“Ashes be damned!”
Chapter XXIII.
The Scourge of Memory
The next morning as Storm was on the point of starting for his office Homachi ushered in a visitor. He was a sturdy, well-built man with sandy hair and a lean, lantern-jawed face, and as he advanced and stood fumbling with his cap only a slight limp and sag of one hip betrayed the artificial limb which replaced the one he had left in France.
“Well, MacWhirter,” Storm began cordially, and then his tone sharpened. “There isn’t anything wrong at Greenlea?”
“No, sir.” The erstwhile gardener shifted uneasily. “Everything is right as can be. Since you left me there as caretaker there’s been nothing for me to do; not even a stray dog to be warned off the place.”
“Then sit down, man, and tell me what brings you here.” There was a trace of impatience now in Storm’s voice. Another reminder of Greenlea and what had happened there!
“Well, sir, it’s just that; I’ve not enough to do.” MacWhirter eased himself down gingerly upon the edge of a chair. “I’m not earning what you pay me and I’m well fit——”
He flushed, glancing down at his curiously stiffened leg, and Storm said hastily:
“Of course you are! You’re in every way as efficient as you were before the war. I put you in charge because you are a responsible man and I trusted you. All I want is to have the place guarded and looked after during my absence.”
“I know, sir. I’ve kept the flowers up, though you told me not to bother, because it’s a rare fine garden to go to waste and because the mistress took such pride in it, begging your pardon, sir. I’ve never forgot her kindness in keeping my place open for me and sending me word at the hospital that no matter how bad I was hurt I was to come back.” The man’s honest eyes misted and his voice grew unsteady, but he controlled it respectfully after a moment’s pause. “If I felt that the place or you, sir, actually needed me I’d stay on, but——”