Christy spoke of the secret in his own life which only once before he had revealed to Bertram—on a night before a morning of battle.
“When I found that my wife was dragging me down into the dirt of lies, into the squalour of self-pity and spiritual impotence, I left her—with my blessing. It was hard—because I had loved her.”
“Hard on her,” said Bertram.
“For a time,” Christy agreed. “Afterwards she was glad. We had nagged at each other for five years, before the war. That gave her relief. She was sorry I didn’t get killed. Of course I ought to have been, for her sake—perhaps for mine. After the Armistice life became intolerable. She had changed and I had changed—or rather, developed on separate lines. We were worlds apart. She hated my Socialistic tendencies. I hated her damned little suburban philosophy. You see, she’d married beneath her. A clergyman’s daughter. Think of that—with me!”
Bertram remained silent for a while. Was Christy’s story to be repeated in another sphere of life; in another quarter of London? Joyce had married “beneath her”—a peer’s daughter to a lawyer’s son.
“Christy, old man,” he said at last, “I believe in Loyalty. It’s my central faith. Loyalty to one’s country, one’s wife, one’s code of honour. Without that life, to me, is unlivable.”
Christy puffed at his old burnt pipe for several minutes before replying.
“Loyalty’s good,” he admitted presently; “but to the highest and not to the lowest. Loyalty to lies is disloyalty to truth. That’s one of life’s little ironies. A damned nuisance, sometimes!”
The conversation was broken by Janet Welford, who came in to see Christy, whom she loved.