'Then what do you believe will happen?'

'I am afraid we have dark days before us. As a nation we are putting material gain before moral fitness. The people who are making fortunes out of our national curses are fighting like death for their hand, and the nation seems to believe in a policy of laissez faire. If a man is in earnest about these things, he is called a fanatic. Purge England of her sins, my friend, and God will give us the victory.'

'That's as shadowy as a cloud, and has about as much foundation as a cloud,' I retorted.

'Perhaps events will prove that I am right. Don't let us imagine that God has no other means of working except through big guns. I have read a good deal of history lately, and I have seen that, more than once, when men and nations have been sure that certain things would happen, Almighty God has laughed at them. God answered Job out of the whirlwind; that's what He'll do to England.'

I laughed incredulously.

'All right,' he went on. 'It is very easy to laugh, but I should not be at all surprised if Russia were to make a separate peace with Germany, or if something were to happen to disorganize her forces. Would not that make a tremendous difference to the war?'

'Of course it would, but Russia will make no separate peace, and nothing will happen. Russia's as safe as houses, and as steady as a rock. Don't talk nonsense, old man, and don't conjure up impossible contingencies to bolster up your arguments.'

He was silent a few seconds, then he turned to me and said quietly, 'You know the country pretty well, don't you?'

'Pretty well, I think.'

'Do you think the condition of London represents the nation as a whole?'

'Yes, I think so. I don't say that such things as we witnessed down by Waterloo or in those so-called studios around Chelsea can be seen anywhere except in the big towns and cities, but otherwise I should say that London gives a fair idea of the condition of the country.'

'Let me ask you this, then. Bearing what we have seen in mind, the good as well as the bad, do you think we are ready for victory?'

I was silent for some seconds, then I said somewhat weakly I am afraid, 'You cannot expect us all to be saints, Edgecumbe. Human nature is human nature, and—and—but there is a great deal of good in the country.'

'Doubtless there is. When I think of the quiet determination, the splendid sacrifices, the magnificent confidence of our people, added to the unwearying kindness to the wounded and the needy, I feel like saying we are ready for victory. But could not all that be matched in Germany? With the world against them they have gone straight on. Have we been determined? So have they. Have we made sacrifices? So have they. Have we been confident? They have been more so. I dare say too that with regard to kindness and care for their wounded and dying they could match us. But Germany can't win; if they did, it would be victory for the devil. It would mean a triumph for all that was worst in human life. God Almighty is in His Heaven, therefore whatever else happens German militarism will be crushed, and the world rid of an awful menace. But this is what has impressed me. We as a nation have a unique position in the world, and if history ever meant anything at all, we are called to lead the world to higher things. Our opportunity is tremendous; are we ready for it? I do not close my eyes to all the good there is in the country, and I am sure there are millions who are leading godly, sober lives. But as far as the Government and the great bulk of the country are concerned, we are spiritually dead. I have been studying the utterances of our statesmen, and I have looked too often in vain for anything like idealism and for a vision. You know what the old proverb says, "Where there is no vision, the people perish," and that is what we lack.'

'You are very hopeless,' I laughed.

'No, I am not. I can see that out of this upheaval will come a new England, a new world. But not yet. We are not ready for the Promised Land, not ready for the higher responsibilities to which God is calling us. That is why the victory is delayed. Great God! I wish we had a few men like Admiral Beatty in the Government. We want to be roused out of our sleep, our indifference, our lethargy. When the nation gives itself to God, victory will come.'

I did not pursue the conversation any further. I could see what was in his mind, and I did not think that he looked at facts in their right perspective, although I could not help feeling the tremendous amount of truth in what he said.

The next day he went back to duty, while I was informed that for some time my work would lie at home. A fortnight later Edgecumbe wrote me a letter, telling me that he was ordered to the front. It seems that his colonel was more than ever impressed by his evident knowledge of artillery work, and he was made a special case.

A week later he had left England, while I, little dreaming of what the future would bring forth, remained at home.



CHAPTER XXX

THE MARCH OF EVENTS

The events which I have now to record bring this narrative into this present year of grace 1917. When I started writing, I had but little idea of the things I should have to narrate. The drama was then only partially acted, the story was not complete. As the reader may remember, when I was in Exeter, shortly after I had first met Edgecumbe, and had been telling Sir Roger Granville what little I knew of his history. Sir Roger was much interested. He said that the whole case promised great things, and that anything might happen to him, that he might have a wife living, and that he might be heir to big possessions, and that when some day his memory was restored to him many romantic things might come to pass.

Although I did not say so at the time, his words aroused my imagination, and when, months later, I fell in with Edgecumbe again, having some little time at my disposal, I set down as well as my memory would serve the story of our meeting, and what had happened subsequently.

The remainder of this narrative will, to an extent, be in the nature of a diary, for so close are some of the events at the time of which I am writing, that their recital becomes a record of what took place only a few weeks ago. It is many months ago since first I took pen in hand to set forth Edgecumbe's story, and now, as I draw near to what, as far as this history is concerned, is its ending, I am almost afraid to write of certain things in detail, for fear of wounding some of the people who are yet alive, and who may feel sensitive that I am making their doings public.

The year 1916 was drawing to an end when I received Edgecumbe's first letter after he had returned to the front.

'It's miserably cold, miserably wet, and frightfully unpleasant out here,' he wrote; 'still, it is better for me than it is for many others. Would you believe it, Luscombe, but Colonel —— has said so many kind things about me that I find myself a marked man. I have already got my full lieutenancy, and am down for my captaincy. Not long after I came here, I was brought before a very "big pot," whose name I dare not mention, but who is supposed to be the greatest artillery officer in the British Army. He put me through the severest examination I have ever had, and I scarcely knew whether I was standing on my head or my heels. He was very kind, however, and by and by we got talking freely, and I suppose I must have interested him in certain theories I had formed about artillery work. Anyhow, I am to be given my captaincy, and all sorts of important work is being put in my hands. There are big movements on foot, my friend,—what they are, I dare not tell you, but if they are successful they will, from a military standpoint, form an epoch in the history of this war.

'With regard to our prospects out here, I am exceedingly optimistic. The men are splendid, and although the conditions are hard, our health sheet is exceedingly good. From the standpoint of military preparedness, things look very rosy; but concerning the other things about which you and I did not agree I am not at all happy. I am a soldier, and I am inclined to think that as a boy I was trained for a soldier. I judge, too, that I have some aptitude in that direction. I believe, too, that the Almighty is using our military powers for a purpose, but I am sure that if England believes that this tremendous upheaval is going to be settled by big guns,—much as I realize the power of big guns, England will be mistaken. Unless we recognize the moral forces which are always at work, we shall not be ready in the hour of crisis.'

When I replied to this letter, I took no notice whatever of these reflections; indeed, I scarcely saw what he meant. I congratulated him most heartily on his phenomenally rapid promotion, and told him that he would soon be colonel, and that this was only a step to higher things.

As all the world knows, the events of the 1917 have followed each other with startling and almost bewildering rapidity. Indeed, from the time when Edgecumbe returned to the front, it is almost impossible to estimate the far-reaching results of what was taking place. The evacuation of large tracts of land by the Germans, the giving up of their Somme front, was more significant than we at the time realized. Then came the fulfilment of the German threat that on February 1 there would be unrestricted murder at sea, when vessels of all nationality, whether neutral or otherwise, would be attacked. At first we could scarcely believe it, it seemed too horrible to contemplate. War had ceased to be war; 'rules of the game' were no longer known as far as the Germans were concerned. Then came the Prime Minister's statement that the food supplies of the country had become very low, and that the strictest economy would have to be used. Appeals were made to the nation to conserve all our food resources, while the Germans jubilantly proclaimed that in three months we should be starved into submission.

'I suppose,' Edgecumbe wrote, 'that it is bad form on my part to say "I told you so"; but I saw this coming months ago. Indeed, no one could have an intelligent appreciation of German psychology without knowing that it must come. I am told that food is now only obtainable at famine prices at home, and that there is a cry on every hand,—"Eat less bread." But think of the mockery of it, my friend! While there is a threatened bread famine, beer is still manufactured. And that which was intended to provide food for the people is being used to make beer. If the Germans bring us to our knees, it will be our own fault. If the resources of the nation had not been squandered in this way, we could laugh at all the Germans say they are going to do.'

Then news came which staggered Europe and set the world wondering. The Revolution had broken out in Russia,—the Czar and Czarina became practically prisoners, the Russian bureaucracy fell, and although the Revolution was practically bloodless, that great Empire was reduced to a state of chaos. Of course our newspapers made it appear as though everything were in our favour; that the old days of corruption and Czardom were over, and that the people, freed from the tyranny and the ghastly incubus of autocracy, would now rise in their might and their millions, and would retrieve what they had lost in the Eastern lines. Some prophesied that the Revolution in Russia was but the beginning of a movement which should destroy all autocratic Governments and, with the establishment of that movement, the end of war would come. Then little by little it leaked out that liberty had become a licence,—that the Russian Army had become disorganized,—that the Socialistic element among the Russians had demanded peace at any price. Soldiers refused to fight, men deserted by the thousand, while Russian soldiers fraternized with the Germans.

'Aren't we living in great times,' Edgecumbe wrote to me,—'surely the greatest times ever known! They stagger the imagination,—they leave our minds bewildered,—they shatter our little plans like a strong wind destroys castles of cards made by children. God is speaking, my friend. Will England be wise, and hear His voice? Will we learn that, although the voice of great guns is loud, and the power of explosives mighty, yet they are not final in the affairs of men and nations? Why, our plans out here have been blown to smithereens by what has taken place many hundreds of miles away! We had everything in readiness, and, humanly speaking, it seemed as though nothing could have stopped our advance. We had the Germans on toast,—we took Vimy Ridge, and Lens was in our grasp,—we had advanced miles along the Douay road, and Lille seemed but the matter of a few days. Then God spoke, and Ecco! what were the plans of men? The Huns, of course, took advantage of the new situation, and removed vast hordes of men and guns from the East to the West, and now we are held up. Of course I am disappointed;—looking at the matter from the standpoint of a soldier, it seemed as though nothing could withstand us. But what are the plans of men when God speaks?

'Of course you will say that I am seeming to prove that God is on the side of the Germans and, seeing this Russian Revolution has meant our being held up here, that God Almighty meant that we should not advance. No, my friend, I am not such a fool as to pretend to understand the ways of the Omnipotent, but I have no doubt that this wide and far-reaching movement in Russia will eventually be on our side. It must be. But why will not England learn the lesson which is so plainly written from sky to sky? Why do not the people turn to God,—look to Him for wisdom, and fight in His strength? Then victory would come soon, and gloriously.

'As I said, I am disappointed at our temporary check, but I am convinced it is only temporary. God does things in a big way. He staggers our poor little puny minds by His acts. The world is being re-made; old systems, hoary with age, are being destroyed. The birth of new movements is on foot, new thoughts are in the air, new dreams are being dreamed, and the new age is surely coming. But sometimes it seems as though we have ears, and hear not,—eyes, and see not. God is speaking to us aloud, calling us to repentance, and yet we do not hear His voice, or seek His guidance. Still, we are on the eve of new movements, and out of all the confusion will come a great order, and men will yet see the hand of the Lord.'

His letter had scarcely reached me, when the news came that America had declared war on Germany, and was to act on the side of the Allies. This great free people, numbering a hundred million souls, made up of all nationalities, yet welded into one great nation, had spoken, and had spoken on the side of freedom and righteousness. Even the few who had been downhearted took fresh courage at America's action. The thought that the United States, with its almost illimitable resources of men, of money, and of potentialities, was joining hands with us, made everything possible. I was not surprised at receiving another letter from Edgecumbe.

'At last we have had a prophetic utterance,' he wrote. 'Wilson has spoken, not merely as a politician, or as the head of the American nation, but as a prophet of God. His every word made my nerves tingle, my heart warm. As an Englishman, I felt jealous, and I asked why, during these last months, there had been no voice heard in England, proclaiming the idealism, the inwardness of this gigantic struggle? But as a citizen of the world, I rejoiced with a great joy. I am inclined to think that Wilson's speech will form a new era in the history of men. That for which he contends will slowly percolate through the nations, and peoples of every clime will know and understand that nothing can resist the will of Almighty God.

'What pigmies we are, and for how little do the plans of individuals count! God speaks, and lo the pomp of the Czar becomes but as chaff which the wind drives away! Who would have believed a few months ago that all the so-called glory of the Imperial House of the Romanoffs would become the dream of yesterday? All the long line of Royal sons no longer counts. Czardom with all it meant has gone for ever. The man, whose word a few weeks ago meant glory or shame, life or death, is to-day an exile, a prisoner. His word no more than the cry of a puling child! And to-morrow? God may speak again, and then Kaiserism will fall with all its pomp and vanity.

'Of course I am but a poor ignorant soldier, and my word cannot count for much; but I have a feeling that before many years are over,—perhaps it may be only a matter of months—the Kaiser will either die by his own hand, or else God, through the millions of bereaved and heart-broken people, will hurl him from his throne.

'What is the power of autocratic kings? Only the moaning of night winds. Yesterday it was not, and tomorrow it will not be. But God lives through His people, and that people is slowly moving on to liberty and power. That is why I believe the end of war is drawing near. It is never the people who long for war; it is the kings, the potentates who are ever guilty of making it. Thus when they cease to rule, war will cease, and there will be peace and brotherhood.

'Anyhow, President Wilson has spoken, and he has expressed the highest feelings of the American nation, and although the end of this war may not come as we expect, it will come in the overthrow of Junkerdom and military supremacy.'

After this I did not hear from Edgecumbe for some time, and I began to grow anxious at his long continued silence, then when June of this year arrived, an event took place which overcame me with astonishment.

I had had a hard day at the training camp, and was sitting outside the mess tent, when I felt a hand upon my shoulder, and heard a cheery voice close by me.

'Hulloa, Luscombe, why that pensive brow?'

I looked up and saw my friend standing by me, with his left arm in a sling, looking pale and somewhat haggard, but with a bright light in his eyes.

'Edgecumbe!' I cried. 'Ay, but I am glad to see you! Where did you spring from, and what have you been doing?'

'That's what I've come to tell you,' he said quietly.



CHAPTER XXXI

EDGECUMBE'S RETURN

'You are wounded,' I stammered, scarcely knowing what I was saying. His appearance was so sudden, and unexpected, that I could scarcely believe that it was really he who stood there before me. 'It's not bad I hope?'

'No, not bad. Not enough to make a fuss about;—it might have been, though'; and I noticed that his voice became grave.

'How? What do you mean?'

'I'll tell you some day—soon perhaps. Are you busy?'

'No, my work is over for the day. I am glad to see you, old man. Are you home for long?'

'Yes, a few weeks I expect. You see—I've had a rough time rather—and am a bit knocked about. But I shall pull through.'

His manner was strange; and while he spoke quietly, I felt rather than thought that something out of the ordinary had happened.

He dragged a rough seat up to the side of the tent, and looked across the field where a number of men were encamped.

'Have you heard from her?' he asked suddenly. 'Do you know how she is?'

'No. Directly after we saw her last she returned to her hospital work. I wrote to her once; but she has not replied.'

'Have you heard anything?'

'I know Springfield has been home, and that he's been to see her. I heard from Buller that they were engaged.'

'You mean that it's settled? Has it been publicly announced?' His voice was tense.

'I don't think so. At any rate, I've not seen it in the papers.'

Again he was silent for a few seconds, and noting the far-away look in his eyes, I waited in silence.

'Springfield is still afraid of me,' he said presently.

'Why? Have you seen him?'

'Yes. He and St. Mabyn are still as thick as peas in a pod. They were both at Vimy Ridge, and afterwards at Ypres and Messines.

'Did you speak to them?'

'Rather,' and he laughed curiously. 'I had to.'

'How? What do you mean?'

'You asked me just now why I had not written you for some time. I had my reasons for silence. I was under a cloud for a time, and I wanted things cleared up before telling you anything.'

'Don't speak in riddles, Edgecumbe. What has been the trouble? Tell me quickly.'

'Oh, it's all over now, so I can speak fairly plainly, but for some days it was touch and go with me. Of course they kept in the background, but I was able to trace their handiwork.'

'What handiwork? Come, old man, don't keep me in suspense.'

'Oh, it was the old game. You remember how it was when you were in France, and some fellows shot at me. You remember, too, how I nearly died of poisoning at Bolivick, and that but for you I should have been done for. You said you traced Springfield's hands in everything. He's been trying on the same thing again,—only in another way.'

'What other way?'

He laughed quietly. 'I fancy he thought that when you weren't by I should be easy game, that I should be too simple to see through his plans. But I happened to keep my eyes skinned, as the Americans say. It was this way: by some means or another, some important information went astray, and got into the German lines. Of course the Huns made the most of it, and we suffered pretty heavily. As it happened I was at that time in the confidence of the General in command of the D.H.Q., and there seemed no one else on whom suspicion could fall. But I was warned in time. I had been told that both Springfield and St. Mabyn had been in close confab with the General, and I knew that if they could do me a nasty turn, they would. So I checkmated them.'

'How? Tell me the details.'

'I'm afraid I mustn't do that. You know how military secrets are regarded, and as even yet the scheme I discussed with the General is not completed, my lips are sealed. But I found that Springfield had suggested to the General that my loss of memory was very fishy—a mere blind in fact to cover up a very suspicious past. He also told him he was sure he had seen me, in pre-war days, in Berlin, wearing the uniform of a German officer. Had I not been able to show an absolutely clean sheet I should have been done for. As it was, there was a time when I wouldn't have given a sou for my life. I was, of course, shut off from the General's confidence, and pending the results of the inquiry was practically a prisoner.'

'I say, old man, you can't mean that?'

'Fact, I assure you. Still as nothing, absolutely nothing wrong could be traced to me, and as——'

'Yes, what,' I said as he hesitated.

'Oh, a little thing I was mixed up in came off rather well—very well in fact.'

'What? Don't keep me in suspense, old man.'

'Oh, nothing much; nothing worth talking about. Still I may as well tell you as it's bound to come out. It seems I am to get the D.S.O.'

'The D.S.O.! Great, old man! I congratulate you with all my heart. Tell me about it,' I cried.

'It was really nothing. Still I had concocted a scheme which gave us a big advantage. It was rather risky, but it came off so well that—that—it got to the notice of the G.H.Q. and—and—there you are. When the details of my little stunt became known to the Chief he—he said it was impossible for its author to be anything but a loyal Englishman, that I was a valuable man, and all that sort of rot.'

Of course I read between the lines. I knew Edgecumbe's reticence about anything he had done, and I was sure he had accomplished a big thing.

'It came in jolly handy to me,' he went on, 'for it spiked Springfield's guns right away, and I was regarded as sort of tin god. Congratulations poured in on every hand and—and, but there's no need to say any more about it.'

'And what did Springfield say then?'

'Oh, he was louder in his congratulations than any one. It makes me sick to think of it!'

'But didn't you expose him?'

'I couldn't. You see, I only learnt in a roundabout way that he had tried to poison the General's mind against me, and he very nearly covered his traces everywhere. Oh, he's a clever beggar. Still, you see the situation. It was jolly sultry for a time.'

'I see you have had another move,' I said looking at his uniform.

'Yes, I've had great luck; but don't let's talk any more about me. How are you getting on? And can't you get some leave?'

'I have some due,' I replied, noting the far-away look in his eyes, and wondering what was in his mind. 'Why do you ask?'

'Big things are going to happen,' he said after a long silence.

'What do you mean? Tell me, Edgecumbe, has your memory come back? Have you learnt anything—in—in that direction?'

He shook his head sadly. 'No, nothing. The past is blank, blank. And yet I think sometimes——I say, Luscombe, I wonder who I am? I wonder——'

'And do you still persist in your mad fancies?' I blurted out after a long silence.

'Persist! Mad fancies!' he cried passionately. 'As long as my heart beats, as long as I have consciousness, I shall never cease to—to——I say, old man, get some leave and go with me.'

'Why?' I asked. 'If your mind is made up, seek her out wherever she is. I know she is at a V.A.D. Hospital not far from her home; so your way is plain. You can go to her on more equal terms now. You are a distinguished man now. In a few months you have risen from obscurity to eminence.'

'Don't talk rot. I can never meet her on equal terms.'

'Then why bother about her?'

'Because God has decreed that I shall. But you must go with me, my dear fellow. In ways I can't understand, your life is linked to mine. It was not for nothing that we met down at Plymouth Harbour; it was not without purpose that I was led to love you like a brother.'

'Well, what then?'

'You must go with me. In some way or another, your life is linked to mine, and you must go with me.'

Of course I applied for leave right away, and as I had been working hard all the while Edgecumbe had been in France I was able to get it without difficulty.

'My word, have you seen this, Edgecumbe?' I cried the next afternoon, immediately we had left Salisbury Plain, where I had been stationed.

'What?' he asked.

'This in The Times. They've been cracking you up to the skies.'

'Oh, that,' he replied. 'Yes, I saw it this morning. I see they've made quite a sensational paragraph. I hardly recognize myself.'

As I read the article a second time, I wondered at his indifference. Seldom had such a eulogy appeared in that great newspaper. Evidently the writer had taken considerable pains to get at the facts, and had presented them in glowing colours. There could be no doubt about it that from the standpoint of the Army, his future, if his life was spared, was assured. Not only was he spoken of as a man whose courage was almost unparalleled, but his abilities as a strategist, and his grasp of the broad issues of military affairs were discussed, and recognized in no sparing terms. It seemed impossible that a man who a few months before was a simple private, should now be discussed in such glowing panegyrics.

Greatly elated as I was at the praise bestowed upon my friend, I little realized what it would mean to him during the next few hours.



CHAPTER XXXII

THE GREAT MEETING

'Can't we go down to Devonshire to-night?' cried Edgecumbe, as our train reached London.

'Impossible, my dear fellow,' I replied.

'But why not?' and I could see by the wild longing look in his eyes what he was thinking of.

'Oh, there are a dozen reasons. For one thing, she may not be able to get away from the hospital; for another—I don't think it would be wise.'

'I simply must go, Luscombe! I tell you something's going to happen, something great. I feel it in every breath I draw. We must go—go at once.'

'No,' I replied. 'I wrote her last night, and told her that we should step in London at the National Hotel till we heard from her. If she wants us to come we shan't be long in getting her reply.'

He gave a long quivering sigh, and I could see how disappointed he was, but he said no more about the matter, and when we arrived at the hotel he had seemed to have forgotten all about it.

'Look here,' he cried, pointing to a paragraph in an evening newspaper, 'that's on the right lines. I'm going.'

The paragraph which interested him was a notice of a big meeting that was to be held that night for the purpose of discussing certain phases of the Army, and consequently of the war, about which newspapers were usually silent. The fact that a Cabinet Minister of high rank, as well as a renowned general, were announced to speak, however, caused the news editor to give it prominence.

'It's on the right lines,' he repeated. 'Yes, I'm going.'

'Better go to some place of amusement,' I suggested.

'Nero fiddled while Rome was burning,' was his reply.

A little later we found our way to a huge hall where some thousands of people had gathered. It was evident that the subject to be discussed appealed strongly to a large portion of the population, and that the audience was much interested in the proceedings.

I could see, however, that Edgecumbe was disappointed in the meeting. None of the speakers spoke strongly and definitely. Each enlarged on the difficulties of the situation, and spoke of the impossibility of making men pure by Act of Parliament, but no suggestion was made whereby the evils mentioned might be grappled with and strangled. While all admitted that a frightful state of things existed, and declared that something ought to be done, no one had the courage to demand drastic reforms, or strike a prophetic note. The Cabinet Minister enlarged in a somewhat stilted fashion upon what the Government had done to check drunkenness, while another speaker told of the magnificent work of the Y.M.C.A., and of the hostels and huts which had been provided, both in England and on the Continent; but all felt that the heart of the matter had not been touched. It was not until the General spoke that the audience was anything like aroused, and even he failed to get at close quarters with the evils which all admitted.

Indeed I, who could not see how more could be done than had been done, felt that the meeting was a failure, and as, when the General sat down, the reporters were preparing to leave, and the audience grew restless, I felt that the whole thing was in the nature of a fiasco.

'Let's go, Edgecumbe,' I said.

'No, not yet,' and I saw that he was much excited.

'But the meeting is practically over. There, the chairman is going to call on somebody to propose the usual vote of thanks.'

But he took no notice of me. Instead he rose to his feet, and his voice rang clearly throughout the hall.

'My lord,' he said addressing the chairman, 'I am a soldier just home from the front. May I say a few words?'

It was only then that I realized what a striking figure Edgecumbe was, and although I was almost stunned by his sudden action, I could not help comparing him, as he was now, with the first occasion on which I had seen him. Then, with his nondescript garments, his parchment-like skin, and the look of wistful indecision in his eyes, he was a creature to be pitied. Now, in the uniform of a major, he stood stalwart and erect. In spite of the fact that his left arm was in a sling, there was something commanding in his attitude. His eyes no longer suggested indecision, and his bronzed skin was no longer wrinkled and parchment like. He looked what he was—a tall, strong, capable man, instinct with life and energy.

There was something, too, in the tones of his voice that aroused the interest of the audience, and thousands of eyes were turned towards him.

The chairman adjusted his eye-glasses, and looked at Edgecumbe, who still stood erect, the cynosure of all eyes.

'I am sure,' said the chairman, 'that in spite of the fact that it is growing late, we shall be glad to hear a few words from a soldier just back from the front. Will he kindly come to the platform.'

The audience, doubtless noting Edgecumbe's wounded arm, gave him a cheer as he left his seat, while the reporters, probably hoping for something good in the way of copy, again opened their note-books.

'I asked permission to say a few words, my lord,' he said, 'because I have been deeply disappointed in this meeting. This is a great audience, and it is a great occasion; that is why the lack of an overwhelming conviction, the lack too of anything like vision of the inwardness of the problem under discussion is so saddening. I had hoped for a message to the heart of the nation; I had waited to hear the Voice of God, without which all such gatherings as this must be in vain.'

He hesitated a second, and I feared lest he had lost thread of his thought, feared too lest after his somewhat flamboyant commencement his appearance would be only a fiasco. I saw, too, that the chairman looked at him doubtfully, and I had a suspicion that he was on the point of asking him to sit down.

But his hesitation was only for a moment. He threw back his shoulders as though he were on the battlefield and was about to give an important command.

'I speak as one who has been a soldier in the ranks, and who knows the soldier's hardships, his temptations, his sufferings. I also speak as one who knows what a fine fellow the British soldier is, for believe me there are no braver men beneath God's all-beholding sun than our lads have proved themselves to be.'

He had struck the right note now, and the audience responded warmly. There was something magnetic in Edgecumbe's presence, too, something in his voice which made the people listen.

'I want to say something else, before getting to that which is in my heart to say,' he went on. 'We are fighting for something great, and high and holy. We are contending against tyranny, lies, savagery. Never did a nation have a greater, grander cause than we, and if Germany were to win——'

In a few sentences he outlined the great issues at stake and made the audience see as he saw. It was evident, too, that the occupants of the platform became aware that a new force was at work.

Then followed the greatest scene I have ever seen at any public gathering. For some time Edgecumbe seemed to forget who he was, or to whom he spoke; he was simply carried away by what seemed to him the burning needs of the times. He spoke of the way thousands of young fellows were ruined, and of the facilities which existed for their ruin. He told of scenes he had seen in France, scenes which took place when the men were 'back for rest,' and were 'out for a good time.' He described what we had witnessed together in London. He showed, too, in burning words that the two outstanding evils, 'Drink and Impurity,' were indissolubly associated, and that practically nothing was done to stem the tide of impurity and devilry which flowed like a mighty flood.

'I say this deliberately,' he said, 'it is nothing short of a blood-red crime, it is blasphemy against the Holy Spirit of God, to call men from the four corners of the earth to fight for a great cause like ours, and then to allow temptations to stand at every corner to lure them to destruction. Some one has described in glowing terms the work of the Y.M.C.A., and I can testify the truth of those terms, but ask Y.M.C.A. workers what is the greatest hindrance to their work, and they will tell you it is the facilities for drink, drink which so often leads to impurity, and all the ghastly diseases that follows in its train.

'How can you expect God's blessing to rest upon us, while the souls of men are being damned in such a way?'

'What would you do?' cried some one, when the wild burst of cheering which greeted his words ceased.

'Do?' he cried. 'At least every man here can determine, God helping him, to fight against the greatest foe of our national life. You can determine that you will leave nothing undone to strangle this deadly enemy. Personally, after seeing what I have seen, and knowing what I know, I will make no terms with it. Even now, if a fortune were offered me, made by drink, I would not benefit by it. But more, you can besiege the Government, you can give it no rest until it has removed one of the greatest hindrances to victory.

'What England needs is to realize that God lives, and to turn to Him in faith and humility. Just so long as we remain in a state of religious indifference, just so long will the war continue; and just so soon as we give our lives to Him, and put our trust in Him, just so soon will victory be seen. God has other ways of speaking than by big guns. God spoke, and lo, all the pomp of the Czars became the byword of children! God will speak again, and all the vain glory of the Kaiser will become as the fairy stories of the past!'

I know that what I have written gives no true idea of Edgecumbe's message. The words I have set down give but faint suggestions of the outpourings of a heart charged with a mighty purpose. For he spoke like a man inspired, and he lifted the whole audience to a higher level of thought, and life, and purpose. People who had listened with a bored expression on their faces during the other speeches, were moved by his burning words. Club loungers who had been cynical and unbelieving half an hour before, now felt the reality of an unseen Power.

Then came the climax to all that had gone before. No sooner had Edgecumbe sat down than the chairman rose again.

'You wonder perhaps,' he said, 'who it is that has been speaking to us. You know by his uniform that he is a soldier, and you know he is a brave man by the decoration on his tunic, but few I expect know, as I have just learnt, that this is Major Edgecumbe, the story of whose glorious career is given in to-day's newspapers.'

If the meeting was greatly moved before, it now became frenzied in its enthusiasm. Cheer after cheer rose, while the great audience rose to its feet. All realized that he spoke not as a theorist and a dreamer, but as a man who had again and again offered his life for the country he loved, and the cause in which he believed—a man, not only great in courage, but skilful in war, and wise in counsel.

When the excitement had somewhat ceased, an old clergyman, who had been sitting at the back of the platform, came to the front.

'Let us pray,' he said, and a great hush rested on every one, while he led the multitude in prayer.

When the meeting finally broke up, the General who had spoken earlier in the evening came and shook Edgecumbe by the hand.

'This meeting is worth more to win the war than an army corps,' he said.



CHAPTER XXXIII

THE LIFTED CURTAIN

The following morning the papers contained lengthy reports of the meeting, and spoke in no sparing terms of the influence of Edgecumbe's words on the great crowd. He appeared to be depressed, however.

'It may be only a passing sensation,' he said. 'Still, I couldn't help doing what I did.'

We had barely finished breakfast when a telegram was brought to me,

'Come at once and bring your friend. Wire time I may expect you.—BOLIVICK.'

'There,' I said, passing it to Edgecumbe, 'there's dispatch for you.'

A few minutes later we were in a taxi, on our way to Paddington, and a few hours later we arrived at Bolivick.

We had barely alighted from the conveyance when Edgecumbe gave a start.

'Look,' he said, 'both Springfield and St. Mabyn are there.'

'Yes,' I replied lightly, 'and Lorna too. Don't you see her in her nurse's uniform?'

His face was set and rigid as the greetings took place; but he had evidently put a strong check upon himself, and spoke naturally.

'Glad to see you, Luscombe,' cried Sir Thomas, 'and you too, Major Edgecumbe. Let me congratulate you on your wonderful career. It's almost like a fairy story!'

'Let me add my congratulations,' cried Springfield. 'I pay my tribute, not only to the soldier, but to the orator.'

I could not fail to detect the sneer in his voice, even although he seemed to speak heartily. A copy of The Times was lying on the lawn, and I imagined that Edgecumbe's speech had been read and discussed.

'We shall be quite a party to dinner to-night,' said Sir Thomas to me presently. 'Of course you must expect scanty fare, as we are carrying out the rationing order to the very letter. But it's an important occasion all the same. Lord Carbis is coming by the next train. Please don't say anything about it. No one knows but my wife and myself. I want to give a surprise to both Lorna and Springfield.'

My heart became as heavy as lead, for I knew what he had in his mind, and I looked towards Edgecumbe, wondering if he had heard anything. It was evident he had heard nothing, however; he was talking to Norah Blackwater, who was again a visitor to Bolivick.

'By the way,' went on Sir Thomas, 'that fellow Edgecumbe has developed wonderfully, hasn't he? Of course what he said last night was so much nonsense. I quite agree that it's very sad about—that—is—some of the things he talked about, but as to the rest,—it was moonshine.'

'You wouldn't have said so if you'd been there, Sir Thomas,' I ventured.

'Something's going to happen, Luscombe,' Edgecumbe said to me as presently we found our way to our rooms.

'Why do you say so?'

'I don't know. But there is. It's in the air we breathe. I know I'm right.'

'What's the matter with you?' I asked, looking at him intently.

'Nothing. Yes there is though. I'm feeling mighty queer.'

'Are you ill?'

'No, nothing of the sort. But I'm nervous. I feel as though great things were on foot. The air is charged with great things. Something big is going to take place.'

He was silent a few seconds, and then went on, 'I had a long talk with a doctor in France a few days ago.'

'What doctor? What did he tell you?' I asked eagerly.

'One of our men out there. He had a big practice as a consulting physician in Harley Street until a few months ago, when he offered himself to the Army. He is a nerve specialist, and years ago paid great attention to brain troubles. He was so kind to me, and was such an understanding fellow that I told him my story. He was awfully interested, and said that he never knew but one case where loss of memory had continued so long as it had with me.'

'Did he give you any hope?' I asked.

He shook his head doubtfully. 'He would not say anything definite. He seemed to think that as my general health had been good for so long, and as my memory had not come back, it might be a very long time before there was any change. All the same, he felt sure that it was only a matter of time. He seemed to regard my trouble as a kind of artificial barrier which divided the past from the present, but that time would constantly wear away the barrier. He also said that if some very vivid and striking happening were to take place, something that was vitally connected with my past, it might suddenly pierce it—tear it aside, and let in the light.'

'And—and——?'

'No, Luscombe,' he interrupted, as if divining my thoughts, 'I know of nothing, I remember nothing. But there was something else he told me which makes me have faith in him. It was so true.'

'What was that?'

'That loss of memory often gave a kind of sixth sense. He said he should not be surprised if I had very vivid premonitions of the future. That I had a kind of knowledge when something out of the common were going to happen. That's what makes me afraid.'

'Afraid?'

'Yes, afraid. I seem to be on the brink of a great black chasm. I feel that I am able to save myself from falling, only I won't. I say, what's that?'

'It's a motor-car,' I replied. 'Sir Thomas told me he had other guests coming.'

'What guests? Who are they?'

'How can I know?' I replied, for I feared to tell him what our host had told me about Lord Carbis's relations to Springfield, and that probably Lorna's engagement might be announced in a few hours.

We were both dressed ready for dinner a quarter of an hour before the time announced, and together we found our way downstairs into the reception hall. Early as we were, we found that not only was Lorna Bolivick there, but George St. Mabyn was also present and was talking eagerly to Norah Blackwater. Springfield also came a few seconds later, and went straight to Lorna's side and spoke to her with an air of proprietorship.

I felt that Edgecumbe and I were de trop, and I moved away from them, but Edgecumbe went to St. Mabyn and Norah Blackwater, as if with the purpose of speaking to them. I thought, too, that there was a strange look in his eyes.

'You are not much like your brother Maurice,' he said suddenly.

'My brother Maurice!' said St. Mabyn, and I thought his voice was hoarse. 'What do you know of him?'

'What do I know of him?' repeated Edgecumbe, and he spoke as though his mind were far away.

'Yes. You can know nothing of him. He's dead.'

'No,' replied Edgecumbe, 'he's not dead.'

'Not dead!' and St. Mabyn almost gasped the words, while his face became as pale as ashes. 'Not dead! You must be mad!' Then he laughed uneasily.

'Oh, no,' and Edgecumbe still spoke in the same toneless voice. 'I knew him well. He was—where did I see him last?'

Before we could recover from the effect of what he said, I knew that we were joined by others. In a bewildered kind of way I noticed that Sir Thomas and Lady Bolivick were accompanied by a tall, distinguished-looking man about fifty-five years of age, by whose side stood a sweet-faced, motherly-looking woman.

'Lorna, my dear,' said Sir Thomas, 'I want you to know Lord and Lady Carbis.'

Lorna moved forward to speak to her visitors, but they did not notice her. Both of them had fixed their gaze on Edgecumbe, who stood looking at them with a light in his eyes which made me afraid.

'John!' cried Lady Carbis, her voice almost rising to a scream. 'Why, it's Jack! our Jack!'

Never shall I forget the look on my friend's face. He seemed to be in agony. It might be that he was striving to keep himself from going mad. His eyes burnt with a red light, his features were drawn and contorted. Then suddenly he heaved a deep sigh, and lifted his shoulders, as though he were throwing a heavy weight from him.

'Mother!' he said hoarsely. 'Mother! When——? that is—— Why, I'm home again!—and the little mater——'

Unheeding the fact of his damaged arm, he held out both his hands and staggered towards her.

A second later, unconscious of watching eyes, they were in each other's arms, while Lady Carbis murmured all sorts of fond endearments.

'My dead boy come back to life!' she cried. 'My little Jack who—who—oh, thank God, thank God! Speak to me, Jack, my darling, speak to your mother! Oh, help! What's the matter? Can't you see that——'

I was only just in time to keep my friend from falling heavily on the floor, and when a few seconds later I succeeded in lifting him to a sofa, he lay like a dead man.



CHAPTER XXXIV

MEMORY

For some minutes wild confusion prevailed. Lady Carbis knelt by the sofa, and called wildly on my friend to speak to her. Lord Carbis talked incoherently, and made all sorts of impossible suggestions. Evidently he was beside himself with joy and fear. Sir Thomas Bolivick looked from one to another as if asking for explanations, while Lorna Bolivick, with pale, eager face and wild eyes, stood like one transfixed.

But she was the first to recover herself. Swiftly she went to the sofa, and caught Edgecumbe's hand. Then she knelt down and placed her ear to his heart.

'He is alive,' she said; 'his heart beats. I think he will soon be better.'

'Yes, yes,' stammered Lord Carbis. 'He was always a strong boy—hard as nails, hard as nails. Oh, it's wonderful, wonderful! It's my son, my only son, Sir Thomas. I'd given him up for dead. It's years now since—since he was last seen. Ah, look, his eyelids are quivering! Stand back and give him air. But I can't understand. Where's he been all this time? Why hasn't he let us know where he was? It's not like him. He was always such a good boy, and so fond of his mother. I got a paper from India, too; announcing his death. I can't understand it all. Perhaps you can explain, Sir Thomas——'

Thus he went on talking, scarcely conscious of what he was saying. Evidently the shock had almost unhinged his mind, and he was merely giving expression to the fugitive thoughts that came to him.

As Edgecumbe's eyes opened, I felt a strange quiver of joy in my heart. What I saw was no madman's stare, rather it suggested placid contentment. For a few seconds he glanced from one to another, as if trying to comprehend, and co-ordinate what had taken place; then he heaved a deep sigh, half of satisfaction, half of weariness.

'It's all gone,' he murmured like one speaking to himself.

'What is gone, my darling?' asked Lady Carbis.

'The mists, the cobwebs, the black curtain,' he replied.

I heard her gasp as if in fear. I knew of what she was thinking; but she spoke no word. Instead she continued looking at him with love-lit eyes.

For a few seconds he lay like one thinking, then he rubbed the back of his right-hand across his eyes, and laughed like one amused.

'Oh, little mother,' he said, 'it is good to see you again! Good to know—there kiss me. That's right; it makes me feel as though I were a kid again, and you were putting me to bed like you did in the old days.'

Lady Carbis kissed him eagerly, calling him all sorts of endearing names.

'It's your old mother!' she murmured. 'Are you better, Jack, my darling?'

'Yes, heaps better. Why, there you are, dad! You see I've turned up again. Oh, I am glad to see you!' and he held out his hand.

'Jack, Jack,' sobbed his father, 'tell me you are all right.'

On considering it all, afterwards, it seemed to me that it was not a bit what I should have expected him to say, but facts have a wonderful way of laughing at fancies.

'I feel better every second,' he said. 'Everything came back so suddenly that I felt like a man bowled over. You see, I couldn't grasp it all. But—but I'm settling down now. I—I—oh, I'm afraid I'm an awful nuisance. Forgive me. Thank you all for being so good.'

I saw his eyes rest on Lorna, and his lips twitched as if in pain, but only for a moment.

'Where's Luscombe?' he asked. 'Ah, there you are, old man. You must know Luscombe, little mother. He's the truest pal a chap ever had. But for him—but there we'll talk about that later.'

A minute later Edgecumbe was led by his mother into the library, while Lord Carbis walked on the other side of his newly-found son.

Never in all my experience have I sat down to such a strange dinner party as on that night. We were all wild with excitement, and yet we appeared to talk calmly about things that didn't matter a bit. What we ate, or whether we ate, I have not the slightest remembrance. Personally I felt as though I were dreaming, and that I should presently wake up and find things in their normal condition again. But it was easy to see that each was thinking deeply. Especially did Sir Thomas and Springfield show that they were considering what the evening's happenings might mean.

Strange as it may seem, little was said about the happening which had created such a consternation. Of course it was in all our minds, but to speak about it seemed for some time like trespassing on forbidden ground.

'Anyhow,' said Lady Bolivick presently, 'the dear things will want some dinner, James,' and she turned to the butler, 'see that something fit to eat is kept for Lord and Lady Carbis, and Major——that is their son.'

'Yes, my lady.'

'It's all very wonderful, I'm sure,' went on Lady Bolivick. 'I hope—that is—they won't be disappointed in him. Of, course he's had a wonderful career, and done unheard-of things, but if he sticks to what he said about never taking a penny of money made by drink—there—there'll be all sorts of difficulties.'

'Yes, but I imagine he'll chuck all that,' and Springfield seemed like a man speaking to himself.

'Oh, I hope not,' said Lorna.

'You hope not!' and her father spoke as if in astonishment.

'Yes,' cried the girl. 'It was so fine—and so true. When I read his speech in The Times, I felt just as he did.'

'Nonsense, Lorna! Why, if he stands by his crazy words, he'll still be a poor man with nothing but his pay to live on. He'll sacrifice one of the finest fortunes in England.'

Almost unconsciously I looked towards George St. Mabyn, whom I had almost forgotten in my excitement, and I saw that he looked like a haunted man. His face was drawn and haggard, although I judged he had been drinking freely through dinner. I called to mind the words Edgecumbe had uttered just before Lord and Lady Carbis came into the room, and I wondered what they meant.

'No,' said Sir Thomas, who was evidently thinking of his daughter's words, 'he'll not be fool enough for that. What do you think, Luscombe?'

I was silent, for in truth I did not know what to say. In one sense Sir Thomas had reason on his side, for such an act would seem like madness. But I was by no means sure. I had known Edgecumbe for more than two years, and I did not believe that even the shock which led him to recover his memory, could change his strong determined nature.

The ladies left the room just then, but a few seconds later Lorna Bolivick returned and came straight towards me.

'He wants you,' she said, and I saw that her eyes burnt with excitement.

I made my way to the library, where my friend met me with a laugh. 'You mustn't keep away from me, old man,' he said, 'I want you—want you badly.'



CHAPTER XXXV

AFTERWARDS

We were alone in the library, Lord Carbis, Lady Carbis, Edgecumbe and myself, and certainly it was one of the strangest gatherings ever I experienced.

The excitement was intense, and yet we spoke together quietly, as though we lived in a world of commonplaces. But nothing was commonplace. Never in my life did I realize the effect which joy can have, as I realized it then. Years before, Lord and Lady Carbis had received news that their son had died in India. What that news had meant to them at the time I had no idea. He was their only son, and on him all their hopes had centred. They had mourned for him as dead, and his loss had meant a blank in their lives which no words can describe.

Then, suddenly and without warning, they had come into a strange house, and found their son standing before them. As I think of it now, I wonder that the shock did not do them serious harm, and I can quite understand the incoherent, almost meaningless words they uttered.

To Edgecumbe the shock must have been still greater. For years the greatest part of his life had been a blank to him. As I have set forth in these pages, all his life before the time when he awoke to consciousness in India had practically no meaning to him. And then, suddenly, the thick, dark curtain was torn aside, and he woke to the fact that his memory was restored, that he was not homeless or nameless, but that his father and mother stood before him.'

'Jack has told me all about you,' Lord Carbis said, as I entered the room; 'told me what you did for him, what a friend you have been to him! God bless you, sir! I don't know how to express my feelings, I—I hardly know what I am saying, but you understand,—I am sure you understand.'

'Isn't it a lark, old man,' Edgecumbe said with a laugh, 'isn't it,—isn't it?—but there—I can't put it into words. Half the time I seem to be dreaming. Things which happened years ago are coming in crowds back to me, until half the time I am wondering whether after all I am not somebody else. And yet I know I am not somebody else. Why, here's dad, and here's the little mater'; and he looked at them joyfully.

I could not help watching him anxiously, for after all he had just gone through an experience which happens to but one man in a million. It seemed to me as though I dimly understood the strange processes through which his brain must have gone in order to bring about the present state of things. During the earlier part of the day, all his past had been a blank, now much of it was real to him. He had been like a man with his life cut in two, one half being unknown to him; and now, as if by a miracle, that half was restored. I wondered how he felt. I feared he would not be able to stand the shock, and that he would suffer a terrible reaction afterwards.

'You are all right, aren't you, old man?' I said. 'You—you don't feel ill or anything of that sort?'

'Right as a skylark,' he said gaily, 'except that I am a bit tired.'

'You are sure, Jack, my darling?' said his mother, looking at him anxiously. 'Sure there is nothing we can do for you? Oh, I wish we were home!'

'Do you?' he said. 'I am not sure I agree with you.'

'Oh, but I do. You see, we don't know the Bolivicks very well, and—and—we didn't come expecting anything like this, did we, John?'

'Anything like this!' ejaculated Lord Carbis, 'anything like this! Why—why,—Jack, my boy!'—and he rubbed his eyes vigorously.

'I am sure Sir Thomas and Lady Bolivick are only too glad to have you here,' I said, 'and nothing will be regarded as a trouble. Besides, I am not sure that your son does not want to be here. But tell me, old fellow, don't you think you ought to get to bed?'

A look of fear came into his eyes. 'No, not yet, not yet,' he said. 'I think I am afraid to go to sleep; afraid lest when I wake up I shall find that great black cloud lying at the back of my mind again.'

'Then wouldn't it be wise to send for a doctor? The man who lives here is not at all a bad chap;—you know that.'

Again he laughed gaily. 'I want no doctor. The little mother is all the doctor I want.'

Lady Carbis leant over him and kissed him, just as I have seen young mothers kiss their firstborn babies.

'I will sit by your bed all the night, my darling,' she said, 'and no harm shall come to you while you are asleep.'

'But I don't want to sleep just yet,' went on Edgecumbe. 'I feel as though I must tell you all I can tell you, for fear,—that is, suppose when I wake the old black cloud is there? I—I want you to know things'; and there was a look in his eyes which suggested that wistful expression I had noticed at Plymouth Harbour when we first met.

'You felt something was going to happen, you know,' I said.

'Yes, I did. All through the day it felt to me as though some great change were coming. I did not know what it was, and the curtain which hid the past was as black as ever, but I had a kind of feeling that everything was hanging as in a balance, that—that—eh, mother, it is good to see you! to know you, to—to—have a past! It was just like this,' he went on: 'when I came downstairs, and saw George St. Mabyn, I felt that the curtain was getting thinner. I remembered Maurice St. Mabyn,—it was only dimly, and I could not call to mind what happened to him; but something impelled me to speak to him.'

'Don't talk about it any more, old fellow,' I said; 'you are not well enough yet. To-morrow, after you have had a good night's rest, everything will seem normal and natural.'

'It is normal and natural now,' he laughed; 'besides, it does me good to talk about it to you. It is not as though you were a stranger.'

'No,' cried his mother, 'he has told us all about you, sir, and what you did for him.'

'Perhaps, after all,' went on Edgecumbe, 'I had better not talk any more to-night. You—you think I'll be all right in the morning, don't you? And I am feeling tired and sleepy. Besides, I feel like a kid again;—the idea of going to bed with the little mother holding my hand makes me think of——'

'There now, old man,' I interrupted, 'let me go with you to your room. You are a bit shaky, you know, and you must look upon me as a stern male nurse.'

Half an hour later, when I left him, he was lying in bed, and as he had said, his mother sat by his side, holding his hand, while Lord Carbis was in a chair close by, watching his son with eager, anxious eyes.

After a few words with Sir Thomas, I made my way to the village of South Petherwin to find the doctor. Truth to tell, I felt more than a little anxious, and although I had persuaded Edgecumbe that when morning came everything would be well, I dreaded his awakening.

As good fortune would have it, I found the doctor at home, who listened with great eagerness and attention to my story.

'It is the strangest thing I have ever heard of,' he said, when I had finished.

'Do you fear any grave results?' I asked.

'Luscombe,' he replied, 'I can speak to you freely. I will go with you to see him, but the whole business is out of my depth. For the matter of that, I doubt if any doctor in England could prophesy what will happen to him. All the same, I see no reason why everything should not be right.'

Without waking him, Dr. Merril took his temperature, felt his pulse, listened to the beating of his heart.

'Everything is right, isn't it?' asked Lord Carbis anxiously.

'As far as I can tell, yes.'

'And there is nothing you can do more than has been done?'

'Nothing,' replied the doctor; 'one of the great lessons which my profession has taught me is, as far as possible, to leave Nature to do her own work.'

'And you think he will awake natural and normal to-morrow morning?' whispered the older man.

'I see no reason why he should not,' he said. All the same, there was an anxious look in his eyes as he went away.



CHAPTER XXXVI

EDGECUMBE'S RESOLUTION

In spite of my excitement, I slept heavily and late, and when I awoke I found that it was past ten o'clock. Dressing hurriedly, I rushed to Edgecumbe's bedroom and found him not only awake, but jubilant.

'It's all right, old man,' he said. 'I am a new man. Merril has already been here. He advises me to be quiet for a day or two, but I am going to get up.'

'And there are no ill effects? Your mind is quite clear?'

'Clear as a bell. There is just one black ugly spot; but it doesn't affect things.'

'Black ugly spot?' I asked anxiously.

'Yes, I'll tell you about it presently. Not that it matters.'

Throughout the day I saw very little of him, as neither his father nor mother would allow him out of their sight. It was pathetic the way they followed him wherever he went. I saw, too, that they were constantly watching him, as if looking for some sign of illness or trouble. I imagine that their joy was so sudden, so wonderful, that they could scarcely believe their own senses. It was evident, too, that they gloried in his career since I had met him more than two years ago. The thought that he should have, without influence or position, surmounted so many difficulties, and become the hero of the hour, was wonderful beyond words. More than once I caught Lord Carbis scanning the newspapers which contained references to him, his eyes lit up with pride.

In spite of all this, however, I foresaw difficulties, saw, too, that if Edgecumbe had not become radically changed, he would be a great disappointment to his father. Would he, I wondered, stand by the words he had uttered at the great public meeting? Would he refuse to participate in the wealth which his father had amassed through his connection with the trade which he believed was one of the great curses of humanity? For it was evident that Lord Carbis was a man of strong opinions. He had built up a great and prosperous business by enterprise, foresight and determination. To him that business was doubtless honourable. Through the wealth he had amassed by it, he had become a peer of the realm. What would he say and do if his son took the stand which, in spite of everything, I imagined he would?

Other things troubled me, too. Springfield, who was staying with St. Mabyn, motored over early, and immediately sought Lorna Bolivick's society. Of course Edgecumbe saw this, and I wondered how it would affect him. I wondered, too, how Sir Thomas would regard Springfield's suit, now that the future of his life was so materially altered. I tried, by a study of Lorna Bolivick's face, to understand the condition of her heart. I wondered whether she really cared for the tall, sinister-looking man who, I judged, had evidently fascinated her.

It was not until after tea that I was able to get a few minutes' chat with her alone. Indeed, I had a suspicion that she rather avoided me. But seeing Springfield and St. Mabyn evidently in earnest conversation together, I made my way to her, and asked her to come with me for a stroll through the woods.

'Real life makes fiction tame and commonplace,' I said, as I nodded toward Lady Carbis and Edgecumbe, who were walking arm in arm on the lawn.

'Real life always does that,' was her reply; 'the so-called impossibilities of melodrama are in reality the prosiest of realism.'

'I can't quite settle down to it yet,' I said. 'I can't think of Edgecumbe as Lord Carbis's son, in spite of all we have seen. To begin with, his name isn't Edgecumbe at all.'

'No,' she replied; 'don't you know what it is? You know who Lord Carbis was, I suppose?'

'I know he was a brewer; but really I have not taken the trouble to study his antecedents.'

'He was called Carbis before he was made a peer,' she replied. 'I suppose he was largely influenced to buy the Carbis estates by the fact that they bore his own name.'

'So that my friend is called Jack Carbis. There is so much topsy-turvyism in it that I can hardly realize it.'

'I think Paul Edgecumbe is a much nicer name,' she said suddenly. 'I hope—I hope——; but if—if——'

'Do you realize,' I said, 'what it will mean to him if he stands by what he said at that meeting the other night?'

'Yes, he will still be a poor man, I suppose. But what then? Isn't he a thousand times bigger man now than he was as the fashionable Captain Jack Carbis?'

'Perhaps you don't realize how he would wound his father,—-destroy all his hopes and ambitions.'

'Yes, that would be rather sad; but doesn't it depend what his father's hopes and ambitions are?'

'Lorna,' I said, 'are you and Springfield engaged?'

She did not answer me for a few seconds; then, looking at me steadily, she said, 'Why do you ask that?'

For the moment I almost determined to tell her what I believed I knew about Springfield, and about the things of which I had accused him. But I felt it would not be fair. If that time ever came, he must be there to answer my accusations.

'I think you know why,' I replied. 'The change in my friend's circumstances has not changed my love for him. Do you know, Lorna, that he loves you like his own life?'

She was silent at this, and I went on, 'He spoke to you about it months ago; there in yonder footpath, not half a mile away,—he told you he had given his heart to you. It was madness then, madness,—because he had no name, no career, no position to offer you. His past lay in a mist,—indeed his past might have made it impossible for him to marry you, even if you had loved him. You refused him, told him that what he asked was impossible; but things have changed since then,—now he is a rich man's son,—he can come to you as an equal.'

'But—but——' and then noticing the curious look on her face, I blurted out:

'You're not going to marry Springfield, are you?'

'Yes,' she replied, 'I shall marry Colonel Springfield, if—if——but there,'—and she stopped suddenly,—'I think it is scarcely fair to discuss such things.'

After that she refused to talk about Springfield at all,—indeed I could not understand her. She seemed as though she had a great problem to solve, and was unable to see her way through it.

I had no opportunity of talking with my friend till the next day. His father and mother monopolized him so completely that there was no chance of getting a word alone with him. But when Lord Carbis informed me that he had made arrangements for Lady Carbis and his son to return home, I made my way to him.

'Do you feel well enough for a chat?' I asked.

'Oh, quite,' he replied. 'I was waiting all yesterday for an opportunity, but none came.'

'Edgecumbe,' I said,—'you will forgive me for still calling you that, won't you?—but for the life of me I can't fasten on that new name of yours.'

'Can't you? It's as natural as anything to me now. But call me Jack, will you? I wish you would. Do you know, when I heard the old name the night before last, I—I—but there, I can't tell you. It seemed to open a new world to me,—all my boyhood came back, all those things which made life wonderful. Yes, that's it, call me Jack.'

'Well, then, Jack,' I said, 'I have been wondering. Are your experiences at that Y.M.C.A. hut real to you now?'

'Of course,' he replied quietly; 'why, they are not a matter of memory, you know; they went down to the very depths of life.'

'And the convictions which were the result of those experiences? Do you feel as you did about drink and that sort of thing?'

'Exactly.'

'And you will stand by what you said in London the other night?'

'Of course,—why shouldn't I?'

'I was only wondering. Do you know, Jack,—you will forgive me for saying so, I am sure, but you present a kind of problem to me.'

'Do I?' and he laughed merrily as he spoke. 'You are wondering whether my early associations, now that they have come back to me, are stronger than what I have experienced since? Not a bit of it. I did a good deal of thinking last night, after I had got to bed. You see, I tried to work things out, and—and—it is all very wonderful, you know. I wasn't a bad chap in the old days, by no means a pattern young man, but on the whole I went straight,—I wasn't immoral, but I had no religion,—I never thought about it. I had a good house-master when I went to school, and under him I imbibed a sort of code of honour. It didn't amount to very much, and yet it did, for he taught me to be an English gentleman. I was always truthful, and tried to do the straight thing. You know the kind of thing a chap picks up at a big public school. But that night, at the Y.M.C.A. hut, I got down deep. No, no,—early associations can't destroy that.'

'And you still hold to what you said at the meeting?'

'Absolutely. Why?'

'I was wondering how it would appeal to your father. You remember you said that you would never benefit by, or participate in, any gain made by drink, and your father has made most of his money as a brewer and distiller. I wondered how you regarded it now?'

'That is quickly settled,' he replied; 'I shall not benefit by it, of course.'

'Do you mean that?'

'Of course I mean it. Mind, I don't want it talked about,—that is a matter between my father and my own conscience, and one can't talk about such things freely.'

'Surely you are very foolish,' I said. 'Why should you not use the money which will naturally come to you?'

'I don't say I won't use it,' he replied, 'but I will not benefit by it.'

'You mean, then——?'

'I mean that I was a poor man, with nothing but my pay, and that I am a poor man, with nothing but my pay. Thinking as I think, and feeling as I feel, I could not become a rich man by money got in—that is, by such means.'

He spoke quietly and naturally, although he seemed a little surprised by my question.

'What will your father say when he knows?'

'I think he does know. He asked me whether I stood by what I said in London.'

'And you told him?'

'Of course I told him.'

'And he,—what did he say?'

'He didn't say anything.'

'Jack,' I went on, 'you must forgive me talking about this, but I only do it, because—you see, we are pals.'

'Of course we are pals. Say what you like.'

'It is all summed up in one name—Lorna.'

A new light came into his eyes immediately, and I saw that his lips became tremulous.

'Yes, what of her?'

'Springfield still means to have her,' I blurted out.

A curious look passed over his face, a look which I could not understand. 'Do you know,' he asked eagerly, 'if she is engaged to him?'

'I gather, that so far, there is no engagement, but I believe there is an understanding. He had obtained Sir Thomas's consent, but they were both under the impression at the time that Springfield was your father's heir. Of course, your turning up in such a way makes it a bit rough on Springfield.'

'I shall have a good deal to tell you about Springfield presently,' he said, 'but you have something in your mind. What is it?'

'It is very simple,' I replied. 'If there is no engagement between Lorna and Springfield, and if you come to her as your father's heir, you will of course be an eligible suitor. If you hold by your determination, you are just where you were. How could you ask her to marry you on the pay of a major in the Army? It would not be fair; it would not be honourable.'

'If she loves me, it would be honourable,' he said.

'How could it be honourable for you, with just a major's pay, to go to a girl reared as she has been,—a girl as attractive as she is, and who has only to hold up her finger to a man like Buller, who will own one of the finest estates in Devonshire? You have no right to drag her into poverty, even if she cared for you.'

He rose to his feet, and took a turn across the lawn. 'I see what is in your mind, but my dear Luscombe,'—and then he burst out into a laugh, a laugh that was sad, because it had a touch of hopelessness in it,—'I am afraid we are talking in the clouds,—I am afraid Lorna doesn't love me. If she does, she has shown no sign of it.'

'But are you going to let her go without a struggle?'

He looked at me with flashing eyes. 'I thought you knew me better than that,' he said. 'No, I am going to fight for her, fight to the very last. But if she will not have me as I am,—if she will not have me without my father's money, which I will not take, then—then——'

'You'll see her marry Springfield? I say, Jack, you know all we have thought and said about Springfield?'

'I have something to tell you about Springfield,' he said quietly.



CHAPTER XXXVII

MAURICE ST. MABYN

'You don't know Maurice St. Mabyn, do you?'

I shook my head.

'Spent all his life soldiering in the East, and knows more about Eastern affairs than any living man. Yes, I mean it. He knows any amount of Eastern dialects; speaks Arabic and Turkish like a native, and has a regular passion for mixing himself up in Eastern matters. He can pass himself off as a Fakir, a Dervish—anything you like. He knows the byways of Eastern cities and Eastern life better than any man I know of, and obtained a great reputation in certain official quarters for discovering plots inimical to British interests. That's Maurice St. Mabyn. A jolly chap, you understand, as straight as a die, and as fearless as a lion. A diplomatist too. He can be as secret as an oyster, and as stealthy as a sleuth-hound. He has been used more than once on delicate jobs.'

'But—but——' I interjected.

'In the July of 1914,' he went on without noticing my interruption, 'I was sitting alone in my show in Bizna where I was then stationed, when who should come in but Maurice. He looked as I thought a bit anxious and out of sorts. I hadn't seen him for more than a year, and he startled me.

'I asked him what he was doing in India, and he told me a curious yarn. He said that he'd been mixed up in a skirmish in Egypt, and that Springfield had tried to murder him.'

'You are sure of this?' I gasped.

'Sure! Of course I'm sure. He said that Springfield, who was also in the show, had for some time acted in a very suspicious way, and that during the row with the natives, the greater part of which had taken place during the night, Springfield had pounced upon him, stabbed him—and—and left him for dead. By one of those flukes which sometimes takes place, St. Mabyn didn't die. He turned up, weeks afterwards, and saw General Gregory.

'Now follow me closely here. It so happened that only that day Gregory had received a message telling him that German trouble was probable, and that reports were wanted from certain quarters where it was feared the Huns were trying to stir up trouble.'

'In India?' I asked.

'In the East; it was not for me to know where; and Gregory wanted a man who knew the East, in whom he could trust lock, stock and barrel. Directly he saw St. Mabyn, he fastened on him as his man, and he clung to him all the more tightly when St. Mabyn told him his story.

'"I'll keep Springfield, and his little game in mind, St. Mabyn," he said; "but for the time you must remain dead. This is an important job, and it must be done quietly."

'That was why he came to India, and why the story which I imagine Springfield got into the papers was never contradicted. On his way to his job, however, he got thinking things over. Naturally he wanted not only his brother to know, but his fiancee, Miss Blackwater. So knowing where I was, he looked me up and told me what I have told you. It seems he had heard I was due to return home, and he asked me to look up his brother and Miss Blackwater, and to tell them that his death was by no means certain, and that he might turn up all right.

'Not long after, fresh drafts of men came to Bizna, and on the day they arrived I asked a young chap called Dawkins who they were. He mentioned several names, and among them was Springfield's.

'"What Springfield?" I asked, for I remembered I had a distant relative of that name.

'"Oh, he was in Upper Egypt. His family came from Devonshire, and he was a great friend of Maurice St. Mabyn who was killed. Poor chap, when he told us the story he nearly broke down. I never knew he had so much feeling in him."

'I don't know why it was, but I lost my head. I suppose the fellow's hypocrisy disgusted me so that I blurted out what St. Mabyn told me to keep quiet.

'"The blackguard," I said "he deserves to be shot, and will be shot, or hanged!"

'"Who's a blackguard?" asked Dawkins.

'"Springfield," I replied. "Grieving about the death of Maurice St. Mabyn! Why, the coward, he—he—; but Maurice St. Mabyn will turn up again, and—and——"

'"But St. Mabyn's dead!" cried Dawkins. "I saw it reported myself."

'"He isn't dead?" I blurted out.

'"But how can that be?" asked Dawkins.

'"Because I believe in my own eyes and ears," I replied.

'After that, I was under the impression that I was watched and followed. More than once when I thought I was alone I heard stealthy footsteps behind me, but although I tried to verify my suspicions I could not. However, I did not trouble, for in due time I started for home. I arranged to break my journey to Bombay at a place where I had been stationed for six months. It was only a one horse sort of a show, but I had some pals there, and they had insisted on my spending a day or two with them. It took me three days to get there, and on my arrival I found a long telegram purporting to be from my colonel, requesting me to go to an outpost station where important information would be given me. It also urged me to be silent about it.

'Of course, although I was on leave, I was anxious to fall in with my colonel's wishes, and so, instead of going straight on to Bombay, when I left my pals, I went towards this outpost station.'

'Were you alone?' I asked.

'Except for my native servant whom I had arranged to take back to England with me. We had not gone far when my servant stopped. "There is something wrong, master," he said. "Let us go back."

'He had scarcely spoken, when there was the crack of a pistol, and several men pounced upon me. I was thrown from my horse, and very roughly handled.'

'Did you see the men?' I asked.

My friend was silent for a few seconds, then he replied, 'I can swear that one of them was Springfield. Some one had given me a blow on the head, and I was a bit dizzy and bewildered; but I am certain that Springfield was there.'

'Then you believe——'

'The thing's pretty evident, isn't it?' he said. 'He had a double purpose to accomplish. If I were dead I could no longer be a danger to him as far as St. Mabyn was concerned, and——'

'He was the next in succession to your father's title, and would naturally be his heir,' I interrupted. 'But what happened to you after that?'

He shuddered like a man afraid. 'I don't like to think of it,' he said. 'As I told you there was one black spot in my past which I couldn't remember clearly. That's it. But I have dim memories of torture and imprisonment. I know I suffered untold agonies. I have only fitful glimpses of that time, but in those glimpses I see myself fighting, struggling, suffering until a great blackness fell upon me. Then I remember nothing till I came to myself on the road to Bombay, with my memory gone. The rest you know.'



CHAPTER XXXVIII

A BOMBSHELL

After this followed a series of events, startling, almost unbelievable and utterly unexpected, such as only take place in real life. Had this story been the outcome of my own imagination, I should never dare to relate them; but because I have undertaken the task of writing what actually took place I can do no other.

This was how they happened:

We were sitting together after dinner that night in the most commonplace fashion imaginable. Lord and Lady Carbis had announced their intention to leave early on the following morning, and their son had promised to go with them. George St. Mabyn and Springfield were there, having accepted Lady Bolivick's invitation to spend the evening with them. Norah Blackwater, who had been a guest at the house for some days, was also there.

'I think as I am leaving to-morrow,' and Jack only slightly raised his voice, 'that I ought to tell you all something, something—important.'

Instantly there was a deathly silence, and with a quick movement every one turned to the speaker.

'I imagine my motives may be questioned,' he went on. 'I am sure, too, that what I say will be denied; but that doesn't matter.'

He hesitated a second as if doubtful how he had best continue, but the tone of his voice and the purport of his words had done their work. Even Lady Bolivick dropped her knitting, and looked quite disturbed.

'This is what I have to tell you,' he said. 'Maurice St. Mabyn is alive; at least he was in July, 1914, months after he was announced to be dead.'

I saw George St. Mabyn start to his feet, his lips livid, while Norah Blackwater gave a cry which was not far removed from a scream.

'Perhaps I ought to have told this in a different way,' went on my friend. 'Perhaps, directly my memory came back to me, and the events of the past became clear again, I ought to have sought out George St. Mabyn, and especially Colonel Springfield, and told them privately what I know. However, I have thought a good deal before speaking, and—and as this is a family party, I have adopted this method.'

'Why should you tell Colonel Springfield?' and George St. Mabyn seemed to be speaking against his will.

'Because he is most deeply implicated, and because he will have most to explain.'

I heard Springfield laugh at this, a laugh half of derision, half of anger.

'I am afraid,' he said quietly, 'that although we have all congratulated Lord and Lady Carbis on the return of their son, that his loss of memory has disturbed his mental equilibrium in other ways.'

'Oh, no,' said Jack quietly, 'I am quite sane. No doubt it would simplify your course of action very much if I were not, but as a matter of fact my mind was never clearer. My father and mother will tell you that I was never given to hysterics, and I am no great hand at imagination.'

'But—but if you have—have proof of this,'—it was George St. Mabyn who spoke, and his voice was hoarse and unnatural,—'why—why'——? by heaven, it's monstrous!'

Springfield laughed like one amused.

'I do not wish to wound any one's feelings,' he said, 'but I suppose many madmen think they are sane. Of course we sympathize with Lord and Lady Carbis, but I am afraid there is only one conclusion that we can come to. Only on the night when his father and mother came here, before this marvellous change in his memory took place, he said something similar to this, and—and of course we can only regard it as the hallucination of an unbalanced mind. Let us hope after a few months' quiet, things will be normal again.'

'Of course I knew you would take this attitude, Colonel Springfield,' replied Jack quietly. 'You have reason to.'

'What reason?' he snarled.

'Are you sure you wish me to tell?'

'Yes, tell anything, everything you can! Only be sure it's the truth. Else by——!' he remembered himself suddenly and then went on: 'But this is madness, pure madness!'

'I'll not deal with motives,' went on my friend, still speaking quietly; 'they will doubtless come out in good time. For that matter I would rather say no more at present. I have only said what I have to give you a chance—of—of clearing out.'

Springfield gave me a quick glance, and then for a moment lost control of himself.

'Oh, I see,' he said. 'This is a plot. Luscombe is in it. He has been discussing things with this—this lunatic, and this hatched-up absurdity is the result.'

I think Springfield felt he had made a false move the moment he had spoken. Directly my name was mentioned, it became evident that the plea of my friend's madness broke down.

'At any rate,' he went on, 'I am not to be intimidated, and I will not listen to any hysterical slanderings.'

'Pardon me,' said Jack quietly, 'but Luscombe knew nothing whatever of my intentions. You are sure you want me to go on?' he added quietly.

'Go on by all means. Doubtless you will be amusing. But mind,' and Springfield's voice became threatening, 'I am a dangerous man to trifle with.'

'I have grave reasons for knowing that,' was Jack's reply; 'but let that pass. About three years ago news arrived in England that Maurice St. Mabyn was dead—killed in a skirmish in Egypt. Some time afterwards Colonel or Captain Springfield as he was then, came to Devonshire, and gave a detailed account of his death. He said he was with him during his last moments, together with—other interesting things. From the account given Maurice St. Mabyn died in April, 1914, and Colonel Springfield came, I think, in September, or October. By this time George St. Mabyn had not only taken possession of his brother's estates, but had also become the suitor for the hand of his brother's fiancee.'

'Surely,' cried Springfield, as if in protest, 'there is no need to distress us all by probing the wounds made three years ago. Personally I think it is cruel.'

'It would be cruel but for what I am going to say,' replied Jack Carbis. 'As it happens, Maurice St. Mabyn was not dead at the time. I saw him,—spoke with him in Bizna in the July of that year.'

'You saw Maurice in July, although he was reported dead in April!' cried Sir Thomas. 'Why—why——; but it can't be true! That is—are you sure? I say, George, wasn't the news definite—concise? Yes, I remember it was. I saw the Egyptian newspaper account.'

'I suppose you don't expect any one here to believe in this cock-and-bull story,' and Springfield laughed uneasily. 'But may one ask,' he continued, 'why we are regaled with this—this romance?'

'Yes,' replied Jack, 'you may ask; but if I were you I wouldn't. I'd make myself scarce.'

I saw Springfield's eyes contract, and his whole attitude reminded me of an angry dog.

'You must tell us all what you mean by that,' he snarled. 'I'm sorry, Lady Bolivick, that such a scene as this should take place in your house, but I must defend myself.'

'Against whom? Against what? What charges have been made?' and Jack Carbis still spoke quietly and naturally.

Again Springfield lost control of himself. 'Oh, I know,' he cried, 'that you and Luscombe have been plotting against me for years. I know that you would poison the mind of——; that is—why should I deny it? I love Miss Bolivick. I have loved her from the first hour I saw her. I have sought her honourably. I would give my immortal soul to win her, such is my love for her. I know, too, that you, Edgecumbe, or Carbis, or whatever you may call yourself, are jealous of me, because you are madly in love with her yourself. By unproved, unprovable because they are lying, statements, you are trying to poison the mind of the women I love against me. You are suggesting that I sent home and brought home false accounts of Maurice St. Mabyn's death for some sinister purpose. You are hinting at all sorts of horrible things. Great God, haven't you done enough to thwart me? Oh, yes—I'll admit it, I expected to be Lord Carbis's heir. I had reason. But for you I—I——but there, seeing you have robbed me of what I thought was my legitimate fortune, don't try to rob me of my good name. It's—it's all I have!'

At that moment I looked at Lorna Bolivick, and I thought I saw admiration in her eyes; I felt that never was Springfield's hold upon her stronger than now.

'Tell us plainly what you want to say,' continued Springfield; 'formulate your charges. Tell me of what I am guilty. But by the God who made us, you shall prove your words. I will not be thrust into a hopeless hell by lying innuendos and unproved charges.'

For the first time I thought my friend looked confused and frightened. It might be that the personality of the other had mastered him, and that although he had gone several steps forward in his attack, he now desired to turn back. He seemed about to speak, then hesitated and was silent.

'Why force me to tell the truth?' he said lamely. 'I do not wish to say more. Take my advice, and leave while you may.'

'I am a soldier,' cried Springfield, 'and I am not one to run away—especially from vague threats. Nay, more,' and he turned to Lorna Bolivick, 'Miss Bolivick—Lorna, to prove how I scorn these vague threats, I ask you here and now, although I am only a poor man, and have nothing to offer you but the love of a poor soldier, to give me the happiness I have so longed and prayed for.'



CHAPTER XXXIX

SPRINGFIELD AT BAY

But Lorna did not speak. That she realized the situation no one could doubt. The sea in which the bark of her life was sailing was full of cross currents, and in her excitement she did not know the course she ought to steer.

It was here that Sir Thomas Bolivick thought it right to speak. I gathered that he was not pleased at Springfield's avowal, for while he doubtless favoured his suit while he was to all appearances the heir to Lord Carbis, events had changed everything.

'Why have you told us this now, and—and in such a way?' he asked, turning to my friend.

Jack hesitated a second before replying. He realized that nothing could prejudice his cause in Lorna's eyes more than by attacking his rival.