III
“You say he has completely lost his memory?”
Mainwaring, one of the most brilliant of London’s younger surgeons, leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at his host.
“Well, he didn’t know me, and I was his greatest friend,” said Lethbridge.
The two men were in Jimmy’s rooms, waiting for the arrival of Peter and the girl.
“He looked at me without a trace of recognition,” continued Lethbridge. “And he’s developed a typical lower-class Cockney accent.”
“Interesting, very,” murmured the surgeon, getting up and examining the photograph on the table. “This is new, isn’t it, old boy; I’ve never seen it before?”
“I borrowed it this afternoon,” said Jimmy briefly.
“From his people, I suppose? Do they know?”
“No one knows at present, Mainwaring—except you and me. That photograph I got this afternoon from Miss Daventry.”
Something in his tone made the surgeon swing round.
“You mean your fiancée?” he said slowly.
“Yes—my fiancée. You see, she was—she was engaged to Peter. And she thinks he’s dead. That is the only reason she got engaged to me.”
For a moment there was silence, while Mainwaring stared at the other. A look of wonder had come into the doctor’s eyes—wonder mixed with a dawning admiration.
“But, my God! old man,” he muttered at length, “if the operation is successful——”
“Can you think of a better wedding present to give a girl than the man she loves?” said Jimmy slowly, and the doctor turned away. There are times when it is not good to look on another man’s face.
“And if it isn’t successful?” he said quietly.
“God knows, Bill. I haven’t got as far as that—yet.”
And it was at that moment that there came a ring at the front-door bell. There was a brief altercation; then Jimmy’s man appeared.
“Two—er—persons say you told them——” he began, when Lethbridge cut him short.
“Show them in at once,” he said briefly, and his man went out again.
“You’ve got to remember, Bill,” said Jimmy as they waited, “that Peter Staunton is literally, at the moment, a low-class Cockney.”
Mainwaring nodded, and drew back a little as Peter and the girl came into the room. He wanted to leave the talking to Jimmy, while he watched.
“Good evening, Lizzie,” Lethbridge smiled at the girl reassuringly. “I’m glad you came.”
“Who’s that cove?” demanded the girl suspiciously, staring at Mainwaring.
“A doctor,” said Jimmy. “I want him to have a look at Peter later on.”
“His name ain’t Peter,” muttered the girl sullenly. “It’s Bill.”
“Well, at Bill, then. Don’t be frightened, Lizzie; come farther into the room. I want you to see a photograph I’ve got here.”
Like a dog who wonders whether it is safe to go to a stranger, she advanced slowly, one step at a time; while Peter, twirling his cap awkwardly in his hands, kept beside her. Once or twice he glanced uneasily round the room, but otherwise his eyes were fixed on Lizzie as a child looks at its mother when it’s scared.
“My God, Jimmy!” whispered the doctor, “there’s going to be as big a sufferer as you if we’re successful.”
And he was looking as he spoke at the girl, who, with a sudden instinctive feeling of protection, had put out her hand and taken Peter’s.
Like a pair of frightened children they crept on until they came to the photograph; then they stopped in front of it. And the two men came a little closer. It was the girl who spoke first, in a low voice of wondering awe:
“Gawd! it’s you, Bill—that there bloke in the frame. You were a blinking orficer.”
With a look of pathetic pride on her face, she stared first at the photograph and then at the man beside her. “An orficer! Bill—an orficer! What was ’is regiment, mister?” The girl swung round on Jimmy. “Was ’e in the Guards?”
“No, Lizzie,” said Lethbridge. “Not the Guards. He was in the cavalry. The 9th Hussars,” and the man, who was holding the frame foolishly in his hands, suddenly looked up. “The Devil’s Own, Peter,” went on Lethbridge quietly. “C Squadron of the Devil’s Own.”
But the look had faded; Peter’s face was blank again.
“I don’t remember, guv’nor,” he muttered. “And it’s making me ’ead ache—this.”
With a little cry the girl caught his arm, and faced Lethbridge fiercely.
“Wot’s the good of all this?” she cried. “All this muckin’ abaht? Why the ’ell can’t you leave ’im alone, guv’nor? ’E’s going to ’ave one of ’is ’eads now—’e nearly goes mad, ’e does, when ’e gets ’em.”
“I think, Lizzie, that perhaps I can cure those heads of his.”
It was Mainwaring speaking, and the girl, still holding Peter’s arm protectingly, looked from Lethbridge to the doctor.
“And I want to examine him, in another room where the light is a little better. Just quite alone, where he won’t be distracted.”
But instantly the girl was up in arms.
“You’re taking ’im away from me—that’s wot yer doing. And I won’t ’ave it. Yer don’t want to go, Bill, do yer? Yer don’t want to leave yer Liz?”
And Jimmy Lethbridge bit his lip; Mainwaring had been right.
“I’m not going to take him away, Lizzie,” said the doctor gently. “I promise you that. You shall see him the very instant I’ve made my examination. But if you’re there, you see, you’ll distract his attention.”
She took a step forward, staring at the doctor as if she would read his very soul. And in the infinite pathos of the scene, Jimmy Lethbridge for the moment forgot his own suffering. Lizzie—the little slum girl—fighting for her man against something she couldn’t understand; wondering if she should trust these two strangers. Caught in a net that frightened her; fearful that they were going to harm Bill. And at the bottom of everything the wild, inarticulate terror that she was going to lose him.
“You swear it?” she muttered. “I can see ’im after yer’ve looked at ’im.”
“I swear it,” said Mainwaring gravely.
She gave a little sob. “Orl right, I believe yer on the level. You go with ’im, Bill. Perhaps ’e’ll do yer ’ead good.”
“ ’E’s queer sometimes at night,” said Lizzie, as the door closed behind Mainwaring. “Seems all dazed like.”
“Is he?” said Jimmy. “How did you find him, Lizzie?”
“ ’E was wandering round—didn’t know nuthing about ’imself,” she answered. “And I took ’im in—and looked after ’im, I did. Saved and pinched a bit, ’ere and there—and then we’ve the barrel-organ. And we’ve been so ’appy, mister—so ’appy. Course ’e’s a bit queer, and ’e don’t remember nuthing—but ’e’s orl right if ’e don’t get ’is ’eadaches. And when ’e does, I gets rid of them. I jest puts ’is ’ead on me lap and strokes ’is forehead—and they goes after a while. Sometimes ’e goes to sleep when I’m doing it—and I stops there till ’e wakes again with the ’ead gone. Yer see, I understands ’im. ’E’s ’appy with me.”
She was staring at the photograph—a pathetic little figure in her tawdry finery—and for a moment Jimmy couldn’t speak. It had to be done; he had to do it—but it felt rather like killing a wounded bird with a sledge-hammer—except that it wouldn’t be so quick.
“He’s a great brain surgeon, Lizzie—the gentleman with Bill,” he said at length, and the girl turned round and watched him gravely. “And he thinks that an operation might cure him and give him back his memory.”
“So that ’e’d know ’e was an orficer?” whispered the girl.
“So that he’d know he was an officer,” said Jimmy. “So that he’d remember all his past life. You see, Lizzie, your Bill is really Sir Peter Staunton—whom we all thought had been killed in the war.”
“Sir Peter Staunton!” she repeated dazedly. “Gawd!”
“He was engaged, Lizzie,” he went on quietly, and he heard her breath come quick—“engaged to that lady.” He pointed to a picture of Sybil on the mantelpiece.
“No one wouldn’t look at me with ’er about,” said the girl thoughtfully.
“She loved him very dearly, Lizzie—even as he loved her. I don’t think I’ve ever known two people who loved one another quite so much. And——” for a moment Jimmy faltered, then he went on steadily: “I ought to know in this case, because I’m engaged to her now.”
And because the Cockney brain is quick, she saw—and understood.
“So if yer doctor friend succeeds,” she said, “she’ll give yer the chuck?”
“Yes, Lizzie,” answered Jimmy gravely, “she’ll give me the chuck.”
“And yer love ’er? Orl right, old sport. I can see it in yer face. Strikes me”—and she gave a little laugh that was sadder than any tears—“strikes me you ’anded out the dirty end of the stick to both of us when you come round that street to-day.”
“Strikes me I did, Lizzie,” he agreed. “But, you see, I’ve told you this because I want you to understand that we’re both of us in it—we’ve both of us got to play the game.”
“Play the game!” she muttered. “Wot d’yer want me to do?”
“The doctor doesn’t want him excited, Lizzie,” explained Lethbridge. “But he wants him to stop here to-night, so that he can operate to-morrow. Will you tell him that you want him to stop here?—and stay here with him if you like.”
“And to-morrer she’ll tike ’im.” The girl was staring at Sybil’s photograph. “ ’E won’t look at me—when ’e knows. Gawd! why did yer find ’im—why did yer find ’im? We was ’appy, I tells yer—’appy!”
She was crying now—crying as a child cries, weakly and pitifully, and Lethbridge stood watching her in silence.
“Poor kid!” he said at length. “Poor little kid!”
“I don’t want yer pity,” she flared up. “I want my man.” And then, as she saw Jimmy looking at the photograph on the mantelpiece, in an instant she was beside him. “Sorry, old sport,” she whispered impulsively. “Reckon you’ve backed a ruddy loser yourself. I’ll do it. Shake ’ands. I guess I knew all along that Bill wasn’t really my style. And I’ve ’ad my year.”
“You’re lucky, Lizzie,” said Jimmy gravely, still holding her hand. “Very, very lucky.”
“I’ve ’ad my year,” she went on, and for a moment her thoughts seemed far away. “A ’ole year—and——” she pulled herself together and started patting her hair.
“And what, Lizzie?” said Jimmy quietly.
“Never you mind, mister,” she answered. “That’s my blooming business.”
And then the door opened and Mainwaring came in.
“Does Lizzie agree?” he asked eagerly.
“Yes, Bill—she agrees,” said Jimmy. “What do you think of him?”
“As far as I can see there is every hope that an operation will be completely successful. There is evidently pressure on the right side of the skull which can be removed. I’ll operate early to-morrow morning. Keep him quiet to-night—and make him sleep, Lizzie, if you can.”
“What d’yer think, mister?” she said scornfully. “Ain’t I done it fer a year?”
Without another word she left the room, and the two men stood staring at one another.
“Will she play the game, Jimmy!” Mainwaring was lighting a cigarette.
“Yes—she’ll play the game,” answered Lethbridge slowly. “She’ll play the game—poor little kid!”
“What terms are they on—those two?” The doctor looked at him curiously.
“I think,” said Lethbridge even more slowly, “that that is a question we had better not inquire into too closely.”