I
“What a queer little place, Jimmy!” The girl glanced round the tiny restaurant with frank interest, and the man looked up from the menu he was studying with a grin.
“Don’t let Fran?ois hear you say that, or you’ll be asked to leave.” The head-waiter was already bearing down on them, his face wreathed in an expansive smile of welcome. “To him it is the only restaurant in London.”
“Ah, m’sieur! it is long days since you were here.” The little Frenchman rubbed his hands together delightedly. “And mam’selle—it is your first visit to Les Coquelins, n’est-ce-pas?”
“But not the last, I hope, Fran?ois,” said the girl with a gentle smile.
“Ah, mais non!” Outraged1 horror at such an impossible idea shone all over the head-waiter’s face. “My guests, mam’selle, they come here once to see what it is like—and they return because they know what it is like.”
Jimmy Lethbridge laughed.
“There you are, Molly,” he cried. “Now you know what’s expected of you. Nothing less than once a week—eh, Fran?ois?”
“Mais oui, m’sieur. There are some who come every night.” He produced his pencil and stood waiting. “A few oysters,” he murmured. “They are good ce soir: real Whitstables. And a bird, M’sieur Lethbridge—with an omelette aux fines herbes——”
“Sounds excellent, Fran?ois,” laughed the man. “Anyway, I know that once you have decided2—argument is futile3.”
“It is my work,” answered the waiter, shrugging his shoulders. “And a bottle of Corton—with the chill just off. Toute de suite4.”
Fran?ois bustled5 away, and the girl looked across the table with a faintly amused smile in her big grey eyes.
“He fits the place, Jimmy. You must bring me here again.”
“Just as often as you like, Molly,” answered the man quietly, and after a moment the girl turned away. “You know,” he went on steadily6, “how much sooner I’d bring you to a spot like this, than go to the Ritz or one of those big places. Only I was afraid it might bore you. I love it: it’s so much more intimate.”
“Why should you think it would bore me?” she asked, drawing off her gloves and resting her hands on the table in front of her. They were beautiful hands, ringless save for one plain signet ring on the little finger of her left hand. And, almost against his will, the man found himself staring at it as he answered:
“Because I can’t trust myself, dear; I can’t trust myself to amuse you,” he answered slowly. “I can’t trust myself not to make love to you—and it’s so much easier here than in the middle of a crowd whom one knows.”
The girl sighed a little sadly.
“Oh, Jimmy, I wish I could! You’ve been such an absolute dear. Give me a little longer, old man, and then—perhaps——”
“My dear,” said the man hoarsely7, “I don’t want to hurry you. I’m willing to wait years for you—years. At least”—he smiled whimsically—“I’m not a little bit willing to wait years—really. But if it’s that or nothing—then, believe me, I’m more than willing.”
“I’ve argued it out with myself, Jimmy.” And now she was staring at the signet ring on her finger. “And when I’ve finished the argument, I know that I’m not a bit further on. You can’t argue over things like that. I’ve told myself times out of number that it isn’t fair to you——”
He started to speak, but she stopped him with a smile.
“No, dear man, it is not fair to you—whatever you like to say. It isn’t fair to you even though you may agree to go on waiting. No one has a right to ask another person to wait indefinitely, though I’m thinking that is exactly what I’ve been doing. Which is rather like a woman,” and once again she smiled half sadly.
“But I’m willing to wait, dear,” he repeated gently. “And then I’m willing to take just as much as you care to give. I won’t worry you, Molly; I won’t ask you for anything you don’t feel like granting me. You see, I know now that Peter must always come first. I had hoped that you’d forget him; I still hope, dear, that in time you will——”
She shook her head, and the man bit his lip.
“Well, even if you don’t, Molly,” he went on steadily, “is it fair to yourself to go on when you know it’s hopeless? There can be no doubt now that he’s dead; you know it yourself—you’ve taken off your engagement ring—and is it fair to—you? Don’t worry about me for the moment—but what is the use? Isn’t it better to face facts?”
“Of course it is, Jimmy. Much better. I always tell myself that in my arguments.” Then she looked at him steadily across the table. “You’d be content, Jimmy—would you?—with friendship at first.”
“Yes,” he answered quietly. “I would be content with friendship.”
“And you wouldn’t bother me—ah, no! forgive me, I know you wouldn’t. Because, Jimmy, I don’t want there to be any mistake. People think I’ve got over it because I go about; in some ways I have. But I seem to have lost something—some part of me. I don’t think I shall ever be able to love a man again. I like you, Jimmy—like you most frightfully—but I don’t know whether I’ll ever be able to love you in the way I loved Peter.”
“I know that,” muttered the man. “And I’ll risk it.”
“You dear!” said the girl—and her eyes were shining. “That’s where the unfairness comes in. You’re worth the very best—and I can’t promise to give it to you.”
“You are the very best, whatever you give me,” answered the man quietly. “I’d sooner have anything from you than everything from another woman. Oh, my dear!” he burst out, “I didn’t mean to worry you to-night—though I knew this damned restaurant would be dangerous—but can’t you say yes? I swear you’ll never regret it, dear—and I—I’ll be quite content to know that you care just a bit.”
For a while the girl was silent; then with a faint smile she looked at him across the table.
“All right, Jimmy,” she said.
“You mean you will, Molly?” he cried, a little breathlessly.
And the girl nodded.
“Yes, old man,” she answered steadily. “I mean I will.”
· · · · ·
It was two hours later when Molly Daventry went slowly upstairs to her room and shut the door. Jimmy Lethbridge had just gone; she had just kissed him. And the echo of his last whispered words—“My dear! my very dear girl!”—was still sounding in her ears.
For a while she stood by the fireplace smiling a little sadly. Then she crossed the room and switched on a special light. It was so placed that it shone directly on the photograph of an officer in the full dress of the 9th Hussars. And at length she knelt down in front of the table on which the photograph stood, so that the light fell on her own face also—glinting through the red-gold of her hair, glistening9 in the mistiness10 of her eyes. For maybe five minutes she knelt there, till it seemed to her as if a smile twitched11 round the lips of the officer—a human smile, an understanding smile.
“Oh, Peter!” she whispered, “he was your pal13. Forgive me, my love—forgive me. He’s been such a dear.”
And once again the photograph seemed to smile at her tenderly.
“It’s only you, Peter, till Journey’s End—but I must give him the next best, mustn’t I? It’s only fair, isn’t it?—and you hated unfairness. But, dear God! it’s hard.”
Slowly she stretched out her left hand, so that the signet ring touched the big silver frame.
“Your ring, Peter,” she whispered, “your dear ring.”
II
It was in a side-street close to High Street, Kensington, that it happened—the unbelievable thing. Fate decided to give Jimmy two months of happiness; cynically15 allowed him to come within a fortnight of his wedding, and then——
For a few seconds he couldn’t believe his eyes; he stood staring like a man bereft16 of his senses. There on the opposite side of the road, playing a barrel-organ, was Peter himself—Peter, who had been reported “Missing, believed killed,” three years before. Peter, whom a sergeant17 had categorically said he had seen killed with his own eyes. And there he was playing a barrel-organ in the streets of London.
Like a man partially18 dazed Jimmy Lethbridge went over towards him. As he approached the player smiled genially19, and touched his cap with his free hand. Then after a while the smile faded, and he stared at Jimmy suspiciously.
“My God, Peter!” Lethbridge heard himself say, “what are you doing this for?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” demanded the player. “And who the hell are you calling Peter?”
“No!” returned the other truculently22. “And I don’t want to, neither.”
“A ruddy torf, ’e is, Bill,” chimed in the girl.
“Good God!” muttered Lethbridge, even then failing to understand the situation. “You playing a barrel-organ!”
“Look here, ’op it, guv’nor.” Peter spoke with dangerous calmness. “I don’t want no blinking scenes ’ere. The police ain’t too friendly as it is, and this is my best pitch.”
“But why didn’t you let your pals23 know you were back, old man?” said Jimmy feebly. “Your governor, and all of us?”
“See ’ere, mister,” the girl stepped forward, “?’e ain’t got no pals—only me. Ain’t that so, Billy?” she turned to the man, who nodded.
“I looks after him, I do, d’yer see?” went on the girl. “And I don’t want no one coming butting24 their ugly heads in. It worries ’im, it does.”
“But do you mean to say——” began Jimmy dazedly25, and then he broke off. At last he understood, something if not all. In some miraculous26 way Peter had not been killed; Peter was there in front of him—but a new Peter; a Peter whose memory of the past had completely gone, whose mind was as blank as a clean-washed slate27.
“How long have you been doing this?” he asked quietly.
“Never you mind,” said the girl sharply. “He ain’t nothing to you. I looks after ’im, I do.”
Not for a second did Jimmy hesitate, though deep down inside him there came a voice that whispered—“Don’t be a fool! Pretend it’s a mistake. Clear off! Molly will never know.” And if for a moment his hands clenched28 with the strength of the sudden hideous29 temptation, his voice was calm and quiet as he spoke.
“That’s where you’re wrong.” He looked at her gently. “He is something to me—my greatest friend, whom I thought was dead.”
“I don’t remember yer, guv’nor,” he said, and Jimmy flinched32 at the appalling33 accent. “I’ve kind o’ lost my memory, yer see, and Lizzie ’ere looks after me.”
“I know she does,” continued Jimmy quietly. “Thank you, Lizzie, thank you a thousand times. But I want you both to come to this house to-night.” He scribbled34 the address of his rooms on a slip of paper. “We must think what is best to be done. You see, Lizzie, it’s not quite fair to him, is it? I want to get a good doctor to see him.”
“I’m quite ’appy as I am, sir,” said Peter. “I don’t want no doctors messing about with me.”
“Yer’d better go, Bill.” The girl turned to him. “The gentleman seems kind. But”—she swung round on Jimmy fiercely—“you ain’t going to take ’im away from me, guv’nor? ’E’s mine, yer see—mine——”
“I want you to come with him to-night, Lizzie,” said Lethbridge gravely. “I’m not going to try and take him away from you. I promise that. But will you promise to come? It’s for his sake I ask you to bring him.”
For a while she looked at him half fearfully; then she glanced at Peter, who had apparently35 lost interest in the matter. And at last she muttered under her breath: “Orl right—I’ll bring him. But ’e’s mine—mine. An’ don’t yer go forgetting it.”
And Jimmy, walking slowly into the main street, carried with him the remembrance of a small determined36 face with the look on it of a mother fighting for her young. That and Peter; poor dazed memory-lost Peter—his greatest pal.
At first, as he turned towards Piccadilly, he grasped nothing save the one stupendous fact that Peter was not dead. Then, as he walked on, gradually the realisation of what it meant to him personally came to his mind. And with that realisation there returned with redoubled force the insidious37 tempting38 voice that had first whispered: “Molly will never know.” She would never know—could never know—unless he told her. And Peter was happy; he’d said so. And the girl was happy—Lizzie. And perhaps—in fact most likely—Peter would never recover his memory. So what was the use? Why say anything about it? Why not say it was a mistake when they came that evening? And Jimmy put his hand to his forehead and found it was wet with sweat.
After all, if Peter didn’t recover, it would only mean fearful unhappiness for everyone. He wouldn’t know Molly, and it would break her heart, and the girl’s, and—but, of course, he didn’t count. It was the others he was thinking of—not himself.
He turned into the Park opposite the Albert Hall, and passers-by eyed him strangely, though he was supremely40 unaware41 of the fact. But when all the demons42 of hell are fighting inside a man, his face is apt to look grey and haggard. And as he walked slowly towards Hyde Park Corner, Jimmy Lethbridge went through his Gethsemane. They thronged43 him; pressing in on him from all sides, and he cursed the devils out loud. But still they came back, again and again, and the worst and most devilish of them all was the insidious temptation that by keeping silent he would be doing the greatest good for the greatest number. Everyone was happy now—why run the risk of altering things?
And then, because it is not good that man should be tempted44 till he breaks, the Fate that had led him to Peter, led him gently out of the Grim Garden into Peace once more. He gave a short hard laugh which was almost a sob, and turning into Knightsbridge he hailed a taxi. It was as it drew up at the door of Molly’s house that he laughed again—a laugh that had lost its hardness. And the driver thought his fare’s “Thank you” was addressed to him. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was the first time Jimmy had prayed for ten years.
“Why, Jimmy, old man—you’re early, I’m not dressed yet.” Molly met him in the hall, and he smiled at her gravely.
“Do you mind, dear,” he said, “if I cry off to-night? I’ve got a very important engagement—even more important than taking you out to dinner, if possible.”
The smile grew whimsical, and he put both his hands on her shoulders.
“It concerns my wedding present for you,” he added.
“From the bridegroom to the bride?” she laughed.
“Of course, dear,” she answered. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got a bit of a head. Though what present you can be getting at this time of day, I can’t think.”
“You mustn’t try to,” said Jimmy. “It’s a surprise, Molly—a surprise. Pray God you like it, and that it will be a success!”
“What’s the matter, dear?” she cried. “Has something happened?”
Jimmy Lethbridge pulled himself together; he didn’t want her to suspect anything yet.
“Good heavens, no!” he laughed. “What should have? But I want to borrow something from you, Molly dear, and I don’t want you to ask any questions. I want you to lend me that photograph of Peter that you’ve got—the one in full dress.”
And now she was staring at him wonderingly.
“Jimmy,” she said breathlessly, “does it concern the present?”
“Yes; it concerns the present.”
“You’re going to have a picture of him painted for me?”
“Something like that,” he answered quietly.
“Oh, you dear!” she whispered, “you dear! I’ve been thinking about it for months. I’ll get it for you.”
She went upstairs, and the man stood still in the hall staring after her. And he was still standing12 motionless as she came down again, the precious frame clasped in her hands.
“You’ll take care of it, Jimmy?” she said, and he nodded.
Then for a moment she laid her hand on his arm.
“I don’t think, old man,” she said quietly, “that you’ll have to wait very long with friendship only.”
The next moment she was alone with the slam of the front-door echoing in her ears. It was like Fate to reserve its most deadly arrow for the end.
III
“You say he has completely lost his memory?”
Mainwaring, one of the most brilliant of London’s younger surgeons, leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at his host.
“Well, he didn’t know me, and I was his greatest friend,” said Lethbridge.
The two men were in Jimmy’s rooms, waiting for the arrival of Peter and the girl.
“He looked at me without a trace of recognition,” continued Lethbridge. “And he’s developed a typical lower-class Cockney accent.”
“Interesting, very,” murmured the surgeon, getting up and examining the photograph on the table. “This is new, isn’t it, old boy; I’ve never seen it before?”
“From his people, I suppose? Do they know?”
“No one knows at present, Mainwaring—except you and me. That photograph I got this afternoon from Miss Daventry.”
Something in his tone made the surgeon swing round.
“You mean your fiancée?” he said slowly.
“Yes—my fiancée. You see, she was—she was engaged to Peter. And she thinks he’s dead. That is the only reason she got engaged to me.”
For a moment there was silence, while Mainwaring stared at the other. A look of wonder had come into the doctor’s eyes—wonder mixed with a dawning admiration48.
“But, my God! old man,” he muttered at length, “if the operation is successful——”
“Can you think of a better wedding present to give a girl than the man she loves?” said Jimmy slowly, and the doctor turned away. There are times when it is not good to look on another man’s face.
“And if it isn’t successful?” he said quietly.
“God knows, Bill. I haven’t got as far as that—yet.”
And it was at that moment that there came a ring at the front-door bell. There was a brief altercation49; then Jimmy’s man appeared.
“Two—er—persons say you told them——” he began, when Lethbridge cut him short.
“Show them in at once,” he said briefly, and his man went out again.
“You’ve got to remember, Bill,” said Jimmy as they waited, “that Peter Staunton is literally50, at the moment, a low-class Cockney.”
Mainwaring nodded, and drew back a little as Peter and the girl came into the room. He wanted to leave the talking to Jimmy, while he watched.
“Good evening, Lizzie,” Lethbridge smiled at the girl reassuringly51. “I’m glad you came.”
“A doctor,” said Jimmy. “I want him to have a look at Peter later on.”
“Well, at Bill, then. Don’t be frightened, Lizzie; come farther into the room. I want you to see a photograph I’ve got here.”
Like a dog who wonders whether it is safe to go to a stranger, she advanced slowly, one step at a time; while Peter, twirling his cap awkwardly in his hands, kept beside her. Once or twice he glanced uneasily round the room, but otherwise his eyes were fixed30 on Lizzie as a child looks at its mother when it’s scared.
“My God, Jimmy!” whispered the doctor, “there’s going to be as big a sufferer as you if we’re successful.”
And he was looking as he spoke at the girl, who, with a sudden instinctive53 feeling of protection, had put out her hand and taken Peter’s.
Like a pair of frightened children they crept on until they came to the photograph; then they stopped in front of it. And the two men came a little closer. It was the girl who spoke first, in a low voice of wondering awe54:
“Gawd! it’s you, Bill—that there bloke in the frame. You were a blinking orficer.”
With a look of pathetic pride on her face, she stared first at the photograph and then at the man beside her. “An orficer! Bill—an orficer! What was ’is regiment55, mister?” The girl swung round on Jimmy. “Was ’e in the Guards?”
“No, Lizzie,” said Lethbridge. “Not the Guards. He was in the cavalry56. The 9th Hussars,” and the man, who was holding the frame foolishly in his hands, suddenly looked up. “The Devil’s Own, Peter,” went on Lethbridge quietly. “C Squadron of the Devil’s Own.”
But the look had faded; Peter’s face was blank again.
“I don’t remember, guv’nor,” he muttered. “And it’s making me ’ead ache—this.”
With a little cry the girl caught his arm, and faced Lethbridge fiercely.
“Wot’s the good of all this?” she cried. “All this muckin’ abaht? Why the ’ell can’t you leave ’im alone, guv’nor? ’E’s going to ’ave one of ’is ’eads now—’e nearly goes mad, ’e does, when ’e gets ’em.”
“I think, Lizzie, that perhaps I can cure those heads of his.”
It was Mainwaring speaking, and the girl, still holding Peter’s arm protectingly, looked from Lethbridge to the doctor.
“And I want to examine him, in another room where the light is a little better. Just quite alone, where he won’t be distracted.”
But instantly the girl was up in arms.
“You’re taking ’im away from me—that’s wot yer doing. And I won’t ’ave it. Yer don’t want to go, Bill, do yer? Yer don’t want to leave yer Liz?”
And Jimmy Lethbridge bit his lip; Mainwaring had been right.
“I’m not going to take him away, Lizzie,” said the doctor gently. “I promise you that. You shall see him the very instant I’ve made my examination. But if you’re there, you see, you’ll distract his attention.”
She took a step forward, staring at the doctor as if she would read his very soul. And in the infinite pathos57 of the scene, Jimmy Lethbridge for the moment forgot his own suffering. Lizzie—the little slum girl—fighting for her man against something she couldn’t understand; wondering if she should trust these two strangers. Caught in a net that frightened her; fearful that they were going to harm Bill. And at the bottom of everything the wild, inarticulate terror that she was going to lose him.
“You swear it?” she muttered. “I can see ’im after yer’ve looked at ’im.”
“I swear it,” said Mainwaring gravely.
She gave a little sob. “Orl right, I believe yer on the level. You go with ’im, Bill. Perhaps ’e’ll do yer ’ead good.”
“?’E’s queer sometimes at night,” said Lizzie, as the door closed behind Mainwaring. “Seems all dazed like.”
“Is he?” said Jimmy. “How did you find him, Lizzie?”
“?’E was wandering round—didn’t know nuthing about ’imself,” she answered. “And I took ’im in—and looked after ’im, I did. Saved and pinched a bit, ’ere and there—and then we’ve the barrel-organ. And we’ve been so ’appy, mister—so ’appy. Course ’e’s a bit queer, and ’e don’t remember nuthing—but ’e’s orl right if ’e don’t get ’is ’eadaches. And when ’e does, I gets rid of them. I jest puts ’is ’ead on me lap and strokes ’is forehead—and they goes after a while. Sometimes ’e goes to sleep when I’m doing it—and I stops there till ’e wakes again with the ’ead gone. Yer see, I understands ’im. ’E’s ’appy with me.”
She was staring at the photograph—a pathetic little figure in her tawdry finery—and for a moment Jimmy couldn’t speak. It had to be done; he had to do it—but it felt rather like killing58 a wounded bird with a sledge-hammer—except that it wouldn’t be so quick.
“He’s a great brain surgeon, Lizzie—the gentleman with Bill,” he said at length, and the girl turned round and watched him gravely. “And he thinks that an operation might cure him and give him back his memory.”
“So that ’e’d know ’e was an orficer?” whispered the girl.
“So that he’d know he was an officer,” said Jimmy. “So that he’d remember all his past life. You see, Lizzie, your Bill is really Sir Peter Staunton—whom we all thought had been killed in the war.”
“Sir Peter Staunton!” she repeated dazedly. “Gawd!”
“He was engaged, Lizzie,” he went on quietly, and he heard her breath come quick—“engaged to that lady.” He pointed59 to a picture of Sybil on the mantelpiece.
“No one wouldn’t look at me with ’er about,” said the girl thoughtfully.
“She loved him very dearly, Lizzie—even as he loved her. I don’t think I’ve ever known two people who loved one another quite so much. And——” for a moment Jimmy faltered60, then he went on steadily: “I ought to know in this case, because I’m engaged to her now.”
And because the Cockney brain is quick, she saw—and understood.
“So if yer doctor friend succeeds,” she said, “she’ll give yer the chuck?”
“Yes, Lizzie,” answered Jimmy gravely, “she’ll give me the chuck.”
“And yer love ’er? Orl right, old sport. I can see it in yer face. Strikes me”—and she gave a little laugh that was sadder than any tears—“strikes me you ’anded out the dirty end of the stick to both of us when you come round that street to-day.”
“Strikes me I did, Lizzie,” he agreed. “But, you see, I’ve told you this because I want you to understand that we’re both of us in it—we’ve both of us got to play the game.”
“Play the game!” she muttered. “Wot d’yer want me to do?”
“The doctor doesn’t want him excited, Lizzie,” explained Lethbridge. “But he wants him to stop here to-night, so that he can operate to-morrow. Will you tell him that you want him to stop here?—and stay here with him if you like.”
“And to-morrer she’ll tike ’im.” The girl was staring at Sybil’s photograph. “?’E won’t look at me—when ’e knows. Gawd! why did yer find ’im—why did yer find ’im? We was ’appy, I tells yer—’appy!”
She was crying now—crying as a child cries, weakly and pitifully, and Lethbridge stood watching her in silence.
“Poor kid!” he said at length. “Poor little kid!”
“I don’t want yer pity,” she flared61 up. “I want my man.” And then, as she saw Jimmy looking at the photograph on the mantelpiece, in an instant she was beside him. “Sorry, old sport,” she whispered impulsively62. “Reckon you’ve backed a ruddy loser yourself. I’ll do it. Shake ’ands. I guess I knew all along that Bill wasn’t really my style. And I’ve ’ad my year.”
“You’re lucky, Lizzie,” said Jimmy gravely, still holding her hand. “Very, very lucky.”
“I’ve ’ad my year,” she went on, and for a moment her thoughts seemed far away. “A ’ole year—and——” she pulled herself together and started patting her hair.
“And what, Lizzie?” said Jimmy quietly.
“Never you mind, mister,” she answered. “That’s my blooming business.”
And then the door opened and Mainwaring came in.
“Does Lizzie agree?” he asked eagerly.
“Yes, Bill—she agrees,” said Jimmy. “What do you think of him?”
“As far as I can see there is every hope that an operation will be completely successful. There is evidently pressure on the right side of the skull63 which can be removed. I’ll operate early to-morrow morning. Keep him quiet to-night—and make him sleep, Lizzie, if you can.”
“What d’yer think, mister?” she said scornfully. “Ain’t I done it fer a year?”
Without another word she left the room, and the two men stood staring at one another.
“Yes—she’ll play the game,” answered Lethbridge slowly. “She’ll play the game—poor little kid!”
“What terms are they on—those two?” The doctor looked at him curiously.
“I think,” said Lethbridge even more slowly, “that that is a question we had better not inquire into too closely.”
IV
It was successful—brilliantly successful—the operation. Lizzie made it so; at any rate she helped considerably65. It was she who held his hand as he went under the an?sthetic; it was she who cheered him up in the morning, when he awoke dazed and frightened in a strange room. And then she slipped away and disappeared from the house. It was only later that Lethbridge found a scrawled66 pencil note, strangely smudged, on his desk:
“Let me no wot appens.—Lizzie.”
He didn’t know her address, so he couldn’t write and tell her that her Bill had come to consciousness again, completely recovered except for one thing. There was another blank in his mind now—the last three years. One of his first questions had been to ask how the fight had gone, and whether we’d broken through properly.
And then for a day or two Lizzie was forgotten; he had to make his own renunciation.
Molly came, a little surprised at his unusual invitation, and he left the door open so that she could see Peter in bed from one part of his sitting-room67.
“Where have you buried yourself, Jimmy?” she cried. “I’ve been——” And then her face grew deathly white as she looked into the bedroom. Her lips moved, though no sound came from them; her hands were clenching68 and unclenching.
“But I’m mad,” he heard her whisper at length, “quite mad. I’m seeing things, Jimmy—seeing things. Why—dear God! it’s Peter!”
She took a step or two forward, and Peter saw her.
“Molly,” he cried weakly, “Molly, my darling——”
And Jimmy Lethbridge saw her walk forward slowly and uncertainly to the man who had come back. With a shaking little cry of pure joy she fell on her knees beside the bed, and Peter put a trembling hand on her hair. Then Jimmy shut the door, and stared blankly in front of him.
It was Lizzie who roused him—Lizzie coming shyly into the room from the hall.
“I seed her come in,” she whispered. “She looked orl right. ’Ow is ’e?”
“He’s got his memory back, Lizzie,” he said gently. “But he’s forgotten the last three years.”
“Forgotten me, as ’e?” Her lips quivered.
“Yes, Lizzie. Forgotten everything—barrel-organ and all. He thinks he’s on sick leave from the war.”
“And she’s wiv ’im now, is she?”
“Yes—she’s with him, Lizzie.”
She took a deep breath—then she walked to the glass and arranged her hat—a dreadful hat with feathers in it.
“Well, I reckons I’d better be going. I don’t want to see ’im. It would break me ’eart. And I said good-bye to ’im that last night before the operation. So long, mister. I’ve ’ad me year—she can’t tike that away from me.”
And then she was gone. He watched her from the window walking along the pavement, with the feathers nodding at every step. Once she stopped and looked back—and the feathers seemed to wilt69 and die. Then she went on again—and this time she didn’t stop. She’d “?’ad ’er year,” had Lizzie; maybe the remembrance of it helped her gallant70 little soul when she returned the barrel-organ—the useless barrel-organ.
“So this was your present, Jimmy.” Molly was speaking just behind him, and her eyes were very bright.
“Yes, Molly,” he smiled. “Do you like it?”
“I don’t understand what’s happened,” she said slowly. “I don’t understand anything except the one big fact that Peter has come back.”
“Isn’t that enough?” he asked gently. “Isn’t that enough, my dear? Peter’s come back—funny old Peter. The rest will keep.”
And then he took her left hand and drew off the engagement ring he had given her.
“Not on that finger now—Molly; though I’d like you to keep it now if you will.”
For a while she stared at him wonderingly.
“Jimmy, but you’re big!” she whispered at length. “I’m so sorry!” She turned away as Peter’s voice, weak and tremulous, came from the other room.
“Come in with me, old man,” she said. “Come in and talk to him.”
But Jimmy shook his head.
“He doesn’t want me, dear; I’m just—just going out for a bit——”
Abruptly he left the room—they didn’t want him: any more than they wanted Lizzie.
Only she had had her year.
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1
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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2
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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3
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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6
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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7
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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8
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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9
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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10
mistiness
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| n.雾，模糊，不清楚 | |
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11
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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12
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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13
pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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14
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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15
cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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16
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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17
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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18
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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19
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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20
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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21
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
truculently
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23
pals
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| n.朋友( pal的名词复数 )；老兄；小子；（对男子的不友好的称呼）家伙 | |
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24
butting
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| 用头撞人（犯规动作） | |
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25
dazedly
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| 头昏眼花地，眼花缭乱地，茫然地 | |
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26
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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27
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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28
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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30
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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31
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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32
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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34
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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35
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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36
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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37
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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38
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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39
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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40
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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41
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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42
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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43
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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45
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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46
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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47
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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48
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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49
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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50
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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51
reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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52
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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53
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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54
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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55
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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56
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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57
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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58
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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59
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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60
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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61
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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62
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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63
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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64
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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65
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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66
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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68
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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69
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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70
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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