked.
"Nothing is funny in war-time," said I.
"Either nothing or everything," said Marigold. He fussed methodically about the room, picked up an armful of clothes, and paused by the door, his hand on the switch.
"Anything more, sir?"
"Nothing, thank you, Marigold."
"Good-night, sir."
The room was in darkness. Marigold shut the door. I was alone.
What the deuce was the meaning of this waylaying of Boyce by Daniel Gedge?
CHAPTER VII
"Major Boyce has gone, sir," said Marigold, the next morning, as I was tapping my breakfast egg.
"Gone?" I echoed. Boyce had made no reference the night before to so speedy a departure.
"By the 8.30 train, sir."
Every train known by a scheduled time at Wellingsford goes to London.
There may be other trains proceeding from the station in the opposite direction but n.o.body heeds them. Boyce had taken train to London. I asked my omniscient sergeant:
"How did you find that out?"
It appeared it was the driver of the Railway Delivery Van. I smiled at Boyce"s ostrich-like faith in the invisibility of his hinder bulk. What could occur in Wellingsford without it being known at once to vanmen and postmen and barbers and servants and masters and mistresses? How could a man hope to conceal his goings and comings and secret actions?
He might just as well expect to take a secluded noontide bath in the fountain in Piccadilly Circus.
"Perhaps that"s why the matter of those repairs was so pressing, sir,"
said Marigold.
"No doubt of it," said I.
Marigold hung about, his finger-tips pushing towards me mustard and apples and tulips and everything that one does not eat with egg. But it was no use. I had no desire to pursue the conversation. I continued my breakfast stolidly and read the newspaper propped up against the coffee-pot. So many circ.u.mstances connected with Boyce"s visit were of a nature that precluded confidential discussion with Marigold,--that precluded, indeed, confidential discussion with anyone else. The suddenness of his departure I learned that afternoon from Mrs. Boyce, who sent me by hand a miserable letter characteristically rambling.
From it I gathered certain facts. Leonard had come into her bedroom at seven o"clock, awakening her from the first half-hour"s sleep she had enjoyed all night, with the news that he had been unexpectedly summoned back. When she came to think of it, she couldn"t imagine how he got the news, for the post did not arrive till eight o"clock, and Mary said no telegram had been delivered and there had been no call on the telephone. But she supposed the War Office had secret ways of communicating with officers which it would not be well to make known.
The whole of this war, with its killing off of the sons of the best families in the land, and the sleeping in the mud with one"s boots on, to say nothing of not being able to change for dinner, and the way in which they knew when to shoot and when not to shoot, was all so mysterious that she had long ago given up hope of understanding any of its details. All she could do was to pray G.o.d that her dear boy should be spared. At any rate, she knew the duty of an English mother when the country was in danger; so she had sent him away with a brave face and her blessing, as she had done before. But, although English mothers could show themselves Spartans--(she spelt it "Spartians," dear lady, but no matter)--yet they were women and had to sit at home and weep. In the meanwhile, her palpitations had come on dreadfully bad, and so had her neuritis, and she had suffered dreadfully after eating some fish at dinner which she was sure Pennideath, the fishmonger--she always felt that man was an anarchist in disguise--had bought out of the condemned stock at Billingsgate, and none of the doctor"s medicines were of the slightest good to her, and she was heartbroken at having to part so suddenly from Leonard, and would I spare half an hour to comfort an old woman who had sent her only son to die for his country and was ready, when it pleased G.o.d, if not sooner, to die in the same sacred cause?
So of course I went. The old lady, propped on pillows in an overheated room, gave me tea and poured into my ear all the anguish of her simple heart. In an abstracted, anxious way, she ate a couple of crumpets and a wedge of cake with almond icing, and was comforted.
We continued our discussion of the war--or rather Leonard, for with her Leonard seemed to be the war. She made some remark deliciously inept--I wish I could remember it. I made a sly rejoinder. She sat bolt upright and a flush came into her Dresden-china cheek and her old eyes flashed.
"You may think I"m a silly old woman, Duncan. I dare say I am. I can"t take in things as I used to do when I was young. But if Leonard should be killed in the war--I think of it night and day--what I should like to do would be to drive to the Market Square of Wellingsford and wave a Union Jack round and round and fall down dead."
I made some sort of sympathetic gesture.