by Sapper
“We’ll make good, my dear,” she whispered, impulsively. “We’ll make good between us.”
Very tenderly and reverently he bent and kissed her hand.
“You utterly marvellous girl,” he said.
And for a space there was silence, broken only by the ceaseless noise of the tree beetles.
4
Thus did the man who called himself Brown struggle to the foot-hills from which a glimpse of Heaven may be got. And Fate ordained that he should remain there for just one week – a week during which only one person mattered, the wonderful girl who had promised to marry him. He got a tablecloth from the neighbouring store, and carefully mended the broken teapot handle with seccotine, so as to be able to give her tea when she came over to see him. He laid in stocks of grub, and got bowls in which he arranged flowers for her benefit. And, perhaps, greatest wonder of all, the twelve full bottles under his bed remained full.
Of the other side of the case he knew nothing – how should he? He had not been in the Merricks’ bedroom on the night they had learned what had happened – the night he had walked over with Beryl after she had dined with him. He had not seen Julia Merrick positively seize her husband as he came in, and almost shake him in her excitement.
“Tom – it’s too horrible!”
“It’s pretty grim, I admit,” he remarked. “Still I don’t see what’s to be done about it. She seems to have made up her mind.”
“It isn’t as if she loved him even.”
“What’s that?” said her husband. “Doesn’t she love him?”
“Of course she doesn’t. How could she?”
“I dunno. Women do same damned funny things at times. Has she told you she doesn’t?”
“Don’t be an absolute idiot,” cried Julia Merrick. “Do you suppose another woman wants to be told a thing like that? You’ve only got to see them together. Why, he – he almost repels her.”
Tom Merrick yawned hugely.
“Well, my dear – it’s beyond me. If he repels her, why the deuce has she gone and got engaged to him?”
“Because she’s sorry for him. Because she thinks it her job. Because she thinks she’s cured him. Because – oh! a thousand reasons – and not one of them the right one. And from what I know of Beryl, she’ll carry the thing through.”
Her husband turned over sleepily.
“We’d better talk it over, my dear. In the morning,” he added, hopefully.
“There’s nothing to talk over,” said his wife. “The thing’s unnatural. It’s – it’s ghastly. Are you asleep?”
“More or less, my dear.”
“Well, become a little less for a moment. Do you honestly and conscientiously believe that that man is cured?”
“Difficult to say,” he grunted. “Personally, I wouldn’t trust him a yard. Think he’s a hopeless case. Still, you never can tell.”
“Tom, if Beryl were your daughter – would you allow it?”
“Good God! no!” he cried. “What an idea!”
“All right,” said his wife, quietly. “You can go to sleep now.”
And lay awake herself staring into the darkness. Dimly she had feared during the past few weeks that some such complications might occur, but never had she dreamed that Beryl would go to the length of promising to marry the man. That he might fall in love with her she had realised was more than likely: many men did fall in love with Beryl Kingswood. But that she would accept him seemed so staggeringly outrageous that she could still hardly believe it.
What to do? That was the problem.
And as the days passed by it became more acute. She was almost frightened of mentioning the matter to Beryl, because it seemed to make her shut up like an oyster. Obviously she didn’t want to discuss it; just as obviously her nerves were strung up to the danger point. And Julia Merrick could have screamed with the futility of it.
Her husband was no help.
“What can I do, my dear?” he said, continually. “They’re both of age. If Beryl chooses to marry the man I don’t see how we can prevent her. She’s her own mistress. She knows the danger she is running as well as we do. He certainly seems to have kept off the drink these last few weeks.”
“Couldn’t you have a talk with him as man to man?” she urged. “Say to him that it isn’t fair to marry her until he is sure. That he ought to give it a year at least.”
“I’ll have a try,” he said, doubtfully. “But I tell you frankly, Julia, that fellow Brown is a queer customer to tackle. He’s got a way of looking at you which says ‘Go to the devil’, plainer than any language. Drunkard though he is, I give you my word that there are times when he makes me feel like a boy in front of a master.”
“He’s coming over tonight,” said his wife. “Get him alone and try.”
But it wasn’t necessary; as I have said. Fate ordained that Jim Brown should stay on the foothills for just one week. And that night the week was up. Why he should have approached the Merricks’ bungalow from behind instead of going to the front door is just one of those things that happen without reason. But he did – and found himself looking into the room that Julia Merrick called the work-room. Beryl was sitting at the table, and her name was trembling on the tip of his tongue when she looked up and he saw her face. And it seemed as if the world stood still.
He stood there rooted to the spot, staring at hopeless, abject misery and despair. Just for one moment he clutched at the wild hope that she had had bad news. But only for a moment; it wasn’t mail day. There could be only one cause – and he knew it. Standing motionless in the darkness he watched this girl who meant salvation to him – watched her as some stranger might have watched her – impersonally. He felt conscious of only one dominant thought – to find out the truth.
Suddenly the door opened and Julia Merrick came in. He saw her pause for a moment, staring at Beryl; then he heard her speak with a sudden rush.
“My dear, now I know. You can’t do this thing.”
And heard the other answer.
“I must!”
He crept nearer the window; he had to hear everything now.
“Why did you do it, Beryl?”
He listened to the girl’s puzzled – almost halting – explanation. And because the man who called himself Jim Brown had been a person of much understanding before he became a drunkard, he understood perfectly that which only exasperated Julia Merrick.
“He must be told,” said that lady, decisively. “If you don’t – I shall.”
“If you do, Julia,” said the girl, “I will never forgive you. I absolutely forbid you to tell him.”
She stood up, facing the older woman squarely.
“Absolutely, you understand. I’m going through with it. I would never forgive myself if I started him off again.”
“I wish to Heaven he’d have another outburst now – before it’s too late,” said the other. “Beryl – the risk is too ghastly. I know he’s kept off it for a week or two – but he’s a hopeless case. Tom says so. At least, my dear – say that you’ll wait a year. Make him prove himself to that extent.”
The girl shook her head.
“No, dear, I won’t. I believe I can pull him through if I’m with him the whole time. And I can’t be that unless I marry him. My mind is made up, Julia,” she went on, quietly. “I shall marry him whatever you say. And he’s got to go on believing that I’m fond of him, or half my influence will be gone.”
Julia Merrick shrugged her shoulders helplessly.
“So be it, Beryl. It’s your choice. But I think you’re making a terrible mistake.”
“Perhaps I am,” said the girl. “But a mistake is better than a sin. And it would be a sin to turn him down now, when he has fought so hard. Let’s go, Julia; he ought to be here soon.”
The light went out; the room was empty. She would be in the drawing-room by now – sitting in the chair she usually occupied. He had only to go round to the front door and walk in, and he would see her get up with that grav
e little smile of hers and hold out both her hands. And she would say:
“How goes it, old lad?”
And he would answer: “Quite well, my dear – quite well.”
And she would say: “Well played, partner.”
Yes – just go round to the front door and walk in.Wipe these last few minutes off the slate – pretend they had never been. A grave smile flickered round his lips – half-cynical, half-tender. Then, lifting his hand to the salute, the man who called himself Brown turned and walked away into the night.
5
“I’ll come with you, Beryl,” said Tom.
Over the girl’s shoulder he glanced significantly at his wife. It was ten o’clock, and dinner was long since over – the dinner to which Jim Brown had been bidden and failed to appear.
“All right,” said Beryl, quietly. “Just as you like.”
In silence they set out on their twenty-minute walk. The glorious African moon made it almost as light as day, and it wasn’t until they came in sight of Jim Brown’s bungalow that Tom Merrick spoke again.
“My dear,” he said, gravely, “for God’s sake don’t be too disappointed if – if–”
“Please don’t,” she said, “I’d sooner not talk.”
It was as they were walking up the rise to his house that they suddenly heard his voice.
“Parade! ’Shun!”
And the girl stopped dead with a little gasp.
“Let me go first,” said Tom Merrick.
“No,” said Beryl, firmly. “You wait outside.”
She crossed the veranda and pushed open the door. In perfect dressing on the floor stood eleven empty bottles, and on the table in front of him one that was half full. And in front of the eleven was the teapot.
“That gentleman,” he said, gravely indicating the latter, “is the commanding officer. Don’t you think he’s rather a good-looker?”
“Jim,” she said, steadily, “we were expecting you to dinner.”
“The devil you were, my dear,” he answered. “That’s a bit of a break on my part.”
“What are those doing there?” She pointed to the row of bottles.
“My soldiers, darling,” he explained. “I took them out for an airing tonight. To spare your feelings, up to date, I’ve kept them in barracks under the bed, but the little chaps insisted on a field day tonight.”
“You mean to say that you’ve been drinking all this time.”
Her voice was unutterably weary.
“Honesty, my pet, compels me to admit the fact. It was my innate politeness which made me disguise the fact in view of your well-meant efforts on my behalf. Ah! my friend, Mr Merrick, I see. One of those honest pillars of the soil that have made our glorious Empire what it is.”
“So you’ve lied to me,” she whispered. “All this while. Oh! my God!”
And just for one brief moment did the man who had tipped eleven full bottles of whisky down the sink that night falter. Then he steadied himself and rode at the last fence.
“My dear,” he said, gravely, “lie is an ugly word. Shall we say – prevaricated charmingly?”
“A hopeless case, my dear,” said Tom Merrick, as they neared his bungalow. “He’d gone too far.”
And the hopeless case sat at his table staring with hopeless eyes into the night. The bottle in front of him was empty. At last he rose, and with meticulous attention to dressing he placed it in line with the others. He called the squadron to attention and then dismissed them.
And for a space there was silence, broken only by the ceaseless noise of the tree beetles.
THE UNDOING OF MRS CRANSBY
Mrs Cransby was a bad woman. I do not use the adjective in its strict sense: in matters of sex she was much as other women – rather less so perhaps than most. I use it in the same way as it is frequently used about a man by his fellows. And then it generally implies that the gentleman in question is a poor specimen.
Mrs Cransby was a poor specimen, though numbers of the opposite sex took a long time to find it out. She was amazing, in spite of the fact that her tongue was sharper than a serpent’s tooth when she wanted it to be. She was always perfectly dressed, and her figure was divine. Moreover she was pretty. How she had maintained her complexion during years in the East only her maid and she knew. Though possibly her husband when footing the bill for face creams and lotions from England had a shrewd idea. Possibly also he wished her complexion was not quite so wonderful.
But her principal glory was her hair. It was in the days, be it known, before the shingle and the Eton crop, and Mrs Cransby’s hair was undoubtedly very wonderful. Personally, needless to say, I never had the opportunity of seeing it when let down: but judging as a mere male it must have reached nearly to her knees. There were masses of it, coiled about her shapely head. In colour it was exactly the right tinge of auburn: in texture it was like the finest of gossamer silk. At least so Purvis in the Gunners assured me one night in the club, when he ought to have been at home with his wife.
And perhaps because it was so very wonderful Mrs Cransby hated to have it touched. She bit like a snapping dog if it was disturbed even accidentally. And as for anything in the nature of a caress, I understand that no man did it a second time. As a result there was never a hair out of place. At the end of a game of tennis it was still as perfectly arranged as at the beginning: at the conclusion of a dance she might just have left her coiffeur. Which is all I have to say about Mrs Cransby’s hair – a very important factor in this story.
I will come therefore to a very unimportant one – her husband. Only the fact that I have already alluded to him casually justifies the poor devil’s inclusion. He was a mild little individual – something in Woods and Forests – and was always alluded to as Mrs Cransby’s husband. And his sole claim to notoriety was that he supplied the money which Mrs Cransby spent. Of children, needless to say, there were none: Mrs Cransby was not the type of woman to waste her time. And having got so far it occurs to me that a little more justification of my opening sentence is necessary. It shall be given in a nutshell: she was a specialist in other women’s husbands. And fiancés. It was sufficient for Mrs Cransby to know that a man was engaged to a girl for her to appropriate him on the spot. And the astounding thing was that she so frequently succeeded. I think she did it to show her power. She didn’t keep him permanently – two or three months perhaps, according to the value of the specimen. Then she returned him labelled “finished with”, and cast round for someone else. Which made her of course, intensely popular with women.
In many cases no permanent damage was done: in some it was. Little Patricia Tennant for instance broke off her engagement to young Hill in the 10th Lancers because of her. She said she flatly refused to marry another woman’s cast-off. And Hill, whose madness had completely passed, very nearly blew out his brains. Stanton, too, in a native Cavalry regiment made a very complete fool of himself over her, at a time when his wife was having her first baby. Which was not at all a good thing to do, and on that occasion even Mrs Cransby’s skin was not thick enough to stand the remarks that were made. So she drifted away just before the baby arrived very much earlier than expected. And two doctors sweating through a sweltering night managed to save the mother’s life.
Then there was — But why enumerate? Mrs Cransby was a bad woman, and this is the tale of her undoing at the hands of MacAndrew sometime doctor and all-time drunkard. And should anyone who reads these words ever meet Mrs Cransby – she lives in London now – let him take warning, and steer clear of mentioning any name that sounds even remotely Scotch. Because she will probably start to bite the furniture, and that would be a spectacle sufficient to shake the strongest nerve.
John MacAndrew was a character. Exactly what had caused his departure from Scotland, I never inquired into. And he was not communicative. But I do know that he was one of the most brilliant students of his year, and that when he chose to, even after twenty-five years of continuous drinking, there was practically no subje
ct on which he could not talk far more intelligently than the majority of people.
He had a small bungalow on the Irrawaddy a few hundred miles up country. There was a branch of a teak company situated there, and originally he had gone up as doctor. And somehow or other he had stayed on, though he had long since ceased to practice. Much as we all liked him, it would have been a stout-hearted man who called in MacAndrew professionally. It was there I first met him, when I was doing Assistant-Manager.
There were ten of us whites in all, though only three others come into this story. Cooper was the Manager – a capable man and a good fellow except in the early morning when he suffered from a liver like a volcano in eruption. He was a widower and his daughter Joan lived with him. And on the subject of Joan Cooper we were all of us partially demented. It wasn’t because she was the only pebble on the beach either: she would have held her own anywhere. A glorious girl – absolutely unspoilt – and radiating cheeriness and affection. But no more. I think we all proposed to her in turn: I know I did – twice. But there was nothing doing: she wouldn’t dream of leaving Daddy.
Until young Jack Congleton arrived. He was a cheery youngster fresh from the Varsity, who was ultimately destined for the headquarter office in London. And he had been sent out to us to learn his job first hand.
It was after he’d been there a week, that the general drift of things became too obvious to be ignored. Even old Cooper, who as a rule saw nothing beyond matters concerning teak, sat up and took notice. Three or four times I caught him studying Jack Congleton thoughtfully in his office, when he should have been finishing important letters. But when all is said and done a prospective son-in-law is as important as any letter.
And there was nothing wrong with young Congleton. He wouldn’t have won a prize in a beauty show, but he was a straight, clean, well set up boy. Moreover from a financial point of view he was eminently satisfactory. He was to be taken into partnership as soon as he returned to England. And though Cooper would have murdered the man who said so, I think the advantages of having a son-in-law as partner in the firm had not escaped him. There comes a time when Burma palls and London calls. Not – to do him justice – that he would have let such an idea influence him for a moment if Congleton had been a wrong ’un. He idolised Joan far too much for that. But it was a factor that counted in young Jack’s claims to eligibility.