Bretherton
Page 29
He threw out his hands protestingly. “I have been ill,” he repeated desperately. “I… I… you see, I suddenly recovered my memory. It was a shock… all my past life that I had forgotten… before the war… Berlin… everything.”
She dropped the cloak and was watching him with serious eyes.
He went on recklessly: “I remembered dining with you in Berlin… when you were a schoolgirl… and that Englishman, my double… Bretherton, he was there…” He laughed mirthlessly on a high-pitched note. “God, I’m becoming hysterical,” he thought.
She came round the table and held his arms firmly in her hands and gazed earnestly into his face. “You are different,” she murmured in a far-away voice. “Different.”
There was a puzzled expression in her eyes. He tried to draw away, but she held him firmly. Suddenly the expression in her eyes changed. The puzzlement disappeared and was replaced by a startled look. Her grip on his arms tightened and then relaxed. she backed slowly from him.
“You… you are not Otto von Wahnheim,” she cried in a low voice. Enlightenment was dawning in her face. “You”—breathlessly—“you… I know who you are… you are that Englishman… Bretherton.”
An aeroplane shot low overhead, with a sudden gust of sound.
He made a vague gesture with his hands. “I… I am von Wahnheim,” he managed at last.
“No.” She shook her head slowly, but with conviction.
“The only von Wahnheim you have ever known,” he persisted.
Her eyes did not leave his face. “Where is he… the real von Wahnheim?”
He abandoned the useless struggle. “He… he is dead.”
“You… killed him!” The words were scarcely audible.
“No, no. He was missing… killed on the Somme, long ago. You never met him except that once before the war, in Berlin.”
“Are you lying to me?” She was watching him intently with narrowed eyes.
“No. I swear it’s the truth; I swear.” His voice was earnest. “I knew him before the war; shared rooms with him in Berlin. I have not seen him since… nor have you. He was missing on the Somme. I was captured soon after, but escaped. I had a bad time… and… and my memory went. I thought I was von Wahnheim… and all that… Cologne… you know…”
She nodded. She was watching him intently, with ashen face. There was no longer doubt in her eyes.
“Then I was captured by my… the British; knocked on the head… near Arras. I came round in hospital and… remembered everything—myself, von Wahnheim…” He stopped.
“But you came back?”
He passed a hand wearily across his forehead. “Yes. On the way back I was shut in a box, in darkness… for days. And my memory went again. I was von Wahnheim. It came back suddenly, in the General’s car, after I left you… that look in your eyes. I was trying to remember where…” He stopped suddenly.
“Go on.” Her voice was low and commanding.
He remained silent.
“Go on. That look in my eyes,” she reminded him. “You were trying to remember where you had seen it… before?”
He nodded miserably.
“And you remembered? You had seen it before, then?” Her eyes compelled him to look at her. “In… some other woman’s eyes?”
He remained silent. She stamped her foot with sudden fury. “Tell me—tell me. You had seen it before, in the eyes of some English girl?”
The aeroplane shot back overhead with an echoing roar.
He nodded again, miserably. She was silent for a moment, and then demanded: “What did you do when you disappeared?—when you left the division?”
He did not reply.
“Did you go to… to your own people?”
He nodded.
She toyed with a folded map on the table. “And you came back… but not for me.” She looked at him again, and her eyes were hard. “So that is why the division suddenly retreats!”
He made a helpless gesture with his hands. “What was I to do?” he demanded. “It was only to prevent useless waste of life—I swear it. To save the lives of these men I commanded, and of my own countrymen over there.” He flung out a hand towards the window. “And you! What could I do? Good God, don’t you understand that I am two people? That I have the thoughts and feelings of two men—that even now that I am Bretherton, I know what von Wahnheim felt!” He seized her wrists and went on fiercely. “By God, you shall understand—understand that as von Wahnheim I loved you… and love you; but as Bretherton I…” He let fall her hands and turned away. “As Bretherton…”
She nodded slowly. “I understand.”
III
A tap sounded on the door. It opened, and Leo von Arnberg came in. As usual, he was immaculately dressed. He was in the fighting zone, but he wore no shrapnel helmet. The grey service cap, with its shiny black peak and plum-coloured band was set at a jaunty angle. He clicked his heels and saluted.
“I am sorry to intrude, sir,” he cried. “But we really ought to leave. Nearly everyone has gone. The British will be here in under half an hour, and they will be turning their guns on us presently. I have that man you wanted to see outside, sir, but there really is not time now. I am responsible for your safety, sir.”
The sound of a gigantic whip-lash whistled through the sky and was followed by an ear-splitting crack and a patter of falling stones on the roof. Leo von Arnberg smiled and bowed ironically towards the window.
The Duchess Sonia took up her cloak. “Come, Leo; I am ready,” she said. “General von Wahnheim is not coming—yet.”
“But really, sir…” began von Arnberg.
Half-way across the room, the Duchess paused and turned to Bretherton. She spoke in English. “Good-bye, Mr. Bretherton. May you be happy with your English Miss. One thing only I ask of you; do not tell her of me.”
Bretherton bowed low. She turned and swung the cloak over her shoulders. “I am ready, Leo.”
One of the window-panes flew into pieces with a loud report, and almost instantaneously was followed by the dull thud of metal striking a soft substance. Leo von Arnberg spun round like a Russian dancer and collapsed into the chair behind him.
The cloak slid from Sonia’s fingers, and she ran forward with a little cry. Von Arnberg’s face was drawn and ashen under the tan, but he forced a little smile to his pain-twisted lips. His hand was at his shoulder, and beneath the clutching fingers a damp brown stain was slowly spreading. He struggled into a sitting posture and grimaced.
“We must get him away from here,” cried Bretherton, and he ran to the door. At the end of the passage he saw a man in uniform. He called and beckoned to him and returned to von Arnberg. Sonia was trying to open her brother’s tunic, and the pain of the movement caused him to grip the arms of the chair till his knuckles showed white.
Bretherton dropped on one knee beside him. “We must slit the tunic,” he said, and felt in his pockets for a knife. He could not find one. Beside him he saw the legs and lower part of the body of the man he had called in.
“Give me your bayonet,” he cried, and when the man did not answer, he tapped the hanging scabbard without looking up. The man drew his bayonet. Bretherton stood up and put out his hand for it; and then, for the first time, looked at the man.
He stood for a second staring in surprise, with his hand outstretched for the bayonet that was held handle towards him. And then he clenched his fists and strode forward fiercely. “You swine! You dirty swine!” he cried.
Hubbard backed from his accuser. Von Amberg uttered a warning cry as the bayonet point described a semi-circle. But Bretherton, in his wrath, still advanced. The glittering bayonet flickered unsteadily for a second and then swiftly drove forward.
Bretherton staggered back, bent suddenly double. He saw something white slide past him and heard a dull, heavy thud. The Duchess Sonia lay stretched upon the carpet. Von Arnberg rose painfully to his feet. Hubbard was no longer there.
Bretherton was on his knees, swaying, beside the Du
chess. “Look to her, Leo… fainted,” he gasped.
Bretherton staggered back, bent suddenly double.
Painfully and laboriously, von Arnberg applied all the remedies he knew for syncope. Bretherton had his fingers on her pulse, but he could detect no movement.
“Get—get her to the sofa,” came his hoarse voice.
Slowly and painfully, the two wounded men lifted the girl and staggered to the sofa. Bretherton dropped back into a chair. His face was grey and he breathed with difficulty. Von Arnberg worked desperately to restore animation to the silent figure.
Minutes passed. The room was very quiet. Outside, the sounds of war were becoming louder. Painfully and with suppressed groans, Bretherton hoisted himself from the chair and laid a hand on Arnberg’s shoulder.
“It is… no good, Leo… no good. Save yourself… in time.”
Von Arnberg raised a face that was scarcely recognizable and stared stupidly at Bretherton. Bretherton shook him gently. “Hurry, Leo… hurry.”
Von Arnberg rose shakily to his feet. The meaning of the crack of rifles and the zip and plop of bullets outside penetrated his dulled senses. A bullet smacked into the wall opposite the windows.
“Come on, sir,” he gasped.
“No, no.” Bretherton shook his head. “I’m done, Leo. Leave me… while there is time.”
Von Arnberg hooked his arm round Bretherton and tried to raise him, but the pain was too much for his wounded shoulder, and he let go with a groan.
“Good-bye, Leo,” said Bretherton, and held out his hand.
Von Arnberg pressed it. “I will get help,” he said. “I will get you out of this, General.”
He turned and swayed across the room towards the door. And as he went, he fumbled with his pistol holster. “And I’ll get that swine!” he cried fiercely.
Half-way along the narrow passage that led to the side of the château, his legs gave way beneath him; the narrow space echoed to the crack of the pistol in his clutching fingers, and the bullet smacked harmlessly into the wall. He swayed and crashed senseless to the floor.
IV
Among the trees that fronted the château, men were shouting. The sound of English voices came through the long, broken windows to Bretherton, sitting huddled and grey-faced in a chair. He opened his eyes and rose slowly to his feet. Painfully and falteringly, he moved towards the window; but on his way, his eyes encountered the piano, and he turned towards it. A twisted smile flickered for a moment across his face. It was months now since he had played. Inch by inch he neared the chair, grasped it, and lowered himself. His hands spread slowly over the keyboard.
The air he played was Helen’s little song, “Just a song at twilight.” His fingers moved falteringly but more surely as the tune and its associations gripped him. A burst of Lewis-gun fire ripped out in the woods and died away. The end of the war; the last lap. The tune changed to the old war air: “Après la guerre finie.” He played on painfully.
Another not-far-distant shout came through the windows. They were coming, the British vanguard, his old battalion… Gurney, Pagan, and the rest… coming. The tune changed to “Tipperary.” His strength was ebbing, and he had difficulty in seeing; but his fingers needed no eyes to guide them in that tune. He gathered all his strength and played the last chorus firmly and triumphantly:
It’s a long way to Tipperary,
It’s a long way to go.
It’s a long way to Tipperary
And the sweetest girl I know.
Good-bye, Piccadilly; farewell, Leicester Square,
It’s a long, long way to Tipperary,
But my heart’s right there.
The piano ceased. Darkness settled upon him. His leaden arms slid from the keyboard; his head fell forward till it rested upon the rack of the piano.
Somewhere in the silent château, a cautious footstep sounded. Outside, bayonets twinkled among the trees. A sudden rattling roll of Lewis-gun covering fire throbbed through the air. And then, on to the broad stretch of grass fronting the château straggled a line of khaki figures.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
W. F. Morris (1892–1975) was an English novelist best known for Bretherton. Morris served with the 13th Cycle Battalion of the Norfolk Regiment during World War I, reaching the rank of Major at twenty-seven, and was awarded the Military Cross. He wrote ten novels.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1929 by W. F. Morris
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