The Pomp of Yesterday Part 53

'I don't quite know. To George St. Mabyn I expect. Awful, isn't it?'

I saw him look at Lorna; but her face told him nothing. She appeared perfectly calm, although I felt sure she was suffering.

'I am awfully sorry your visit should have ended like this, Lus...o...b..,'

said Sir Thomas three hours later; 'but you must come down again when you can get a day or two off. Don't wait for a formal invitation; we shall always be glad to see you.'

'Thank you, I'll take you at your word, Sir Thomas; meanwhile you'll keep me posted up with the news, won't you?'

'You mean about---- Yes, I'll let you know what happens. Where are you going, Lorna?'

'I'm going with Major Lus...o...b.. to the station, if he'll let me,' was her reply.

'You've something to tell me, Lorna,' I said when we had started.

She shook her head.

'You are sure? Has Springfield's death made no difference?'

'No,' she replied, then she hesitated, and repeated the word.

'Jack'll ask you again, Lorna. Of course he's not told me; but he will. He is one who never gives up. Never.'

'It's no use,' she said wearily. 'It's impossible, everything's impossible.'

'Nothing's impossible to a chap like Jack. You don't mean to say that Springfield----'

'Don't,' she pleaded. 'You don't know; he--he doesn't know; if he did----,' and then she lapsed into silence.

'I'm coming down again soon,' I said as I entered the train. 'I promised your father I would.'

'Do, do,' and she held my hand almost feverishly.

CHAPTER XLI

THE NEW HOPE

Nothing more than was absolutely necessary appeared in the newspapers about Springfield's death. In a letter which he wrote before taking his life he explained his action in a few characteristic words.

'Life's not worth living, that's why I'm going to die. I do not wish any question asked of any one why I intend to solve the "great secret,"

very suddenly. I'm tired of the whole show. That's enough explanation for any one. I am quite sane, and I hope no fool set of jurymen will bring in a verdict about my taking my life while in an unsound mind. I am reaping as I've sown, and I dare say if I had been a pattern young man things might have ended differently. But there it is. The game, as far as I am concerned, is not worth the candle. Besides, the game's played out. I am grateful to those of my friends who have been kind to me. The personal letters I am writing must be regarded as private and confidential. By that I mean they must not be read to satisfy the vulgar curiosity of the gaping crowd, and no questions must be asked of their recipients. Their contents are meant only for those to whom they are addressed.'

According to the newspaper reports, no awkward questions were asked of Sir Thomas Bolivick, or any members of the party with whom he had dined the night before he died, and the twelve jurymen who brought in a verdict of suicide said nothing about an 'unsound mind.'

Mention was made, however, of a sealed letter, placed by the side of the one I have copied. This letter bore no address, and nothing was written on the envelope but the words: 'This package must _not_ be opened within a week of my burial.'

Comparing this instruction with the 'open letter,' I judged that the package contained more than one letter, but no further information was given.

At the beginning of August two letters arrived by the same post. One was from Lorna Bolivick, and the other was from my friend. The latter was simply a command to get a few days off, and to come and see him.

He wanted a chat badly, he said, and if I could not get away, he would come to me, but surely I was not so important that I couldn't be spared for a week-end, if not more. He also insisted that I must send him a wire at once.

On opening Lorna's letter, I found practically the same request. The doctor had forbidden her resuming her nursing work for some months, she said, and had suggested that she should go to the seaside. But this she had refused to do, as she hated leaving her home. Besides, her brother Tom might come home on leave almost any day, and she wanted to be there to meet him.

'But you said you promised dad to pay us another visit as soon as you could,' her letter concluded, 'and I am writing to remind you of your promise. You told me you had some leave still due to you after your last visit, so why not come at once? The sooner the better.'

She gave no special reason for asking me to come, but I read into her appeal a desire to tell me something, and perhaps to ask my advice. I therefore had a chat with my C.O., with the result that I started to see my friend the same day.

On arriving at the station I found him on the platform awaiting me.

'Now this is sensible,' he cried with a laugh. 'This is something like dispatch. Come on, I have a motor outside. I suppose you will trust me to drive you.'

'You look fit, anyhow,' I said.

'Fit as a fiddle,' he replied. 'I go back to the front in four days.'

He looked years younger than when I had first seen him. The old wistful look in his eyes had almost entirely gone, while the parchment-like skin had become almost as smooth and ruddy as that of a boy.

'Oh, it has been glorious,' he said. 'I've taken the little mother to all sorts of places, and dad declares she looks twenty years younger.

More than once we've been taken for lovers.'

'And your memory, Jack?'

'Sound as a bell. Wonderful, isn't it? Sometimes I'm almost glad I went through it all. After--after--years of darkness and loneliness, to emerge suddenly into the light! To have a mother, and a father, and--a home!'

'And you and your father get on well together?'

'Yes, in a way. But I have a lot to tell you about that. Here we are!'

I shall not attempt to describe Jack Carbis's home, nor the welcome I received. Had I been their son, Lord and Lady Carbis could not have received me with greater joy.

It was not until late that Jack and I were able to be alone, but at length when the others had gone to bed we found ourselves in a kind of snuggery which had been especially set apart for his own personal use.

'It's great, having you here,' he cried, as he threw himself into an arm-chair; 'great to feel alive, and to remember things. Have you heard from Bolivick?'

'Yes, Sir Thomas sent me a line, also a newspaper containing a report of the inquest. Have you?'

He shook his head. 'We wrote immediately after we left, and Lady Bolivick has written to mother, but--nothing more.'

'Of course you got particulars about Springfield. It seems he left a sealed packet. Did it contain a letter for you?'

'No, nothing. I often wonder who he wrote to. Do you know anything?'

'Nothing. But I propose going to Bolivick to-morrow; perhaps they'll tell me.'

'To-morrow! I say, old man, have you heard from her?'