Part 11

“Just a common sneak-thief—just a common worthless sinner. And he’s very, very glad that he has been privileged to help the most beautiful girl in all the world. Don’t cry, my dear, don’t cry: there’s nothing about that sinner’s that’s worth a single tear of yours. You must forget his wild presumption in falling in love with that beautiful girl: his only excuse is that he couldn’t help it. And maybe, in the days to come, the girl will think kindly every now and then of a man known to some as Archie Longworth—known to others as Flash Pete—known to himself as—well, we won’t bother about that.”

He bent quickly and raised her hand to his lips; then he was gone almost before she had realised it. And if he heard her little gasping cry—“Archie, my man, come back—I love you so!” he gave no sign.

For in his own peculiar code a very worthless sinner must remain a very worthless sinner to the end—and he must run the course alone.

_IX_ _Jimmy Lethbridge’s Temptation_

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 François 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, François,” said the girl with a gentle smile.

“Ah, mais non!” Outraged 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, François?”

“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, François,” laughed the man. “Anyway, I know that once you have decided—argument is futile.”

“It is my work,” answered the waiter, shrugging his shoulders. “And a bottle of Corton—with the chill just off. Toute de suite.”

François bustled 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 steadily, “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 hoarsely, “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?”

The girl gave a little laugh that was half a sob.

“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, glistening in the mistiness of her eyes. For maybe five minutes she knelt there, till it seemed to her as if a smile twitched round the lips of the officer—a human smile, an understanding smile.

“Oh, Peter!” she whispered, “he was your pal. 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.”

And with a sudden little choking gasp she raised it to her lips.

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; cynically 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 bereft 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 sergeant 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 partially dazed Jimmy Lethbridge went over towards him. As he approached the player smiled genially, 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?”

And as he spoke he saw a girl approaching—a girl who placed herself aggressively beside Peter.

“Why shouldn’t I?” demanded the player. “And who the hell are you calling Peter?”

“But,” stammered Jimmy, “don’t you know me, old man?”

“No!” returned the other truculently. “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 pals 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 butting their ugly heads in. It worries ’im, it does.”

“But do you mean to say——” began Jimmy dazedly, and then he broke off. At last he understood, something if not all. In some miraculous 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 slate.

“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 clenched with the strength of the sudden hideous 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.”

And now Peter was staring at him fixedly, forgetting even to turn the handle of the machine.

“I don’t remember yer, guv’nor,” he said, and Jimmy flinched at the appalling 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 scribbled 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 apparently 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 determined 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 insidious tempting 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 supremely unaware of the fact. But when all the demons 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 thronged 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 tempted 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.

“Something like that,” he said, turning away abruptly.

“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!”

He spoke low under his breath, and the girl looked at him curiously.

“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 standing 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?”

“I borrowed it this afternoon,” said Jimmy briefly.

“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 admiration.

“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 altercation; 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 literally, 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 reassuringly. “I’m glad you came.”

“Who’s that cove?” demanded the girl suspiciously, staring at Mainwaring.

“A doctor,” said Jimmy. “I want him to have a look at Peter later on.”

“His name ain’t Peter,” muttered the girl sullenly. “It’s Bill.”

“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 fixed 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 instinctive 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 awe:

“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 regiment, mister?” The girl swung round on Jimmy. “Was ’e in the Guards?”

“No, Lizzie,” said Lethbridge. “Not the Guards. He was in the cavalry. 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 pathos 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.”