Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

  There was one other figure of those days whom Denis encountered twice in the ‘fifties, once for a minute in Pall Mall, when an ill-advised expression of gratitude on the part of Denis curtailed an interchange of much interest, and a few years later at a social function of some magnitude to which Nan enticed her husband. She recognized the tall and lazy-looking gentleman who recognized Denis; in point of fact he was a public man, and far less lazy than he looked; but as Nan did not know him she withdrew to the nearest ottoman, where she looked very beautiful under the glass chandelier of the period (in spite of its unregenerate skirts) during the little conversation which Denis was careful not to cut short again.

  “I hope you saw the news?” said the tall man, as though he and Denis had been meeting every day.

  “The news from where, sir?”

  “Black Hill Flat, if you happen to recollect such a place.”

  “I should think I did!” cried Denis. “But I haven’t seen anything about it in the paper.”

  “I knew you had a good memory,” said the tall man, smiling a little over his beard. “I suppose it doesn’t by any chance hark back to what I told you would some day happen on Black Hill Flat?”

  “Rather!” cried Denis again. “You used to say that gold would be found there sooner or later.”

  “It was found the other day, within a few feet of the top.”

  “You said it would be!”

  “On the Native Youth side, and plenty of it, including a solid lump nearly as big as the one you got out of my old shaft. They call it the Nil Desperandum Nugget, which amuses me, because I never met another man who didn’t despair of the place. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard of it,” said the old deep-sinker, and with his old nod passed on.

  Nan was immensely excited under the glass chandelier; and excitement and bright lights still became her; but Denis had never known his wife so bad a listener.

  “But you know who it is?” she asked him both at beginning and end.

  “Indeed I don’t.”

  “You know that man to speak to, and you don’t know him by name?”

  “No; who is he?”

  And she told him with bated breath.

  THE END

  NO HERO

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER I

  A PLENIPOTENTIARY

  Has no writer ever dealt with the dramatic aspect of the unopened envelope? I cannot recall such a passage in any of my authors, and yet to my mind there is much matter for philosophy in what is always the expressionless shell of a boundless possibility. Your friend may run after you in the street, and you know at a glance whether his news is to be good, bad, or indifferent; but in his handwriting on the breakfast-table there is never a hint as to the nature of his communication. Whether he has sustained a loss or an addition to his family, whether he wants you to dine with him at the club or to lend him ten pounds, his handwriting at least will be the same, unless, indeed, he be offended, when he will generally indite your name with a studious precision and a distant grace quite foreign to his ordinary caligraphy.

  These reflections, trite enough as I know, are nevertheless inevitable if one is to begin one’s unheroic story in the modern manner, at the latest possible point. That is clearly the point at which a waiter brought me the fatal letter from Catherine Evers. Apart even from its immediate consequences, the letter had a prima facie interest, of no ordinary kind, as the first for years from a once constant correspondent. And so I sat studying the envelope with a curiosity too piquant not to be enjoyed. What in the world could so obsolete a friend find to say to one now? Six months earlier there had been a certain opportunity for an advance, which at that time could not possibly have been misconstrued; when they landed me, a few later, there was another and perhaps a better one. But this was the last summer of the late century, and already I was beginning to get about like a lamplighter on my two sticks. Now, young men about town, on two walking-sticks, in the year of grace 1900, meant only one thing. Quite a stimulating thing in the beginning, but even as I write, in this the next winter but one, a national irritation of which the name alone might prevent you from reading another word.

  Catherine’s handwriting, on the contrary, was still stimulating, if indeed I ever found it more so in the foolish past. It had not altered in the least. There was the same sweet pedantry of the Attic e, the same superiority to the most venial abbreviation, the same inconsistent forest of exclamatory notes, thick as poplars across the channel. The present plantation started after my own Christian name, to wit “Dear Duncan!!” Yet there was nothing Germanic in Catherine’s ancestry; it was only her apologetic little way of addressing me as though nothing had ever happened, of asking whether she might. Her own old tact and charm were in that tentative burial of the past. In the first line she had all but won my entire forgiveness; but the very next interfered with the effect.

  “You promised to do anything for me!”

  I should be sorry to deny it, I am sure, for not to this day do I know what I did say on the occasion to which she evidently referred. But was it kind to break the silence of years with such a reference? Was it even quite decent in Catherine to ignore my existence until I could be of use to her, and then to ask the favour in her first breath? It was true, as she went on to remind me, that we were more or less connected after all, and at least conceivable that no one else could help her as I could, if I would. In any case, it was a certain satisfaction to hear that Catherine herself was of the last opinion. I read on. She was in a difficulty; but she did not say what the difficulty was. For one unworthy moment the thought of money entered my mind, to be ejected the next, as the Catherine of old came more and more into the mental focus. Pride was the last thing in which I had found her wanting, and her letter indicated no change in that respect.

  “You may wonder,” she wrote just at the end, “why I have never sent you a single word of inquiry, or sympathy, or congratulation!! Well — suppose it was ‘bad blood’!! between us when you went away! Mind, I never meant it to be so, but suppose it was: could I treat the dear old you like that, and the Great New You like somebody else? You have your own fame to thank for my unkindness! I am only thankful they haven’t given you the V.C.!! Then I should never have dared — not even now!!!”

  I smoked a cigarette when I had read it all twice over, and as I crushed the fire out of the stump I felt I could as soon think of lighting it again as I should have expected Catherine Evers to set a fresh match to me. That, I was resolved, she should never do; nor was I quite coxcomb enough to suspect her of the desire for a moment. But a man who has once made a fool of himself, especially about a woman somewhat older than himself, does not soon get over the soreness; and mine returned with the very fascination which made itself felt even in the shortest little letter.

  Catherine wrote from the old address in Elm Park Gardens, and she wanted me to call as early as I could, or to make any appointment I liked. I therefore telegraphed that I was coming at three o’clock that afternoon, and thus made for myself one of the longest mornings that I can remember spending in town. I was staying at the time at the Kensington Palace Hotel, to be out of the central racket of things, and yet more or less under the eye of the surgeon who still hoped to extract the last bullet in time. I can remember spending half the morning gazing aimlessly over the grand old trees, already prematurely bronzed, and the other half in limping in their shadow to the Round Pond, where a few little townridden boys were sailing their humble craft. It was near the middle of August, and for the first time I was thankful that an earlier migration had not been feasible in my case.

  In spite of my telegram Mrs. Evers wa
s not at home when I arrived, but she had left a message which more than explained matters. She was lunching out, but only in Brechin Place, and I was to wait in the study if I did not mind. I did not, and yet I did, for the room in which Catherine certainly read her books and wrote her letters was also the scene of that which I was beginning to find it rather hard work to forget as it was. Nor had it changed any more than her handwriting, or than the woman herself as I confidently expected to find her now. I have often thought that at about forty both sexes stand still to the eye, and I did not expect Catherine Evers, who could barely have reached that rubicon, to show much symptom of the later marches. To me, here in her den, the other year was just the other day. My time in India was little better than a dream to me, while as for angry shots at either end of Africa, it was never I who had been there to hear them. I must have come by my sticks in some less romantic fashion. Nothing could convince me that I had ever been many days or miles away from a room that I knew by heart, and found full as I left it of familiar trifles and poignant associations.

  That was the shelf devoted to her poets; there was no addition that I could see. Over it hung the fine photograph of Watts’s “Hope,” an ironic emblem, and elsewhere one of that intolerably sad picture, his “Paolo and Francesca”: how I remembered the wet Sunday when Catherine took me to see the original in Melbury Road! The old piano which was never touched, the one which had been in St. Helena with Napoleon’s doctor, there it stood to an inch where it had stood of old, a sort of grand-stand for the photographs of Catherine’s friends. I descried my own young effigy among the rest, in a frame which I recollected giving her at the time. Well, I looked all the idiot I must have been; and there was the very Persian rug that I had knelt on in my idiocy! I could afford to smile at myself to-day; yet now it all seemed yesterday, not even the day before, until of a sudden I caught sight of that other photograph in the place of honour on the mantelpiece. It was one by Hills and Sanders, of a tall youth in flannels, armed with a long-handled racket, and the sweet open countenance which Robin Evers had worn from his cradle upward. I should have known him anywhere and at any age. It was the same dear, honest face; but to think that this giant was little Bob! He had not gone to Eton when I saw him last; now I knew from the sporting papers that he was up at Cambridge; but it was left to his photograph to bring home the flight of time.

  Certainly his mother would never have done so when all at once the door opened and she stood before me, looking about thirty in the ample shadow of a cavalier’s hat. Simply but admirably gowned, as I knew she would be, her slender figure looked more youthful still; yet in all this there was no intent; the dry cool smile was that of an older woman, and I was prepared for greater cordiality than I could honestly detect in the greeting of the small firm hand. But it was kind, as indeed her whole reception of me was; only it had always been the way of Catherine the correspondent to make one expect a little more than mere kindness, and of Catherine the companion to disappoint that expectation. Her conversation needed few exclamatory points.

  “Still halt and lame,” she murmured over my sticks. “You poor thing, you are to sit down this instant.”

  And I obeyed her as one always had, merely remarking that I was getting along famously now.

  “You must have had an awful time,” continued Catherine, seating herself near me, her calm wise eyes on mine.

  “Blood-poisoning,” said I. “It nearly knocked me out, but I’m glad to say it didn’t quite.”

  Indeed, I had never felt quite so glad before.

  “Ah! that was too hard and cruel; but I was thinking of the day itself,” explained Catherine, and paused in some sweet transparent awe of one who had been through it.

  “It was a beastly day,” said I, forgetting her objection to the epithet until it was out. But Catherine did not wince. Her fixed eyes were full of thought.

  “It was all that here,” she said. “One depressing morning I had a telegram from Bob, ‘Spion Kop taken’—”

  “So Bob,” I nodded, “had it as badly as everybody else!”

  “Worse,” declared Catherine, her eye hardening; “it was all I could do to keep him at Cambridge, though he had only just gone up. He would have given up everything and flown to the Front if I had let him.”

  And she wore the inexorable face with which I could picture her standing in his way; and in Catherine I could admire that dogged look and all it spelt, because a great passion is always admirable. The passion of Catherine’s life was her boy, the only son of his mother, and she a widow. It had been so when he was quite small, as I remembered it with a pinch of jealousy startling as a twinge from an old wound. More than ever must it be so now; that was as natural as the maternal embargo in which Catherine seemed almost to glory. And yet, I reflected, if all the widows had thought only of their only sons — and of themselves!

  “The next depressing morning,” continued Catherine, happily oblivious of what was passing through one’s mind, “the first thing I saw, the first time I put my nose outside, was a great pink placard with ‘Spion Kop Abandoned!’ Duncan, it was too awful.”

  “I wish we’d sat tight,” I said, “I must confess.”

  “Tight!” cried Catherine in dry horror. “I should have abandoned it long before. I should have run away — hard! To think that you didn’t — that’s quite enough for me.”

  And again I sustained the full flattery of that speechless awe which was yet unembarrassing by reason of its freedom from undue solemnity.

  “There were some of us who hadn’t a leg to run on,” I had to say; “I was one, Mrs. Evers.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Catherine, then.” But it put me to the blush.

  “Thank you. If you really wish me to call you ‘Captain Clephane’ you have only to say so; but in that case I can’t ask the favour I had made up my mind to ask — of so old a friend.”

  Her most winning voice was as good a servant as ever; the touch of scorn in it was enough to stimulate, but not to sting; and it was the same with the sudden light in the steady intellectual eyes.

  “Catherine,” I said, “you can’t indeed ask any favour of me! There you are quite right. It is not a word to use between us.”

  Mrs. Evers gave me one of her deliberate looks before replying.

  “And I am not so sure that it is a favour,” she said softly enough at last. “It is really your advice I want to ask, in the first place at all events. Duncan, it’s about old Bob!”

  The corners of her mouth twitched, her eyes filled with a quaint humorous concern, and as a preamble I was handed the photograph which I had already studied on my own account.

  “Isn’t he a dear?” asked Bob’s mother. “Would you have known him, Duncan?”

  “I did know him,” said I. “Spotted him at a glance. He’s the same old Bob all over.”

  I was fortunate enough to meet the swift glance I got for that, for in sheer sweetness and affection it outdid all remembered glances of the past. In a moment it was as though I had more than regained the lost ground of lost years. And in another moment, on the heels of the discovery, came the still more startling one that I was glad to have regained my ground, was thankful to be reinstated, and strangely, acutely, yet uneasily happy, as I had never been since the old days in this very room.

  Half in a dream I heard Catherine telling of her boy, of his Eton triumphs, how he had been one of the rackets pair two years, and in the eleven his last, but “in Pop” before he was seventeen, and yet as simple and unaffected and unspoilt with it all as the small boy whom I remembered. And I did remember him, and knew his mother well enough to believe it all; for she did not chant his praises to organ music, but rather hummed them to the banjo; and one felt that her own demure humour, so signal and so permanent a charm in Catherine, would have been the saving of half-a-dozen Bobs.

  “And yet,” she wound up at her starting-point, “it’s about poor old Bob I want to speak to you!”

  “Not in a fix, I hope
?”

  “I hope not, Duncan.”

  Catherine was serious now.

  “Or mischief?”

  “That depends on what you mean by mischief.”

  Catherine was more serious still.

  “Well, there are several brands, but only one or two that really poison — unless, of course, a man is very poor.”

  And my mind harked back to its first suspicion, of some financial embarrassment, now conceivable enough; but Catherine told me her boy was not poor, with the air of one who would have drunk ditchwater rather than let the other want for champagne.

  “It is just the opposite,” she added: “in little more than a year, when he comes of age, he will have quite as much as is good for him. You know what he is, or rather you don’t. I do. And if I were not his mother I should fall in love with him myself!”

  Catherine looked down on me as she returned from replacing Bob’s photograph on the mantelpiece. The humour had gone out of her eye; in its place was an almost animal glitter, a far harder light than had accompanied the significant reference to the patriotic impulse which she had nipped in the bud. It was probably only the old, old look of the lioness whose whelp is threatened, but it was something new to me in Catherine Evers, something half-repellent and yet almost wholly fine.

  “You don’t mean to say it’s that?” I asked aghast.

  “No, I don’t,” Catherine answered, with a hard little laugh. “He’s not quite twenty, remember; but I am afraid that he is making a fool of himself, and I want it stopped.”

  I waited for more, merely venturing to nod my sympathetic concern.

  “Poor old Bob, as you may suppose, is not a genius. He is far too nice,” declared Catherine’s old self, “to be anything so nasty. But I always thought he had his head screwed on, and his heart screwed in, or I never would have let him loose in a Swiss hotel. As it was, I was only too glad for him to go with George Kennerley, who was as good at work at Eton as Bob was at games.”