The Pomp of Yesterday Part 8

'Yes, Captain Lus...o...b... I hope you are well, sir.'

He spoke as though nothing out of the ordinary had taken place.

'But--but--this is great!' I gasped. 'Tell me, how did you do it?'

But he had no time to answer the question, as at that moment orders came for us to report ourselves.

Never had I seen a man so excited as the colonel was when the story was told to him. First of all he stared at us as though we were madmen, then laughter overcame his astonishment, and he fairly roared with merriment.

'The brigadier and the divisional general must hear of it at once!' he cried. 'Why, it is the greatest thing since the war began! And you did nothing, Lus...o...b..?'

'Nothing,' I said; 'this man did it all.' And I enlarged upon the difficulties of the situation, and the way Paul Edgec.u.mbe had overcome them.

'Well, Edgec.u.mbe,' I said, when at length I had an opportunity of speaking to him alone, 'give me an account of yourself. Where have you been? what have you been doing? and how have things been going with you?'

'All right, sir. As to where I have been, and what I have been doing, it's not worth telling about.'

'You don't mind my asking you awkward questions, do you?'

'Not a bit. Ask what you like, sir.'

'Has your memory come back?'

A shadow pa.s.sed over his face, and a suggestion of the old yearning look came into his eyes.

'No,--no, nothing. Strange, isn't it? Ever since that day when I found myself a good many miles away from Bombay, and realized that I was alive, everything stands out plainly in my memory; but before that,--nothing. I could describe to you in detail almost everything that has taken place since then. But there seems to be a great, black wall which hides everything that took place before. I shudder at it sometimes because it looks so impenetrable. Now and then I have dreams, the same old dreams of black, evil faces, and flashing knives, and cries of agony; but they are only dreams,--I remember nothing.'

'During the time you were in England training,' I said, 'you went to various parts of the country?'

'Yes, I was in Exeter, Swindon, Bramshott, Salisbury Plain.'

'And you recognized none of them, you'd no feeling that you had seen those places before?'

'No.'

'Faces, now,' I urged; 'do you ever see faces which suggest people you have known in the past?'

He was silent for two or three seconds.

'Yes, and no,' he replied. 'I see faces sometimes which, while they don't cause me to remember, give me strange fancies and incomprehensible longings. Sometimes I hear names which have the same effect upon me.'

'And your memory has been good for ordinary things?'

He laughed gaily. 'I think that whatever I went through has increased my powers of memory,--that is, those things that took place since I woke up. If you will ask the sub., or the drill sergeant who gave me my training, they will tell you that there was never any need to tell me anything twice. I forget nothing, I never have to make an effort to remember. When I hear a thing, or see a man's face, I never forget it.

I worked hard, too. I have read a good deal. I found that I knew nothing of mathematics, and that my knowledge of German and French was very hazy. It is not so now. Things like _that_ have come to me in a miraculous way.'

'Have you tried for a commission?'

'No. I have been offered one, but I wouldn't have it. Something, I don't know what, told me not to. I wouldn't even have a corporal's stripe.'

'And you have no more idea of who you really are than you had when I saw you first?'

'No, not a bit.'

'Let me see if I can help your memory,' I said. 'Devonshire, think of that word, now, and what it represents,--does it bring back anything to you?'

'Nothing, except that yearning. I have a feeling that I know something about it,--a great longing to--to--I hardly know what.'

I tried him a little farther. 'Granitelands,--does that mean anything to you?'

Again he hesitated. 'No, nothing.'

'Can you ever recall any remembrance of, or has the name of Maurice St.

Mabyn any interest for you?'

I asked this because, even in spite of what Captain Springfield had told me, vague fancies had come to me that perhaps there might be some mistake, and--and----but I dared not bring my thoughts to a conclusion.

'Maurice St. Mabyn,' he repeated, 'Maurice St. Mabyn. It might be a name I heard when I was a kiddy, but--no.'

'Norah Blackwater.' I uttered the name suddenly, impressively, and I thought I saw his lips tremble, and certainly his eyes had a far-away look. He was like a man trying to see in a great darkness, trying to outline objects which were invisible to the natural eye.

'That seems like a dream name. Who is she? Why do you ask about her?'

'I am trying to help you,' I said. 'She is a lady I met at the house of Sir Roger Granville. She must be about twenty-five, perhaps not quite so old, a tall, stylish-looking girl. I expect by this time she is engaged to a fellow called George St. Mabyn. He is a brother to Maurice, who was killed in Egypt.'

'Maurice killed in Egypt!' he repeated.

'Yes. I think Maurice had a friend called Springfield.'

'I remember that,--Springfield. Springfield,--Springfield.'

For a moment there was a change in his voice, a change, too, in the look of his eyes. At least I thought so. I could fancy I detected anger, contempt; but perhaps it was only fancy, and it was only for a moment.

'A tall, dark fellow. He has rather a receding forehead, black hair streaked with grey, a thin, somewhat cadaverous-looking face, deep-set eyes, a scar on his cheek, just below his right temple.'

He laughed again. 'By Jove, sir,' he said, 'you might be describing a man I know. I seem to see his face as plainly as I see yours. I don't think I like him, either, but--but--no, it has gone, gone! Have you any suspicions about me? Have _you_ found out anything?'

'No,' I said, 'I have found out nothing. But I have a hundred suspicions. You see, you interested me tremendously when I saw you first, and I wondered greatly about you. I was awfully disappointed when I could not find you.'

'Why should you want to find me?' he asked.

'Because I told some one about you, and she got tremendously interested. She got angry with me because I had lost sight of you.'

'Who was she, sir?'

'Her name is Lorna Bolivick, and, I say,--I have something to show you.' And I searched in my tunic until I had found the previous year's diary in which I had written the promise.

'There,' I said, and opened the diary at May 29.