The Pomp of Yesterday Part 3

'That's so. It's years ago now since Maurice's regiment was sent to Egypt, and the engagement, so I am informed, was fixed up the night before he went.'

'And is George St. Mabyn a good chap?'

'Oh, yes. He was a captain in the Territorials before the war broke out, and was very active in recruiting last autumn. In November he got sent to Ypres, and had a rough time there, I suppose. He was there until two months ago, when he was wounded. He's home on leave now.

This war's likely to drag on, isn't it? We've been at it nine months, and there are no signs of the Germans crumbling up.'

'From all I can hear,' I said, 'it was touch and go with us a little while ago. If they had broken through our lines at Ypres, we should have been in a bad way.'

'My word, we should! Still, the way our fellows stuck it was magnificent.'

The car entered the drive just then which led to Sir Roger's place, and after pa.s.sing more than a mile through fine park land, we swept up to an old, grey stone mansion.

'You possess one of the finest specimens of an Old English home that I know, Sir Roger,' I said.

'Yes, I do,' and there was a touch of pride in his voice. 'I love every stone of it,--I love every outbuilding,--I love every acre of the old place. I suppose it's natural, too,--my people have lived here so long. Heavens! suppose the Germans were to get here, and treat it as they have treated the old French chateaux! Hallo, here we are!' and he shouted to some people near the house. 'You see I have brought the orator with me!'

We alighted from the car, and made our way towards three ladies who sat in a secluded nook on the lawn. One I knew immediately as Lady Granville, the other two were strangers to me. But as they will figure more or less prominently in this story, and were closely a.s.sociated with the events which followed, it will be necessary for me to give some description of them.

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 Lus...o...b..,' 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 _navete_, 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 pa.s.sing observer would not even call her pretty, but she had a wondrous face.

'Do you like my name, Captain Lus...o...b..?' 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 cla.s.s. 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 a.s.sumed the att.i.tude 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 pa.s.sage, 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, Lus...o...b..,' 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 _denouement_ 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 Lus...o...b.. 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 Lus...o...b.., 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?'