The Pomp of Yesterday Part 48

She was silent at this, and I went on, 'He spoke to you about it months ago; there in yonder footpath, not half a mile away,--he told you he had given his heart to you. It was madness then, madness,--because he had no name, no career, no position to offer you. His past lay in a mist,--indeed his past might have made it impossible for him to marry you, even if you had loved him. You refused him, told him that what he asked was impossible; but things have changed since then,--now he is a rich man's son,--he can come to you as an equal.'

'But--but----' and then noticing the curious look on her face, I blurted out:

'You're not going to marry Springfield, are you?'

'Yes,' she replied, 'I shall marry Colonel Springfield, if--if----but there,'--and she stopped suddenly,--'I think it is scarcely fair to discuss such things.'

After that she refused to talk about Springfield at all,--indeed I could not understand her. She seemed as though she had a great problem to solve, and was unable to see her way through it.

I had no opportunity of talking with my friend till the next day. His father and mother monopolized him so completely that there was no chance of getting a word alone with him. But when Lord Carbis informed me that he had made arrangements for Lady Carbis and his son to return home, I made my way to him.

'Do you feel well enough for a chat?' I asked.

'Oh, quite,' he replied. 'I was waiting all yesterday for an opportunity, but none came.'

'Edgec.u.mbe,' I said,--'you will forgive me for still calling you that, won't you?--but for the life of me I can't fasten on that new name of yours.'

'Can't you? It's as natural as anything to me now. But call me Jack, will you? I wish you would. Do you know, when I heard the old name the night before last, I--I--but there, I can't tell you. It seemed to open a new world to me,--all my boyhood came back, all those things which made life wonderful. Yes, that's it, call me Jack.'

'Well, then, Jack,' I said, 'I have been wondering. Are your experiences at that Y.M.C.A. hut real to you now?'

'Of course,' he replied quietly; 'why, they are not a matter of memory, you know; they went down to the very depths of life.'

'And the convictions which were the result of those experiences? Do you feel as you did about drink and that sort of thing?'

'Exactly.'

'And you will stand by what you said in London the other night?'

'Of course,--why shouldn't I?'

'I was only wondering. Do you know, Jack,--you will forgive me for saying so, I am sure, but you present a kind of problem to me.'

'Do I?' and he laughed merrily as he spoke. 'You are wondering whether my early a.s.sociations, now that they have come back to me, are stronger than what I have experienced since? Not a bit of it. I did a good deal of thinking last night, after I had got to bed. You see, I tried to work things out, and--and--it is all very wonderful, you know. I wasn't a bad chap in the old days, by no means a pattern young man, but on the whole I went straight,--I wasn't immoral, but I had no religion,--I never thought about it. I had a good house-master when I went to school, and under him I imbibed a sort of code of honour. It didn't amount to very much, and yet it did, for he taught me to be an English gentleman. I was always truthful, and tried to do the straight thing. You know the kind of thing a chap picks up at a big public school. But that night, at the Y.M.C.A. hut, I got down deep. No, no,--early a.s.sociations can't destroy that.'

'And you still hold to what you said at the meeting?'

'Absolutely. Why?'

'I was wondering how it would appeal to your father. You remember you said that you would never benefit by, or partic.i.p.ate in, any gain made by drink, and your father has made most of his money as a brewer and distiller. I wondered how you regarded it now?'

'That is quickly settled,' he replied; 'I shall not benefit by it, of course.'

'Do you mean that?'

'Of course I mean it. Mind, I don't want it talked about,--that is a matter between my father and my own conscience, and one can't talk about such things freely.'

'Surely you are very foolish,' I said. 'Why should you not use the money which will naturally come to you?'

'I don't say I won't _use_ it,' he replied, 'but I will not benefit by it.'

'You mean, then----?'

'I mean that I was a poor man, with nothing but my pay, and that I _am_ a poor man, with nothing but my pay. Thinking as I think, and feeling as I feel, I could not become a rich man by money got in--that is, by such means.'

He spoke quietly and naturally, although he seemed a little surprised by my question.

'What will your father say when he knows?'

'I think he _does_ know. He asked me whether I stood by what I said in London.'

'And you told him?'

'Of course I told him.'

'And he,--what did he say?'

'He didn't say anything.'

'Jack,' I went on, 'you must forgive me talking about this, but I only do it, because--you see, we are pals.'

'Of course we are pals. Say what you like.'

'It is all summed up in one name--Lorna.'

A new light came into his eyes immediately, and I saw that his lips became tremulous.

'Yes, what of her?'

'Springfield still means to have her,' I blurted out.

A curious look pa.s.sed over his face, a look which I could not understand. 'Do you know,' he asked eagerly, 'if she is engaged to him?'

'I gather, that so far, there is no engagement, but I believe there is an understanding. He had obtained Sir Thomas's consent, but they were both under the impression at the time that Springfield was your father's heir. Of course, your turning up in such a way makes it a bit rough on Springfield.'

'I shall have a good deal to tell you about Springfield presently,' he said, 'but you have something in your mind. What is it?'

'It is very simple,' I replied. 'If there is no engagement between Lorna and Springfield, and if you come to her as your father's heir, you will of course be an eligible suitor. If you hold by your determination, you are just where you were. How could you ask her to marry you on the pay of a major in the Army? It would not be fair; it would not be honourable.'

'If she loves me, it would be honourable,' he said.

'How could it be honourable for you, with just a major's pay, to go to a girl reared as she has been,--a girl as attractive as she is, and who has only to hold up her finger to a man like Buller, who will own one of the finest estates in Devonshire? You have no right to drag her into poverty, even if she cared for you.'

He rose to his feet, and took a turn across the lawn. 'I see what is in your mind, but my dear Lus...o...b..,'--and then he burst out into a laugh, a laugh that was sad, because it had a touch of hopelessness in it,--'I am afraid we are talking in the clouds,--I am afraid Lorna doesn't love me. If she does, she has shown no sign of it.'

'But are you going to let her go without a struggle?'

He looked at me with flashing eyes. 'I thought you knew me better than that,' he said. 'No, I am going to fight for her, fight to the very last. But if she will not have me as I am,--if she will not have me without my father's money, which I will not take, then--then----'