Snake and Sword Part 26

Mr. Ormonde Delorme, Second Lieutenant of the 34th Lancers, sat in his quarters at Aldershot, reading and re-reading with mingled feelings a letter from the woman he loved.

It is one thing to extract a promise from The Woman that she will turn to you for help if ever your help should be needed (knowing that there could be no greater joy than to serve her at any cost whatsoever, though it led to death or ruin), but it is quite another thing when that help is invited for the benefit of the successful rival!

To go to the world's end for Lucille were a very small matter to Ormonde Delorme--but to go across the road for the man who had won her away, was not.

For Dam _had_ won her away from him, Delorme considered, inasmuch as he had brought him to Monksmead, time after time, had seen him falling in love with Lucille, had received his confidences, and spoken no warning word. Had he said but "No poaching, Delorme," nothing more would have been necessary; he would have kept away thenceforth, and smothered the flame ere it became a raging and consuming fire. No, de Warrenne had served him badly in not telling him plainly that there was an understanding between him and his cousin, in letting him sink more and more deeply over head and ears in love, in letting him go on until he proposed to Lucille and learnt from her that while she liked him better than any man in the world but one--she did not love him, and that, frankly, yes, she _did_ love somebody else, and it was hopeless for him to hope....

He read the letter again:--

"MY DEAR ORMONDE,

"This is a begging letter, and I should loathe to write it, under the circ.u.mstances, to any man but such a one as you. For I am going to ask a great deal of you and to appeal to that n.o.bleness of character for which I have always admired you and which made you poor Dam's hero from Lower School days at Wellingborough until you left Sandhurst (and, alas! quarrelled with him--or rather with his memory--about me). That was a sad blow to me, and I tell you again as I told you before, Dam had not the faintest notion that _I_ cared for _him_ and would not have told me that he cared for me had I not shown it. Your belief that he didn't trouble to warn you because he had me safe is utterly wrong, absurd, and unjust.

"When you did me the great honour and paid me the undeserved and tremendous compliment of asking me to marry you, and I told you that I could not, and _why_ I could not, I never dreamed that Dam could care for me in that way, and I knew that I should never marry any one at all unless he did.

"And on the same occasion, Ormonde, you begged me to promise that if ever you could serve me in any way, I would ask for your help. You were a dear romantic boy then, Ormonde, and I loved you in a different way, and cried all night that you and I could not be friends without thought of love, and I most solemnly promised that I would turn to you if I ever needed help that you could give.

(Alas, I thought to myself then that n.o.body in the world could do anything for me that Dam could not do, and that I should never need help from others while he lived.)

"I want your help, Ormonde, and I want it for Dam--and me.

"You have, of course, heard some garbled scandal about his being driven away from home and cut off from Sandhurst by grandfather. I need not ask if you have believed ill of him and I need not say he is absolutely innocent of any wrong or failure whatever.

He is _not_ an effeminate coward, he is as brave as a lion. He is a splendid hero, Ormonde, and I want you to simply strangle and kill any man who says a word to the contrary.

"When he left home, he enlisted, and Haddon Berners saw him in uniform at Folkestone where he had gone from Canterbury (cricket week) to see Amelia Harringport's gang. Amelia whose sister is to be the Reverend Mrs. Canon Mellifle at Folkestone, you know, met the wretched Haddon being rushed along the front by a soldier and nearly died at the sight--she declares he was weeping!

"Directly she told me I guessed at once that he had met Dam and either insulted or cut him, and that poor Dam, in his bitter humour and self-loathing had used his own presence as a punishment and had made the Haddock walk with him!

Imagine the company of Damocles de Warrenne being anything but an enn.o.bling condescension!

Fancy Dam's society a horrible injury and disgrace!

To a thing like Haddon Berners!

"Well, I simply haunted Folkestone after that, and developed a love for Amelia Harringport and her brothers that surprised them--hypocrite that I am! (but I was punished when they talked slightingly of Dam and she sneered at the man whom she had shamelessly pursued when all was well with him. She 'admires' Haddon now.)

"At last I met him on one of my week-end visits--on a Sunday evening it was--and I simply flew at him in the sight of all respectable, prayer-book-displaying, before-Church-parading, well-behaved Folkestone, and kissed him nearly to death....

And can you believe a woman could be such a _fool_, Ormonde--while carefully noting the '2 Q.G.'

on his shoulder-straps, I never thought to find out his _alias_--for of course he hides his ident.i.ty, thinking as he does, poor darling boy, that he has brought eternal disgrace on an honoured name--a name that appears twice on the rolls of the V.C. records.

"Ormonde, were it not that it would _increase_ his misery and agony of mind I would run away from Monksmead, take a room near the Queen's Greys barracks, and haunt the main gates until I saw him again. He should then tell me how to communicate with him, or I would hang about there till he did.

I'd marry him 'off the strength' and live (till I am 'of age') by needlework if he would have me.

But, of course, he'd _never_ understand that I'd be happier, and a better woman, in a Shorncliffe lodging, as a soldier's wife, than ever I shall be here in this dreary Monksmead--until he is restored and re-habilitated (is that the word? I mean--comes into his own as a brave and n.o.ble gentleman who never did a mean or cowardly action in his life).

"And he is _so_ thin and unhappy looking, Ormonde, and his poor hands are in such a state and his beautiful hair is all hacked about and done like a soldier's, all short except for a long piece brushed down his forehead and round to his cap--oh, dreadful ... and he has a scar on his face!

No wonder Amelia never recognized him. Oh, _do_ help me, Ormonde. I _must_ find out how to address him. I dare not let them know there is a _D. de Warrenne_ in the regiment--and he'd never get it either--he's probably Smith or Jones or Robinson now. If some horrid Sergeant called out 'Trooper D. de Warrenne,' when distributing letters, Dam would never answer to the name he thinks he has eternally disgraced, and disgrace it further by dragging it in the mire of the ranks. How _can_ people be such sn.o.bs? Isn't a good private a better man than a bad officer? Why should there be any 'taint' about serving your country in any capacity?

"How _can_ I find him, Ormonde, unless you help me? I could pay a servant to hang about the barracks until he recognized Dam--but that would be horrible for the poor boy. He'd deny it and say the man was mad, I expect--and it would be most unpleasant and unfair to Dam to set some one to find out from his comrades what he calls himself.

If he chooses to hide from what he thinks is the chance of further disgracing his people, and suffers what he does in order to remain hidden, shall _I_ be the one to do anything to show him up and cause him worse suffering--expose him to a servant?

"How _can_ I get him a letter that shall not have his name on it? If I wrote to his Colonel or the Adjutant and enclosed a letter with just 'Dam'

on it they'd not know for whom it was meant--and I dare not tell them his real name.

"Could you get a letter to him, Ormonde, without letting him know that you know he is a private soldier, and without letting a soul know his real name?

"I do apologize for the length of this interminable letter, but if you only knew the _relief_ it is to me to be doing something that may help him, and to be talking, or rather writing about him, you would forgive me.

"His name must not be mentioned here. Think of it!

"Oh, if it only would not make him _more_ unhappy, I would go to him this minute, and refuse ever to leave him again.

"Does that sound unmaidenly, Ormonde? I don't care whether it does or not, nor whether it _is_ or not. I love him, and he loves me. I am his _friend_. Could I stay here in luxury if it would make him happier to marry me? Am I a terribly abandoned female? I told Auntie Yvette just what I had done, and though it simply saved her life to know he had not committed suicide (I believe she _worshipped_ father)--she seemed mortally shocked at me for behaving so. I am not a bit ashamed though. Dam is more important than good form, and I had to show him in the strongest possible way that he was dearer to me than ever. If it _was_ 'behaving like a servant-girl'--all honour to servant-girls, I think ... considering the circ.u.mstances.

You should have seen his face before he caught sight of me. Yes--_and_ after, too. Though really I think he suffered more from my kissing him--in uniform, in the street--than if I had cut him.

It would be only for the minute though ... it _must_ comfort him _now_, and always, to think that I love him so (since he loves _me_--and always has done). But what I must know before I can sleep peacefully again is the name by which he goes in the '2 Q.G's.,' so that I can write and comfort him regularly, send him things, and make him buy himself out when he sees he has been foolish and wicked in supposing that he has publicly disgraced himself and his name and us. And I'm going to make Grandfather's life a misery, and go about skinny and ragged and weeping, and say: '_This_ is how you treat the daughter of your dead friend, you wicked, cruel, unjust old man,' until he relents and sends for Dam and gets him into the Army properly.... But I am afraid Dam will think it his silly duty to flee from me and all my works, and hide himself where the names of de Warrenne and Stukeley are unknown and cannot be disgraced.

"I rely on you, Ormonde,

"Your ashamed grateful friend,

"LUCILLE GAVESTONE."

Second Lieutenant Delorme rang the bell.

"Bradshaw," he said, as his soldier-servant appeared. "And get me a telegraph form."

"Yussir," said Private Billings, and marched to the Mess ante-room purposefully, with hope in his heart that Mr. Delorme 'ad nothink less than a 'alf dollar for the telegram and would forgit to arx for the chainge, as was his occasional praiseworthy procedure.

Mr. Delorme, alas, proved to have a mean and vulgar shilling, the which he handed to Private Billings with a form containing the message:--

"Can do. So cheer up. Writing his adjutant, pal of mine. Coming over Sat.u.r.day if get leave. Going Shorncliffe if necessary. Leave due. Dam all right. Will blow over. Thanks for letting me help."

"'Fraid they don' give no tick at the Telegraft Orfis, Sir," observed Private Billings, who, as quondam "trained observer" of his troop, had noted the length of the telegram and the shortness of the allowance therefor.

"What the deuce...?"

"This is more like a 'alf-dollar job, Sir," he groaned, waving the paper, "wot wiv' the haddress an' all."

"Oh--er--yes, bit thick for a bob, perhaps; here's half a sov...."

"_That's_ more like '_'Eres to yer_,' Mr. D----" remarked the good man--outside the door. "And don't yer werry about trifles o' chainge.

Be a gent!"

Lucille read and re-read the telegram in many ways.

"Can do so. Cheer up. Writing his adjutant. Pal of mine coming over Sat.u.r.day. If get leave going Shorncliffe if necessary leave due Dam.

All right will blow over thanks." No, _that_ wouldn't do.

(What a pity people _would_ not remember when writing telegrams that the stops and capitals they put are ignored by the operators.)