The Pomp of Yesterday

by Joseph Hocking

CHAPTER III

THE STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF GEORGE ST. MABYN

One was a tall, stylishly dressed, handsome girl, of striking appearance. I had almost called her a woman, for although she was still young, her appearance could not be called strictly girlish. She might be about twenty-five years of age, and her face, though free from lines, suggested a history. I thought, too, that there was a lack of frankness in her face, and that she had a furtive look in her eyes. There was nothing else in her appearance, however, which suggested this. She gave me a pleasant greeting, and expressed the hope that we should have a good meeting in the little town near Granitelands, which was the name of Lord Granville's house.

'I have heard such tremendous things about you, Captain Luscombe,' she said, 'that I am quite excited. Report has it that you are quite an orator.'

'Report is a lying jade,' I replied; 'still, I suppose since the people at the War Office think I am no use as a fighter, they must use me to persuade others to do their bit.'

'Of course I am going,' she laughed, 'although, personally, I don't like the Army.'

'Not like the Army, Norah!' It was the other girl who spoke, and who thus drew my attention to her.

I was not much impressed by Lorna Bolivick when I had been first introduced to her, but a second glance showed me that she was by far the more interesting of the two. In one sense, she looked only a child, and I judged her to be about nineteen or twenty years of age. She had all a child's innocence, and naïveté, too; I thought she seemed as free from care as the lambs I had seen sporting in the meadows, or the birds singing among the trees. I judged her to be just a happy-go-lucky child of nature, who had lived among the shoals of life, and had never realized its depths. Her brown eyes were full of laughter and fun. Her frank, untrammelled ways suggested a creature of impulse.

'That girl never had a care in her life,' I reflected; 'she's just a happy kid who, although nearly a woman in years, is not grown up.'

I soon found myself mistaken, however. Something was said, I have forgotten what, which evidently moved her, and her face changed as if by magic. The look of carelessness left her in a moment, her great brown eyes burned with a new light, her face revealed possibilities which I had not dreamt of. I knew then that Lorna Bolivick could feel deeply, that she was one who heard voices, and had plumbed the depths of life which were unknown to the other.

She was not handsome, a passing observer would not even call her pretty, but she had a wondrous face.

'Do you like my name, Captain Luscombe?' she asked.

'It is one of the most musical I know,' I replied.

'I don't like it,' she laughed. 'You see, in a way it gives me such a lot to live up to. I suppose dad was reading Blackmore's great novel when I was born, and so, although all the family protested, he insisted on my being called Lorna. But I'm not a bit like her. She was gentle, and winsome, and beautiful, and I am not a bit gentle, I am not a bit winsome, and I am as ugly as sin,—my brothers all tell me so. Besides, in spite of the people who talk so much about Lorna Doone, I think she was insipid,—a sort of wax doll.'

Just then we heard the tooting of a motor horn, and turning, saw a car approaching the house.

'There's George St. Mabyn,' cried Sir Roger. 'You're just in time,
George,—I was wondering if you would be in time for our early dinner.'

Immediately afterwards, I was introduced to a young fellow about twenty-eight years of age, who struck me as a remarkably good specimen of the English squire class. He had, as I was afterwards told, conducted himself with great bravery in Belgium and France, and had been mentioned in the dispatches. I quickly saw that Sir Roger Granville had been right when he said that George St. Mabyn was deeply in love with Norah Blackwater. In fact, he took no trouble to hide the fact. He flushed like a boy as he approached her, and then, as I thought, his face looked pained as he noticed her cold greeting. They were evidently well known to each other, however, as he called her by her Christian name, and assumed the attitude of an old friend.

I did not think Lorna Bolivick liked him. Her greeting was cordial enough, and yet I thought I detected a certain reserve; but of course it might be only my fancy. In any case, they were nothing to me. I was simply a bird of passage, and would, in all probability, go away on the morrow, never to see them again.

During the informal and somewhat hurried evening meal which had been prepared, I found myself much interested in the young squire. He had a frank, boyish manner which charmed me, and in spite of his being still somewhat of an invalid, his fresh, open-air way of looking at things was very pleasant.

'By the way, Luscombe,' said Sir Roger, as the ladies rushed away to their rooms to prepare for their motor drive, 'tell St. Mabyn about that fellow we were talking of to-day; he'll be interested.'

'It's only a man I met with in Plymouth some time ago, who has lost his memory,' I responded.

'Lost his memory? What do you mean?'

I gave him a brief outline of the story I have related in these pages, and then added: 'It is not so strange after all; I have heard of several cases since, where, through some accident, or shock, men have been robbed of the past. In some cases their memory has returned to them suddenly, and they have gone back to their people, who had given them up for dead. On the other hand, I suppose there have been lots who have never recovered.'

'The thing that struck me,' said Sir Roger, 'was the possibility of a very interesting dénouement in this case. I was chairman of the meeting at Plymouth, where the fellow enlisted, and he struck me as an extraordinary chap. He had all the antiquity of Adam on his face, and yet he might have been young. He had the look of a gentleman, too, and from what Luscombe tells me, he is a gentleman. But there it is; he remembers nothing, the past is a perfect blank to him. What'll happen, if his memory comes back?'

'Probably nothing,' said St. Mabyn; 'he may have had the most humdrum past imaginable.'

'Of course he may, but on the other hand there may be quite a romance in the story. As I said to Luscombe, he may have a wife, or a sweetheart, who has been waiting for him for years, and perhaps given him up as dead. Think of his memory coming back, and of the meeting which would follow! Or supposing he is an heir to some estate, and somebody else has got it? Why, George, think if something like that had happened to your brother Maurice! It might, in fact it would alter everything. But there are the motors at the door; we must be off.'

He turned toward the door as he spoke, and did not see George St. Mabyn's face; but I did. It had become drawn and haggard, while in his eyes was a look which suggested anguish.

In spite of myself, a suspicion flashed across my mind. Of course the thing was improbable, if not impossible. But, perhaps influenced by Sir Roger's insistence upon the romantic possibilities of the story, I could not help thinking of it. There could be no doubt, too, that George St. Mabyn looked positively ghastly. A few minutes before, he looked ruddy and well, but now his face was haggard, as if he were in great pain.

Of course it was all nonsense; nevertheless I caught myself constantly thinking about it on my way to the meeting. In fact, so much did it occupy my attention that Lorna Bolivick, who sat with me in the car, laughingly suggested that I was a dull companion, and was evidently thinking more about my speech than how to be agreeable to a lady.

'St. Mabyn ought to be the speaker, not I,' I said. 'He has been to the front, and knows what real fighting means.'

'Oh, George can't speak,' she replied laughingly; 'why, even when he addressed his tenants, after Maurice was killed, he nearly broke down.'

'What sort of fellow was Maurice?' I asked.

'Oh, just splendid. Everybody loved Maurice. But he ought not to have stayed in the Army.'

'Why?'

'Because,—because—oh, I don't know why, but it didn't seem right. His father was old and feeble when he went away, and as he was the heir he ought to have stayed at home and looked after him, and the estate. But he would go. There were rumours about trouble in Egypt, and Maurice said he wanted to see some fighting. I suppose it was his duty, too. After all, he was a soldier, and when his regiment was ordered abroad, he had to go. But it seems an awful shame.'

'What kind of a looking fellow was he?'

'I don't think I am a judge; I was only a kiddy at the time, and people said I made an idol of Maurice. But to me he was just splendid, just the handsomest fellow I ever saw. He had such a way with him, too; no one could refuse him anything.'

'I suppose he was engaged to Miss Blackwater?'

The girl was silent. Evidently she did not wish to talk about it.

'Were the two brothers fond of each other?' I asked.

'Oh, yes, awfully fond. The news of Maurice's death almost killed George. You see, it happened not long after his father's death. You have no idea how he was cut up; it was just horrible to see him. But he's got over it now. It nearly broke my heart too, so I can quite understand what George felt. But this must be very uninteresting to you.'

'On the other hand, it is very interesting. Did you tell me that
George St. Mabyn was engaged to Miss Blackwater?'

'No, I didn't tell you that.'

'Is he going to be?'

I knew I was rather overstepping the bounds of good taste, but the question escaped me almost before I was aware.

'I don't know. Oh, won't it be lovely when the war is over! You think it will be over soon, don't you?'

'I am afraid not,' I said; 'as far as I can see, we are only at the beginning of it.'

'Have you reason for saying that?'

'The gravest,' I replied; 'why do you ask?'

'Only that I feel so ashamed of myself. Here are you going to a meeting to-night to persuade men to join the Army, while some of us women do practically nothing. But I'm going to; I told dad I should, only this morning, but he laughed at me. He said I should stay at home and stick to my knitting.'

'What did you tell him you were going to do?'

'Train as a nurse. But he wouldn't hear of it. He said it was not a fit thing for a young girl to nurse wounded men. But if they are wounded for their country, surely we women ought to stop at nothing. But here we are at the hall. Mind you make a good speech, Captain Luscombe; I am going to be an awfully severe critic.'

After the meeting, George St. Mabyn returned with us to Granitelands, and Sir Roger, in talking about the men who had volunteered for service that night, again referred to the meeting at Plymouth, and to the man who had enlisted. He also again insisted upon the possible romantic outcome of the situation. Again I thought I saw the haunted look in George St. Mabyn's eyes, and I fancied that the cigar he held between his fingers trembled.

Miss Blackwater, however, showed very little interest in the story, and seemed to be somewhat bored by its recital. Lorna Bolivick, however, was greatly interested.

'And do you mean to say,' she asked, 'that you don't know where he is?'

'I have not the slightest idea.'

'And aren't you going to find out?'

'If I can, certainly.'

'Why,—why,'—and she spoke in a childish, impetuous way—'I think it is just cruel of you. If I were in your place, I wouldn't rest until I had found him. I would hunt the whole Army through.'

'I should have a long job,' I replied. 'Besides, he may not have joined the Army.'

'But he has,—of course he has. He could not help himself. It is your duty to be with him, and to help him. I think you are responsible for him.'

Of course every one laughed at this.

'But I do!' she insisted. 'It was not for nothing that they met like that. Mr. Luscombe was meant to meet him, meant to help him. It was he who persuaded him to join the Army, and now it is his bounden duty to find him out, wherever he is. Why, think of the people who may be grieving about him! Here he is, a gentleman, with all a gentleman's instincts, an ordinary private; and of course having no memory he'll, in a way, be helpless, and may be led to do all sorts of foolish things. I mean it, Captain Luscombe; I think it's just—just awful of you to be so careless.'

Again there was general laughter, and yet the girl's words made me feel uneasy. Although I could not explain it, it seemed to me that some Power higher than our own had drawn us together, that in some way this man's life would be linked with mine, and that I should have to take my part in the unravelling of a mystery.

All this time, George St. Mabyn had not spoken. He sat staring into vacancy, and what he was thinking about it was impossible to tell. Of course the thoughts which, in spite of myself, haunted my mind, were absurd. If I had not seen that ashen pallor come to his face, and caught the haunted look in his eyes, when earlier in the evening Sir Roger Granville had almost jokingly associated the unknown man with Maurice St. Mabyn, I do not suppose such foolish fancies would have entered-my mind. But now, although I told myself that I was entertaining an absurd suspicion, that suspicion would not leave me.

I looked for a resemblance between him and Paul Edgecumbe, but could find none. Was he, I wondered, in doubt about his brother's death? Had he entered into possession on insufficient proof? Many strange things happened in the East; soldiers had more than once been reported to be dead, and then turned up in a most remarkable way. Had George St. Mabyn, in his desire to become owner of the beautiful old house I had seen, taken his brother's death for granted, on insufficient grounds, and had not troubled about it since?

'Promise me,' said Lorna Bolivick, in her impetuous way, 'that you will never rest until you find this man again! Promise me that you will befriend him!' and she looked eagerly into my eyes as she spoke.

'Of course I will,' I said laughingly.

'No, but that won't do. Promise me that you will look for him as if he were your own brother!'

'That's a pretty large order. But why should you be so interested in this stranger?'

'I never give reasons,' she laughed, 'they are so stupid. But you will promise me, won't you?'

'Of course I will,' I replied.

'That's a bargain, then.'

'When are you leaving this neighbourhood?' asked George St. Mabyn, when presently he was leaving the house.

'To-morrow afternoon,' I replied. 'They are working me pretty hard, I can tell you.'

'Won't you look me up to-morrow morning?' he asked. 'There's a man staying with me whom you'd like to know. I tried to persuade him to come to the meeting to-night, but he did not feel up to it. He is convalescing at my place; he's had a baddish time. He could tell you some good stories, too, that would help you in this recruiting stunt.'

'By all means,' said Sir Roger, to whom I looked, as St. Mabyn spoke.
'I can send you over in the car.'

The next day, about eleven o'clock, I started to pay my promised visit, and passed through the same beautiful countryside which had so appealed to me before. I found that St. Mabyn's house was not quite so large as Granitelands, but it was a place to rejoice in nevertheless. It was approached by a long avenue of trees, which skirted park lands where deer disported themselves. Giant oaks studded the park, and the house, I judged, was built in the Elizabethan period. An air of comfort and homeliness was everywhere; the grey walls were lichen-covered, and the diamond-paned, stone-mullioned windows seemed to suggest security and peace.

'I wonder why he wanted me to come here?' I reflected, as the car drew up at the old, ivy-covered porch.