“Thought every one had. Hadn’t much reputation as an actress, but more than enough as a—woman. But I ought not to say that—probably not her fault—sorry I did. One morning, early, Mrs. Crespin had been making her own bazaar, and she went into the Dak to ask about a dhursi’s character. She got Crespin’s instead. The rooms open off of the dining-room; Terése Carter, in a thin sort of thing, with all her red hair loose about her, and her door pretty well open, the cotton curtain drawn back—I suppose for the cool, not that there ever is any at Pindi—was sprawled on her bed, and Crespin was sitting—half-sitting on it—on the bed, with a lot of the woman’s red hair held up to his face, and a sick-sheep look in his damned eyes. Mrs. Crespin stood stock-still, Mrs. Lawson said—Dick Lawson’s wife was with her, and saw it all, they’d been making bazaar together—and watched them, then just moved on, and did her errand. She never said a word to Mrs. Lawson, or let her say one word to her—and nobody knew what she said to Crespin afterwards—if she did. I know what pattern most men are cut, Traherne; wouldn’t be much of a C.O. if I didn’t, and you do too, or you’re not much of a doctor. But, damn it all, I’d like to have the hanging of every man that plays that low-down trick on a good wife. And when a scoundrel that does, lets her find him out, in my opinion, that second villainy is worse than the other, by God.”
“And in mine,” the physician said.
“At Sumnee there never had been any hint of that sort of thing in Crespin. Couldn’t be. Not a white woman in Sumnee, you know, except those in his own regiment—till the Dorsets came. Well, Miss Terése Carter wasn’t the last. There have been others since—more or less flagrant. One, at least, a Service woman. The Crespins came back from Rawal Pindi a few days after that—on what terms I never knew. But we could see the breach widen—and could only stand by, and watch it widen, and the misery grow and grow stonier in her face. Now, Dr. Traherne, what have you got to say for Major Crespin?” The Colonel brought his clenched fist down on the table with a blow that sounded like an enraged demand for arnica. “Rather a black, rotten story, eh?”
CHAPTER X
“Very—rotten,” Traherne replied, “and sad.”
“Got anything more to say for Major Crespin?”
“Yes. This. When I was a boy at Harrow, one of the small boys, about the youngest there, Antony Crespin was my fag-master. He was jolly decent to me. He wasn’t much at schools, but every one liked him, masters as well as boys. He was prime at sports; and at everything he had the pluck of a dozen, and he was absolutely straight, and scrupulously fair always. But he always had a hunted look in his eyes. I saw it then, shaver though I was, without understanding it in the least. I understand it now. And I knew—I don’t know how I knew, but I did—that Crespin was unhappy.”
Colonel Agnew hitched impatiently in his chair. All this did not interest him in the remotest. But he did not interrupt. Traherne had listened to his story, he’d listen to Traherne’s. Colonel Agnew too was scrupulously fair always. But he scowled, and his white eyebrows met in their ominous beetling.
“And I knew one other thing about him. He almost never spoke of his people. But I knew, don’t know how again, that he worshiped his mother, and very much less than worshiped his father. He had a photo of Mrs. Crespin—his mother—over his bed. I believe he said his prayers to that picture, and, if he didn’t, he said them about it. It was the photograph of a very beautiful woman, “Mother”—only that—written across one corner. He used to write to her all the time—oftener than any other boy wrote to any one. I used to post his letters often—mostly they were not thin ones—not those to his mother, and I didn’t often have any others to post for him. She came to see him two or three times while he and I were both there—he left long before I did. He was older than I, and going into the Army, of course—they never stay at public school long, as you know. I used to think he half lived for those visits. His joy when he knew that she was coming, and his pride and devotion when she did come—I remember it! She was as beautiful as her picture, sir—and she seemed as fond and proud of him as he was of her. He took me home with him for a week-end once. His people’s place was not very far. They gave me a ripping time—the Saturday. We got there early Saturday morning. I didn’t take to Mr. Crespin—couldn’t have said why not: he was decent to me. But I thought there was an undertone of boorishness in the way he spoke to his wife, a mean look in his eyes—nothing much, couldn’t put my finger on it—I was pretty much of a kid—but I seemed to get it. And I felt sure that Tony and his mother were happier together when Mr. Crespin was not there. And the half-impression I’d got at Harrow that Tony had no special love for his father was considerably deepened, and I gathered too—couldn’t have said how, and couldn’t now—that the boy did not respect the man. Sunday was all right—till dinner. Mrs. Crespin looked queer when she came into the drawing-room, her hair was beautifully done, I remember, kid as I was, wondering how long it had taken her maid to do it, and her gown was A-1, and she smelled of some delicious scent as she moved—almost too much of it, and I thought she had too much powder on, and oughtn’t to have used any, her skin was so beautiful—just like milk, I’d noticed, out in the sunshine when we’d played tennis. By the time we’d finished fish her face was red, and Tony’s was the color of chalk. He talked, how he talked, poor devil!—and I can see the love in his eyes now when he looked at his mother. Mr. Crespin scarcely spoke, but made a capital meal, and watched his wife with a bad smile on his face all the time. Before the poultry was served, I understood—couldn’t help it. Her voice was thick, her hand unsteady, and her face flamed. She didn’t eat much, but she drank—I know now that she couldn’t help it—and her husband twice reminded the butler to fill her glass! When she pushed back her chair, and rose to leave us, she lurched. Tony drew his mother’s arm through his, and led her from the room as if she had been a queen! He didn’t come back till very late. When he did, he didn’t stay long. And he didn’t sleep that night, as he had the night before, in the room I did. We left at an unearthly hour on Monday—had to, of course—and I didn’t see Mrs. Crespin to say good-by.”
Colonel Agnew cleared his throat. “Do you mean?” he began. “Do you believe——”