His distaste and shrinking were perhaps apparent in his face, for it was with a change of tone and hastiness of utterance, as though hurrying away from something, that Mr. Thorpe went on:— “You see,—it’s been my romance, always, Channerley—and all of you. I’ve always followed your lives—always—from a distance—known what you were up to. I’ve made excuses to myself—in the days when I used to go a good deal about the country—to pass by Channerley and just have a glimpse of you. And when I heard that you had done this noble deed,—when I heard what you had done for England, for Channerley, for us all,—I felt I had to come and see you. You must forgive me if I seem a mere intruder. I can’t seem that to myself. I’ve cared too much. And what I came for, really, was to thank you,—to thank you, my dear boy,—and to tell you that because of you, life must be nobler, always, for all of us.”
His words had effaced the silly, groping fear. It was indeed, since his colonel’s visit, the first congratulation he had had from the outer world. The nurses, of course, had congratulated him, and the surgeons; but no one who knew him outside; the kindly telegrams from Robert and Sylvia did not count as congratulations. And in a way poor Mr. Thorpe did know him, and though it was only from him, it had its sweetness. He felt himself flush as he answered, “That’s very kind of you.”
“Oh, no!” said Mr. Thorpe, shaking his head and swinging his foot—Marmaduke knew that from the queer movement of his body as he sat with very tightly folded arms. “Not kind! That’s not the word—from us to you! Not the word at all!”
“I’m very happy, as you may imagine,” said Marmaduke. And he was happy again, and glad to share his happiness with poor Mr. Thorpe. “It makes everything worth while, doesn’t it, to have brought it off at all?”
“Everything, everything—it would; it would, to you. So heroes feel,” said Mr. Thorpe. “To give your life for England. I know it all—in every detail. Yes, you are happy in dying that England may live. Brave boy! Splendid boy!”
Now he was weeping. He had out his handkerchief and his shoulders shook. It made Marmaduke want to cry, too, and he wondered confusedly if the nurse would soon come back. Had not the half hour passed?
“Really—it’s too good of you. You mustn’t, you know; you mustn’t,” he murmured, while the word, “boy—boy,” repeated, made tangled images in his mind, and he saw himself in the white socks and with the little red-and-yellow cart, and then as he had been the other day, leading his men, his revolver in his hand and the bullets flying about him. “And I’m not a boy,” he said; "I’m thirty-four; absurdly old to be only a second lieutenant. And there are so many of us. Why,"—the thought came fantastically, but he seized it, because Mr. Thorpe was crying so and he must seize something,—“we’re as common as daffodils!”
“Ah! not for me! not for me!” Mr. Thorpe gulped quickly. Something had given way in him—as if the word “daffodils” had pressed a spring. He was sobbing aloud, and he had fallen on his knees by the bed and put up his hand for Marmaduke’s. “I cannot keep it from you! Not at this last hour! Not when you are leaving me forever!—My son! My brave son! I am your father, Marmaduke! I am your father, my dear, dear boy!”
III
IT was the stillest room. The two calm bands of blue crossed the window. In the sunlight the gulls came flying back. Marmaduke looked out at them. Were they the same sea-gulls or another flock? Then quietly he closed his eyes. Stillness—calm. But something else was rising to him from them. Darkness; darkness; a darkness worse than death. Oh! death was sweet compared to this. Compared to this all his life had been sweet; and something far dearer than life was being taken from him. He only knew the terrible confusion of his whole nature.