Chapter XII: Book V: George Green (1)

chapter 1

In the yard of the county hotel in Wiltsbury two chauffeurs were busy with cars. George Green finished his work on the interior of the big Daimler, wiped his hands on a bit of oily rag, and stood upright with a sigh of satisfaction. He was a cheerful young fellow and was smiling now because he was pleased with himself for locating the trouble and dealing with it. He strolled along to where his fellow chauffeur was completing the toilet of a Minerva.

The latter looked up.

"Hullo, George. You through? Your boss is a Yank, isn't he? What's he like?"

"He's all right. Fussy, though. Won't go more than forty."

"Well, thank your stars you don't drive for a woman," said the other. His name was Evans. "Always changing their minds. And no idea of the proper times for meals. Picnic lunches as often as not--and you know what that means, a hard-boiled egg and a leaf of lettuce."

Green sat down on an adjacent barrel.

"Why don't you chuck it?"

"Not so easy to get another job these days," said Evans.

"No, that's true," said Green. He looked thoughtful.

"And I've got a missus and two kids," went on the other. "What's the rot that was talked about a country fit for heroes? No, if you've got a job--any kind of a job--it's better to freeze on to it in 1920."

He was silent for a minute, and then went on.

"Funny business--the war. I was hit twice--shrapnel. Makes you go a bit queer afterward. My missus says I frighten her--go quite batty sometimes. Wake up in the middle of the night hollering and not knowing where I am."

"I know," said Green. "I'm the same. When my guvnor picked me up--in Holland that was--I couldn't remember a thing about myself except my name."

"When was that? After the war?"

"Six months after the armistice. I was working in a garage there. Some chaps who were drunk ran me down one night in a lorry. Fairly scared 'em sober. They picked me up and took me along with them. I'd got a whacking great bash on the head. They looked after me and got me a job. Good chaps they were. I'd been working there two years when Mr. Bleibner came along. He hired a car from our place once or twice and I drove him. He talked to me a good bit and finally he offered to take me on as chauffeur."

"Mean to say you never thought of getting back home before that?"

"No--I didn't want to, somehow. I'd no folks there as far as I could remember, and I've an idea I'd had a bit of trouble there of some kind."

"I shouldn't associate trouble with you, mate," said Evans with a laugh.

George Green laughed, too. He was indeed a most cheerful looking young man, tall and dark with broad shoulders and an ever-ready smile.

"Nothing much ever worries me," he boasted. "I was born the happy-go-lucky kind, I guess."

He moved away, smiling happily. A few minutes later he was reporting to his employer that the Daimler was ready for the road.

Mr. Bleibner was a tall thin dyspeptic-looking American with pure speech.

"Very good. Now, Green, I am going to Lord Datchet's for luncheon. Abingworth Friars. It's about six miles from here."

"Yes, sir."

"After luncheon I am going to a place called Abbots Puissants. Abbotsford is the village. Do you know it?"

"I've heard of it, I think, sir. But I don't know exactly where it is. I'll look it up on the map."

"Yes, please do so. It cannot, I think, be more than twenty miles--in the direction of Ringwood, I fancy."

"Very good, sir."

Green touched his cap and withdrew.

_2_

Nell Chetwynd stepped through the French window of the drawing room and came out upon the terrace at Abbots Puissants.

It was one of those still early autumn days when there seems no stirring of life anywhere, as though Nature herself feigned unconsciousness. The sky was pale, not a deep, blue and there was a very faint haze in the atmosphere.

Nell leaned against a big stone urn and gazed out over the silent prospect. Everything was very beautiful and very English. The formal gardens were exquisitely kept. The house itself had been very judiciously and carefully repaired.

Not habitually given to emotion, as Nell looked up at the rose-red brick of the walls she felt a sudden swelling of the heart. It was all so perfect. She wished that Vernon could know--could see.

Four years of marriage had dealt kindly with Nell, but they had changed her. There was no suggestion of the nymph about her now. She was a beautiful woman instead of a lovely girl. She was poised, assured. Her beauty was a very definite kind of beauty--it never varied or altered. Her movements were more deliberate than of old, she had filled out a little--there was no suggestion of immaturity. She was the perfect full-blown rose.

A voice called her from the house.

"Nell!"

"I'm here, George, on the terrace."

"Right. I'll be out in a minute."

What a dear George was! A little smile creased her lips. The perfect husband! Perhaps that was because he was an American. You always heard that Americans made perfect husbands. Certainly, George had been one to her. The marriage had been a complete success. It was true that she had never felt for George what she had felt for Vernon, but almost reluctantly she had admitted that perhaps that was a good thing. These tempestuous emotions that tore and rent one--they couldn't last. Every day you had evidence that they _didn't_ last.

All her old revolt was quelled now. She no longer questioned passionately the reason why Vernon should have been taken from her. God knew best. One rebelled at the time, but one came at last to realize that whatever happened was really for the best.

They had known supreme happiness, she and Vernon, and nothing could ever mar or take away from it. It was there for ever--a precious secret possession, a hidden jewel. She could think of him now without regret or longing. They had loved each other and had risked everything to be together. Then had come that awful pain of separation--and then peace.

Yes, that was the predominant factor in her life now--peace. George had given her that. He had wrapped her round with comfort, with luxury, with tenderness. She hoped that she was a good wife to him, even if she didn't care as she had cared for Vernon. But she _was_ fond of him--of course she was! The quiet affectionate feeling she had for him was by far the safest emotion to go through life with.

Yes, that expressed exactly what she felt--safe and happy. She wished that Vernon knew. He would be glad, she was sure.

George Chetwynd came out and joined her. He wore English country clothes and looked very much the country squire. He had not aged at all--indeed, he looked younger. In his hand he held some letters.

"I've agreed to share that shooting with Drummond. I think we'll enjoy it."

"I'm so glad."

"We must decide who we want to ask."

"Yes, we'll talk about it to-night. I'm rather glad the Hays couldn't come and dine. It will be nice to have an evening to ourselves."

"I was afraid you were overdoing it in town, Nell."

"We _did_ rush about, rather. But I think it's good for one really. And anyway, it's been splendidly peaceful down here."

"It's wonderful." George threw an appreciative glance over the landscape. "I'd rather have Abbots Puissants than any place in England. It's got an atmosphere."

Nell nodded.

"I know what you mean."

"I should hate to think of it in the hands of--well, people like the Levinnes, for instance."

"I know. One would resent it. And yet Sebastian is a dear--and his taste, at any rate, is perfect."

"He knows the taste of the public all right," said George dryly. "One success after another--with occasionally a _succès d'estime_, just to show he's not a mere money maker. He's beginning to look the part though--getting not exactly fat, but sleek. Adopting all sorts of mannerisms. There's a caricature of him in _Punch_ this week. Very clever."

"Sebastian would lend himself to caricaturing," said Nell smiling. "Those enormous ears, and those funny high cheek bones. He was an extraordinary-looking boy."

"It's odd to think of you all playing together as children. By the way, I've got a surprise for you. A friend you haven't seen for some time is coming to lunch to-day."

"Not Josephine."

"No. Jane Harding."

"Jane Harding! But how on earth----"

"I ran into her at Wiltsbury yesterday. She's on tour, acting in some company or other."

"Jane! Why, George, I didn't even realize you knew her!"

"I came across her when we were both doing relief work in Serbia. I saw a lot of her. I wrote to you about it."

"Did you? I don't remember."

Something in her tone seemed to strike him and he said anxiously: "It's all right, isn't it, dear? I thought it would be a pleasant surprise for you. I always thought she was a great friend of yours. I can put her off in a minute if----"

"No, no. Of course, I'll be delighted to see her. I was only surprised."

George was reassured.

"That's all right then. By the way, she told me that a man called Bleibner, a man I knew very well in New York, is also in Wiltsbury. I'd like him to see the Abbey ruins--that sort of thing is a specialty of his. Do you mind if I ask him to lunch, too?"

"No, of course not. Do ask him."

"I'll see if I can get him on the phone now. I meant to do it last night, but it slipped my memory."

He went indoors again. Nell was left on the terrace frowning slightly.

George in this had been right. For some reason or other, she was not pleased at the thought of Jane's coming to lunch. She felt very definitely that she didn't want to see Jane. Already, the mere mention of Jane seemed to have disturbed the serenity of the morning. She thought: "I was so peaceful and now----"

Annoying--yes, it was annoying. She was, had always been, afraid of Jane. Jane was the kind of person you could never be sure about. She--how could one put it?--she upset things. She was disturbing, and Nell didn't want to be disturbed.

She thought unreasonably: "Why on earth did George have to meet her in Serbia? How trying things are."

But it was absurd to be afraid of Jane. Jane couldn't hurt her--now. Poor Jane, she must have made rather a mess of things, to have come down to acting in a touring company.

One must be loyal to one's old friends. Jane was an old friend. She should see how loyal Nell could be. And with a glow of self-approval she went upstairs and changed into a dress of dove-coloured georgette with which she wore one very beautifully matched string of pearls that George had given her on the last anniversary of their marriage. She took particular pains over her toilet, satisfying thereby some obscure female instinct.

"At any rate," she thought, "the Bleibner man will be there and that will make things easier."

Though why she expected things to be difficult she could not have explained.

George came up to fetch her just as she was applying a final dusting of powder.

"Jane's arrived," he said. "She's in the drawing room."

"And Mr. Bleibner?"

"He's engaged for lunch, unfortunately. But he's coming along this afternoon."

"Oh!"

She went downstairs slowly. Absurd to feel so apprehensive. Poor Jane--one simply must be nice to her. It was such terribly bad luck to have lost her voice and come down to this.

Jane, however, did not seem aware of bad luck. She was sprawling back on the sofa in an attitude of easy unconcern, looking round the room with keen appreciation.

"Hullo, Nell," she said. "Well, you seem to have dug yourself in pretty comfortably."

It was an outrageous remark. Nell stiffened. She couldn't think for a moment of what to say. She met Jane's eyes, which were full of mocking maliciousness. They shook hands and Nell said at the same time: "I don't know what you mean."

Jane subsided on the sofa again.

"I meant all this. Palatial dwelling, well-proportioned footmen, highly paid cook, soft-footed servants, possibly a French maid, baths prepared for one with the latest unguents and bath salts, five or six gardeners, luxurious limousines, expensive clothes, and, I perceive, genuine pearls! Are you enjoying it all frightfully? I am sure you are."

"Tell me about yourself," said Nell, seating herself beside Jane on the sofa.

Jane's eyes narrowed.

"That's a very clever answer. And I fully deserved it. Sorry, Nell. I was a beast. But you were being so queenly and so gracious. I never can stand people being gracious."

She got up and began to stroll round the room.

"So this is Vernon's home," she said softly. "I've never seen it before--only heard him talk about it."

She was silent for a minute, then asked abruptly: "How much have you changed?"

Nell explained that everything had been left as it was, as far as possible. Curtains, covers, carpets, and so forth, had all been renewed. The old ones were too shabby. And one or two priceless pieces of furniture had been added. Whenever George came across anything that was in keeping with the place he bought it.

Jane's eyes were fixed on her while she made this explanation, and Nell felt uneasy because she couldn't read the expression in them.

George came in before she had finished talking and they went in to lunch.

The talk was at first of Serbia, of a few mutual friends out there. Then they passed on to Jane's affairs. George referred delicately to Jane's voice--the sorrow he had felt, that everyone must feel. Jane passed it off carelessly enough.

"My own fault," she said. "I would sing a certain kind of music and my voice wasn't made for it."

Sebastian Levinne, she went on to say, had been a wonderful friend. He was willing now to star her in London, but she had wished to learn her trade first.

"Singing in opera is, of course, acting too. But there are all sorts of things to learn--to manage one's speaking voice, for instance. And then one's effects are all different--they must be more subtle, less broad."

Next autumn, she explained, she was to appear in London in a dramatized version of _Tosca_.

Then, dismissing her own affairs, she began to talk of Abbots Puissants. She led George on to discuss his plans, his ideas about the estate. He was made to display himself the complete country squire.

There was, apparently, no mockery in Jane's eyes or her voice, but nevertheless Nell felt acutely uncomfortable. She wished George would stop talking. It was a little ridiculous, the way he spoke as though he and his forefathers before him had lived for centuries at Abbots Puissants.

After coffee they went out on the terrace again, and here George was summoned to the telephone and left them with a word of excuse. Nell suggested a tour through the gardens and Jane acquiesced.

"I'd like to see everything," she said.

Nell thought: "It's Vernon's home she wants to see. That's why she's come. But Vernon never meant to her what he meant to me!"

She had a passionate desire to vindicate herself, to make Jane see----See what? She didn't quite know herself, but she felt that Jane was judging her--condemning her, even.

She stopped suddenly as they were walking down a long herbaceous border, gay with Michaelmas daisies against the old rose-coloured brick wall behind it.

"Jane. I want to tell you--to explain----"

She paused, gathering herself together. Jane merely looked at her inquiringly.

"You must think it--very dreadful of me--marrying again so soon."

"Not at all," said Jane. "It was very sensible."

Nell didn't want that. That wasn't the point of view at all.

"I adored Vernon--_adored_ him. When he was killed it nearly broke my heart. I mean it. But I knew so well that he himself wouldn't wish me to grieve. The dead don't want us to grieve----"

"Don't they?"

Nell stared at her.

"Oh! I know you're voicing the popular idea," said Jane. "The dead want us to be brave and bear up and carry on as usual. They hate us being unhappy about them. That's what everybody goes about saying--but I never have seen that they've any foundation for that cheering belief. I think they've invented it themselves to make things easier for them. The living don't all want exactly the same thing, so I don't see why the dead should either. There must be heaps of selfish dead. If they exist at all, they must be very much the same as they were in life. They can't be full of beautiful and unselfish feelings all at once. It always makes me laugh when I see a bereaved widower tucking into his breakfast the day after the funeral and saying solemnly: 'Mary wouldn't wish me to grieve!' How does he know? Mary may be simply weeping and gnashing her teeth (astral teeth, of course) at seeing him going on as usual, just as though she had never existed. Heaps of women like a fuss made over them. Why should they change their characters when they're dead?"

Nell was silent. She couldn't for the moment collect her thoughts.

"Not that I mean Vernon was like that," went on Jane. "He may really have wished you not to grieve. You'd know best about that, because you knew him better than anyone else."

"Yes," said Nell eagerly. "That's just it. I know he would want me to be happy. And he wanted me to have Abbots Puissants. I know he'd love to think of my being here."

"He wanted to live here with you. That's not quite the same thing."

"No, but it isn't as though I were living here with George as--as it would have been with him. Oh! Jane, I want to make you understand. George is a dear, but he isn't--he can never be--what--what Vernon was to me."

There was a long pause and then Jane said: "You're lucky, Nell."

"If you think I really love all this luxury! Why, for Vernon I'd give it up in a minute!"

"I wonder."

"Jane! You----"

"You think you would, but--I wonder."

"I did before."

"No--you only gave up the prospect of it. That's different. It hadn't eaten into you as it has now."

"Jane!"

Nell's eyes filled with tears. She turned away.

"My dear, I'm being a beast. There's no harm in what you've done. I dare say you're right--about Vernon wishing it. You need kindness and protection--but all the same, soft living does eat into one. You'll know what I mean some day. By the way, I didn't mean what you thought when I said just now that you were lucky. By lucky, I meant that you'd had the best of both worlds. If you'd married your George when you originally intended, you'd have gone through life with a secret regret, a longing for Vernon, a feeling that you'd been cheated out of life through your own cowardice. And if Vernon had lived you might have grown away from each other, quarrelled, come to hate each other. But as it is, you've had Vernon, made your sacrifice. You've got him where nothing can ever touch him. Love will be a thing of beauty to you for ever. And you've got all the other things as well. This!"

She swept her arm around in a sudden embracing gesture.

Nell had hardly paid any attention to the end part of the speech. Her eyes had grown soft and melting.

"I know. Everything turns out for the best. They tell you so when you're a child and later you find it out for yourself. God does know best."

"What do you know about God, Nell Chetwynd?"

There was a savagery in the question that brought Nell's eyes to Jane in astonishment. She looked menacing--fiercely accusing. The gentleness of a minute ago was gone.

"The will of God! Would you be able to say that, if God's will didn't happen to coincide with Nell Chetwynd's comfort, I wonder? You don't know anything about God or you couldn't have spoken like that, gently patting God on the back for making life comfortable and easy for you. Do you know a text that used to frighten me in the Bible? _This night shall thy soul be required of thee._ When God requires _your_ soul of you, be sure you've got a soul to give him!"

She paused and then said quietly: "I'll go now. I shouldn't have come. But I wanted to see Vernon's home. I apologize for what I've said. But you're so damned smug, Nell. You don't know it, but you are. Smug--that's the word. Life to you means yourself, and yourself only. What about Vernon? Was it best for him? Do you think _he_ wanted to die--right at the beginning of everything he cared for?"

Nell flung her head back defiantly.

"I made him happy."

"I wasn't thinking of his happiness. I was thinking of his music. You and Abbots Puissants--what do you matter? Vernon had genius. That's the wrong way of putting it--he _belonged_ to his genius. And genius is the hardest master there is--everything has got to be sacrificed to it. Your trumpery happiness, even, would have had to go if it stood in the way. Genius has got to be served. Music wanted Vernon--and he's dead. That's the crying shame, the thing that matters, the thing you never even consider. I know why--because you were afraid of it, Nell. It doesn't make for peace and happiness and security. But I tell you, _it's got to be served_."

Suddenly her face relaxed, the old mocking light that Nell hated came back to her eyes. She said:

"Don't worry, Nell. You're much the strongest of us all. Protective colouring! I told Sebastian so long ago, and I was right. You'll endure when we've all perished. Good-bye. I'm sorry I've been a devil, but I'm made that way."

Nell stood staring after her retreating figure. She clenched her hands and said under her breath:

"I hate you. I've always hated you."

_3_

The day had begun so peacefully--and now it was spoilt. Tears came into Nell's eyes. Why couldn't people let her alone? Jane and her horrid sneering. Jane was a beast--an uncanny beast. She knew where things hurt you most.

Why, even Joe had said that she, Nell, was quite right to marry George! Joe had understood perfectly. Nell felt aggrieved and hurt. Why should Jane be so horrid? And saying things like that about the dead--irreligious things--when everyone knew that the dead liked one to be brave and cheerful.

The impertinence of Jane to hurl a text at her head! A woman like Jane, who had lived with people and done all kinds of immoral things. Nell felt a glow of superior virtue. In spite of everything that was said nowadays, there were two kinds of women. She belonged to one kind and Jane to the other. Jane was attractive--that kind of woman always was attractive. That was why in the past she had felt afraid of Jane. Jane had some queer power over men--she was bad through and through.

Thinking these thoughts, Nell paced restlessly up and down. She felt disinclined to go back to the house. In any case, there was nothing particular to do this afternoon. There were some letters that must be written sometime, but she really couldn't settle to them at present.

She had forgotten about her husband's American friend, and was quite surprised when George joined her with Mr. Bleibner in tow. The American was a tall thin man, very precise. He paid her grave compliments on the house. They were now, he explained, going to view the ruins of the Abbey. George suggested she should come with them.

"You go on," said Nell. "I'll follow you presently. I must get a hat. The sun is so hot."

"Shall I get it for you, dear?"

"No, thanks. You and Mr. Bleibner go on. You'll be ages pottering about there, I know."

"Why, I should say that is very certain to be the case, Mrs. Chetwynd. I understand your husband has some idea of restoring the Abbey. That is very interesting."

"It's one of our many projects, Mr. Bleibner."

"You are fortunate to own this place. By the way, I hope you've no objection. I told my chauffeur (with your husband's assent, naturally) that he might stroll round the grounds. He is a most intelligent young man of quite a superior class."

"That's quite all right. And if he'd like to see the house the butler can take him over it later."

"Now I call that very kind of you, Mrs. Chetwynd. What I feel is that we want beauty appreciated by all classes. The idea that's going to weld together the League of Nations----"

Nell felt suddenly that she couldn't bear to hear Mr. Bleibner's views on the League of Nations. They were sure to be ponderous and lengthy. She excused herself on the plea of the hot sun.

Some Americans could be very boring. What a mercy George was not like that! Dear George--really, he was very nearly perfect. She experienced again that warm happy feeling that had surged over her earlier in the day.

What an idiot she was to have let herself be upset by Jane! _Jane_ of all people! What did it matter what Jane said or thought? It didn't, of course, but there was something about Jane--she had the power of--well--upsetting one.

But that was all over now. The old tide of reassurance and safety welled up again. Abbots Puissants, George, the tender memory of Vernon. Everything was all right.

She ran down the stairs happily, hat in hand. She paused a minute to adjust it in front of the mirror. She would go now and join them at the Abbey. She would make herself absolutely charming to Mr. Bleibner.

She went down the steps of the terrace and along the garden walk. It was later than she thought. The sun was not far from setting--a beautiful sunset with a crimson sky.

By the goldfish pond a young man in chauffeur's livery was standing with his back to her. He turned at her approach and civilly raised a finger to his cap.

She stopped stock still, and slowly an unconscious hand crept up to her heart as she stood there staring.

_4_

George Green stared.

Then he ejaculated to himself: "Well, that's a rum go!"

On arrival at their destination his master had said to him: "This is one of the oldest and most interesting places in England, Green. I shall be here at least an hour--perhaps longer. I will ask Mr. Chetwynd if you may stroll about the grounds."

A kind old buffer, Green thought indulgently, but terribly keen on what was called "uplift." Couldn't let one alone. And he had that extraordinary American reverence for anything that was hallowed by antiquity.

Certainly, this was a nice old place, though. He looked up at it appreciatively. He'd seen pictures of it somewhere, he was sure. He wouldn't mind having a stroll round as he'd been told to do so.

It was well kept up, he noticed that. Who owned it? Some American chap? These Americans, they had all the money. He wondered who had owned it originally. Whoever it was must have been sick at having to let it go.

He thought wistfully: "I wish I'd been born a toff. I'd like to own a place like this."

He wandered some way through the gardens. In the distance he noticed a heap of ruins and amongst them two figures, one of which he recognized as being that of his employer. Funny old josser--always poking about ruins.

The sun was setting, there was a wonderful lurid sky, and against it Abbots Puissants stood out in all its beauty.

Funny, the way you thought of things as having happened before! Just for a minute Green could have sworn that he had once stood just where he was standing now and seen the house outlined against a red sky. Could swear, too, that he had felt just that same keen pang as of something that hurt. But it wanted something else--a woman with red hair like the sunset.

There was a step behind him and he started and turned. For a minute he felt a vague pang of disappointment. For standing there was a young slender woman, and her hair, escaping each side from under her hat, was golden, not red.

He touched his cap respectfully.

A queer sort of lady, he thought. She stared at him with every bit of colour draining slowly from her face. She looked absolutely terrified.

Then, with a sudden gasp, she turned and almost ran down the path.

It was then that he ejaculated: "Well, that's a rum go!"

She must, he decided, be a bit queer in the head.

He resumed his aimless strolling.

chapter 2

Sebastian Levinne was in his office going into the details of a ticklish contract when a telegram was brought to him. He opened it carelessly, for he received forty or fifty telegrams a day. After he had read it he held it in his hand, looking at it.

Then he crumpled it up, slipped it into his pocket, and spoke to Lewis, his right-hand man.

"Get on with this thing as best you can," he said curtly. "I'm called out of town."

He took no heed of the protestations that arose, but left the room. He paused to tell his secretary to see to the cancelling of various appointments and then went home, packed a bag, and took a taxi to Waterloo. There he unfolded the telegram again and read it:

Please come at once if you can very urgent Jane Wilts Hotel
Wiltsbury.

It was a proof of his confidence and respect for Jane that he never hesitated. He trusted Jane as he trusted no one else in the world. If Jane said a thing was urgent, it was urgent. He obeyed the summons without wasting a thought of regret on the necessary complications it would cause. For no one else in the world, be it said, would he have done that.

On arriving at Wiltsbury he drove straight to the hotel and asked for her. She had engaged a private room, and there she met him with outstretched hands.

"Sebastian, my dear, you've been marvellously quick."

"I came at once." He slipped off his coat and threw it over the back of a chair. "What is it, Jane?"

"It's Vernon."

Sebastian looked puzzled.

"What about him?"

"_He's not dead. I've seen him._"

Sebastian stared at her for a minute, then drew a chair to the table and sat down.

"It's not like you, Jane, but I think, for once in your life, you must have been mistaken."

"I wasn't mistaken. It's possible, I suppose, for the War Office to have made an error?"

"Errors have been made more than once--but they've usually been contradicted fairly soon. It stands to reason that they must be. If Vernon's alive, what's he been doing all this time?"

She shook her head.

"That I can't say. But I'm as sure about its being Vernon as I am that it's you here now."

She spoke curtly but very confidently.

He stared at her very hard, then nodded.

"Tell me," he said.

Jane spoke quietly and composedly.

"There's an American here, a Mr. Bleibner. I met him out in Serbia. We recognized each other in the street. He told me he was staying at the County Hotel and asked me to lunch to-day. I went. Afterward it was raining. He wouldn't hear of my walking back. His car was there and would take me. His car did take me. Sebastian, the chauffeur was Vernon--_and he didn't know me_."

Sebastian considered the matter.

"You're sure you weren't deceived by some strong resemblance?"

"Perfectly sure."

"Then why didn't Vernon recognize you? He was pretending, I suppose."

"No, I don't think so--in fact, I'm sure he wasn't. He would be bound to give some sign--a start--something. He couldn't have been _expecting_ to see me. He couldn't have controlled his first surprise. Besides, he looked--different."

"How different?"

Jane considered.

"It's hard to explain. Rather happy and jolly and--just faintly--like his mother."

"Extraordinary," said Sebastian. "I'm glad you sent for me. If it _is_ Vernon--well, it's going to be the devil of a business. Nell having married again and everything. We don't want reporters coming down like wolves on the fold. I suppose there'll have to be _some_ publicity." He got up, walked up and down. "The first thing is to get hold of Bleibner."

"I telephoned to him, asking him to be here at six-thirty. I didn't dare leave, though I was afraid you wouldn't be able to get here so soon. Bleibner will be here any minute."

"Good for you, Jane. We must hear what he's got to say."

There was a knock at the door and Mr. Bleibner was announced. Jane rose to meet him.

"It's very good of you to come, Mr. Bleibner," she began.

"Not at all," said the American. "Always delighted to oblige a lady. And you said that the matter you wanted to see me about was urgent."

"It is. This is Mr. Sebastian Levinne."

"_The_ Mr. Sebastian Levinne? I'm very pleased to meet you, sir."

The two men shook hands.

"And now, Mr. Bleibner," said Jane. "I'll come straight to what I want to talk to you about. How long have you had your chauffeur, and what can you tell us about him?"

Mr. Bleibner was plainly surprised and showed it.

"Green? You want to know about Green?"

"Yes."

"Well----" The American reflected. "I've no objections to telling you what I know. I guess you wouldn't ask without a good reason. I know you well enough for that, Miss Harding. I picked up Green in Holland not long after the Armistice. He was working in a local garage. I discovered he was an Englishman and began to take an interest in him. I asked him his history and he was pretty vague about it. I thought at first he had something to conceal, but I soon convinced myself that he was genuine enough. The man was in a kind of mental fog. He knew his name and where he came from, but very little else."

"Lost memory," said Sebastian softly. "I see."

"His father was killed in the South African war, he told me. He remembered his father singing in the village choir, and he remembered a brother whom he used to call Squirrel."

"And he was quite sure about his own name?"

"Oh! yes. As a matter of fact, he'd got it written down in a small pocketbook. There was an accident, you know. He was knocked down by a lorry. That's how they knew who he was. They asked him if his name was Green and he said Yes--George. He was very popular at the garage, he was so sunny and light-hearted. I don't believe I've ever seen Green out of temper.

"Well, I took a fancy to the young chap. I've seen a few shell-shocked cases and his state wasn't any mystery to me. He showed me the entry in his pocketbook and I made a few inquiries. I soon found the reason--there always is a reason, you know--for his loss of memory. Corporal George Green, London Fusiliers, was a deserter.

"There, you have it. He'd funked things--and being a decent young fellow really, he couldn't face the fact. I explained it all to him. He said, rather wonderingly: 'I shouldn't have thought I could ever desert--not _desert_.' I explained to him that that point of view was just the reason he couldn't remember. He couldn't remember because he didn't want to remember.

"He listened but I don't think he was very convinced. I felt, and still feel, extremely sorry for him. I didn't think there was any obligation on my part to report his existence to the military authorities. I took him into my service and offered him a chance to make good. I've never had cause to regret it. He's an excellent chauffeur--punctual, intelligent, a good mechanic, and always sunny-tempered and obliging."

Mr. Bleibner paused and looked inquiringly at Jane and Sebastian. Their pale serious faces impressed him.

"It's frightening," said Jane in her low voice. "It's one of the most frightening things that could happen."

Sebastian took her hand and squeezed it.

"It's all right, Jane."

Jane roused herself with a slight shiver and spoke to the American.

"I think it's our turn to explain. You see, Mr. Bleibner, in your chauffeur I recognized an old friend--and he didn't recognize me."

"In--deed!"

"But his name wasn't Green," said Sebastian.

"No? You mean he enlisted under another name?"

"No. There's something there that seems incomprehensible. I suppose we shall get at it some day. In the meantime, I will ask you, Mr. Bleibner, not to repeat this conversation to _anyone_. There's a wife in the matter, and--oh! many other considerations."

"My dear sir," said Mr. Bleibner, "you can trust me to be absolutely silent. But what next? Do you want to see Green?"

Sebastian looked at Jane and she bowed her head.

"Yes," said Sebastian slowly. "I think perhaps that would be the best plan."

The American rose.

"He's below now. He brought me here. I'll send him up right away."

_2_

George Green mounted the stairs with his usual buoyant step. As he did so he wondered what had happened to upset the old josser--by that term meaning his employer. Very queer the old buffer had looked.

"The door at the top of the stairs," Mr. Bleibner had said.

George Green rapped on it sharply with his knuckles and waited. A voice called "Come in" and he obeyed.

There were two people in the room--the lady he had driven home to-day (whom he thought of in his own mind as a tip-topper) and a big, rather fat man with a very yellow face and projecting ears. His face seemed vaguely familiar to the chauffeur. For a moment he stood there while they both stared at him. He thought: "What's the matter with everybody this evening?"

He said, "Yes, sir?" in a respectful voice to the yellow gentleman. He went on: "Mr. Bleibner told me to come up."

The yellow gentleman seemed to recover himself.

"Yes, yes," he said. "That's right. Sit down--er--Green. That's your name, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. George Green."

He sat down respectfully in the chair indicated. The yellow gentleman handed him a cigarette case and said, "Help yourself." And all the time, his eyes, small piercing eyes, never left Green's face. That intent burning gaze made the chauffeur uneasy. What _was_ up with everyone to-night?

"I wanted to ask you a few questions. To begin with, have you ever seen me before?"

Green shook his head.

"No, sir."

"Sure?" persisted the other.

A faint trace of uncertainty crept into Green's voice.

"I--I don't think so," he said doubtfully.

"My name is Sebastian Levinne."

The chauffeur's face cleared.

"Of course, sir, I've seen your picture in the papers. I thought it seemed familiar somehow."

There was a pause, and then Sebastian Levinne asked casually: "Have you ever heard the name of Vernon Deyre?"

"Vernon Deyre," Green repeated the name thoughtfully. He frowned perplexedly. "The name seems somehow familiar to me, sir, but I can't quite place it." He paused, the frown deepening. "I think I've heard it." And then added, "The gentleman's dead, isn't he?"

"So that's your impression, is it? That the gentleman is dead."

"Yes, sir, and a good----"

He stopped suddenly, crimsoning.

"Go on," said Levinne. "What were you going to say?" He added shrewdly, perceiving where the trouble lay. "You need not mince your words. Mr. Deyre was no relation of mine."

The chauffeur accepted the implication.

"I was going to say a good job, too--but I don't know that I ought to say it, since I can't remember anything about him. But I've got a kind of impression that--well, that he was best out of the way, so to speak. Made rather a mess of things, hadn't he?"

"You knew him?"

The frown deepened in an agony of attempted recollection.

"I'm sorry, sir," the chauffeur apologized. "Since the war things seemed to have got a bit mixed up. I can't always recollect things clearly. I don't know where I came across Mr. Deyre, and why I disliked him, but I do know that I'm thankful to hear that he's dead. He was no good--you can take my word for that."

There was a silence, only broken by something like a smothered sob from the other occupant of the room. Levinne turned to her.

"Telephone to the theatre, Jane," he said. "You can't appear to-night."

She nodded and left the room. Levinne looked after her and then said abruptly:

"You've seen Miss Harding before?"

"Yes, sir. I drove her home to-day."

Levinne sighed. Green looked at him inquiringly.

"Is--is that all, sir? I'm sorry to have been so little use. I know I've been a bit--well, queer since the war. My own fault. Perhaps Mr. Bleibner told you--I--didn't do my duty as I should have done."

His face flushed but he brought out the words resolutely. Had the old josser told them or not? Better to say that anyway. At the same time, a pang of shame pierced him keenly. He was a deserter, a man who had run away! A rotten business.

Jane Harding came back into the room and resumed her place behind the table. She looked paler than when she had gone out, Green thought. Curious eyes she had--so deep and tragic. He wondered what she was thinking about. Perhaps she had been engaged to this Mr. Deyre. No, Mr. Levinne wouldn't have urged him to speak out if that had been the case. It was probably all to do with money. A will, or something like that.

Mr. Levinne began questioning him again. He made no reference to the last sentence.

"Your father was killed in the Boer War, I believe?"

"Yes, sir."

"You remember him?"

"Oh! yes, sir."

"What did he look like?"

Green smiled. The memory was pleasant to him.

"A burly sort of chap. Mutton-chop whiskers. Very bright blue eyes. I remember him as well as anything singing in the choir. Baritone voice he had."

He smiled happily.

"And he was killed in the Boer War?"

A sudden look of doubt crept into Green's face. He seemed worried--distressed. His eyes looked pathetically across the table like a dog at fault.

"It's queer," he said. "I never thought of that. He'd be too old. He--and yet I'd swear--I'm sure----"

The look of distress in his eyes was so acute that the other said, "Never mind," and went on: "Are you married, Green?"

"No, sir."

The answer came with prompt assurance.

"You seem very certain about that," said Mr. Levinne, smiling.

"I am, sir. It leads to nothing but trouble--mixing yourself up with women." He stopped abruptly and said to Jane: "I beg your pardon."

She smiled faintly and said: "It doesn't matter."

There was a pause. Levinne turned to her and said something so quickly that Green could not catch it. It sounded like:

"Extraordinary likeness to Sydney Bent. Never imagined it was there."

Then they both stared at him again.

And suddenly he was afraid--definitely childishly afraid--in the same way that he remembered being afraid of the dark when he was a baby. There was something up--that was how he put it to himself--and these two knew it. Something about him.

He leaned forward, acutely apprehensive.

"What's the matter?" he said sharply. "There's something...."

They didn't deny it--just continued to look at him.

And his terror grew. Why couldn't they tell a chap? They knew something that he didn't. Something dreadful. He said again, and this time his voice was high and shrill:

"_What's the matter?_"

The lady got up--he noticed in the background of his mind as it were how splendidly she moved. She was like a statue he'd seen somewhere. She came round the table and laid a hand on his shoulder. She said comfortingly and reassuringly: "It's all right. You mustn't be frightened."

But Green's eyes continued to question Levinne. This man knew--this man was going to tell him. What was this horrible thing that they knew and he didn't?

"Very odd things have happened in this war," began Levinne. "People have sometimes forgotten their own names."

He paused significantly, but the significance was lost on Green. He said with a momentary return to cheerfulness:

"I'm not as bad as that. I've never forgotten my name."

"But you _have_." He stopped, then went on: "Your real name is Vernon Deyre."

The announcement ought to have been dramatic, but it wasn't. The words seemed to Green simply silly. He looked amused.

"I'm Mr. Vernon Deyre? You mean I'm his double or something?"

"I mean you _are_ him."

Green laughed frankly.

"I can't monkey about with that stuff, sir. Not even if it means a title or a fortune! Whatever the resemblance, I'd be bound to be found out."

Sebastian Levinne leaned forward over the table and rapped out each word separately, with emphasis.

"You--are--Vernon--Deyre."

Green stared. The emphasis impressed him.

"You're kidding me?"

Levinne slowly shook his head. Green turned suddenly to the woman who stood beside him. Her eyes, very grave and absolutely assured, met his. She said very quietly:

"You are Vernon Deyre. We both know it."

There was dead silence in the room. To Green, it seemed as though the whole world were spinning round. It was like a fairy story, fantastic and impossible. And yet something about these two compelled credence. He said uncertainly:

"But--but things don't happen like that. You couldn't forget your own name!"

"Evidently--since you have done so."

"But--but, look here, sir, I _know_ I'm George Green. I--well, I just know it!"

He looked at them triumphantly, but slowly and remorselessly Sebastian Levinne shook his head.

"I don't know how that's come about," he said. "A doctor would probably be able to tell you. But I do know this--that you are my friend Vernon Deyre. There is no possible doubt of that."

"But--but, if that's true, I ought to know it."

He felt bewildered, horribly uncertain. A strange sickening world where you couldn't be sure of anything. These were kindly sane people, he trusted them. What they said must be so--and yet something in him refused to be convinced. They were sorry for him--he felt that. And that frightened him. There was something more yet--something that he hadn't been told.

"Who is he?" he said sharply. "This Vernon Deyre, I mean."

"You come from this part of the world. You were born and spent most of your childhood at a place called Abbots Puissants----"

Green interrupted him in astonishment.

"Abbots Puissants? Why, I drove Mr. Bleibner there yesterday. And you say it's my old home, and I never recognized it!"

He felt suddenly buoyed up and scornful. The whole thing was a pack of lies! Of course it was! He had known it all the time. These people were honest, but they were mistaken. He felt relieved--happier.

"After that you went to live near Birmingham," continued Levinne. "You went to school at Eton and from there you went on to Cambridge. After that you went to London and studied music. You composed an opera."

Green laughed outright.

"There you're quite wrong, sir. Why, I don't know one note of music from another."

"The war broke out. You obtained a commission in the yeomanry. You were married--" he paused, but Green gave no sign--"and went out to France. In the spring of the following year you were reported Killed in Action."

Green stared at him incredulously. What sort of a rigmarole was this? He couldn't remember a thing about any of it.

"There must be some mistake," he said confidently. "Mr. Deyre must have been what they call my 'double.'"

"There is no mistake, Vernon," said Jane Harding.

Green looked from her to Sebastian. The confident intimacy of her tone had done more to convince him than anything else. He thought: "This is awful. A nightmare. Such things can't happen." He began to shake all over, unable to stop.

Levinne got up, mixed him a stiff drink from materials that stood on a tray in the corner and brought it back to him.

"Swallow this," he said, "And you'll feel better. It's been a shock."

Green gulped down the draught. It steadied him. The trembling ceased.

"Before God, sir," he said, "is this true?"

"Before God, it is," said Sebastian.

He brought a chair forward, sat down close by his friend.

"Vernon, dear old chap--don't you remember me at all?"

Green stared at him--an anguished stare. Something seemed to stir ever so faintly. How it hurt, this trying to remember! There was _something_--what was it. He said doubtfully:

"You--you've grown up." He stretched out a hand and touched Sebastian's ear. "I seem to remember----"

"He remembers your ears, Sebastian," cried Jane, and going over to the mantelpiece she laid her head down upon it and began to laugh.

"Stop it, Jane." Sebastian rose, poured out another drink and took it to her. "Some medicine for you."

She drank it, handed the glass back to him, smiled faintly, and said: "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

Green was going on with his discoveries.

"You're--you're not a brother, are you? No, you lived next door. That's it--you lived next door."

"That's right, old chap." Sebastian patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry to think--it'll come back soon. Take it easy."

Green looked at Jane. He said timidly and politely: "Were you--are you--my sister? I seem to remember something about a sister."

Jane shook her head, unable to speak. Green flushed.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have----"

Sebastian interrupted.

"You didn't have a sister. There was a cousin who lived with you. Her name was Josephine. We called her Joe."

Green pondered.

"Josephine--Joe. Yes, I seem to remember something about that." He paused and then reiterated pathetically: "Are you _sure_ my name isn't Green?"

"Quite sure. Do you still feel it is?"

"Yes.... And you say I made up music--music of my own? Highbrow stuff--not ragtime?"

"Yes."

"It all seems--well, mad. Just that--mad!"

"You mustn't worry," said Jane gently. "I dare say we have been wrong to tell you all this the way we have."

Green looked from one to the other of them. He felt dazed.

"What am I to do?" he asked helplessly.

Sebastian gave an answer with decision.

"You must stay here with us. You've had a great shock, you know. I'll go and square things with old Bleibner. He's a very decent chap and he'll understand."

"I shouldn't like to put him out in any way. He's been a thundering good boss to me."

"He'll understand. I've already told him something."

"What about the car? I don't like to think of another chap driving that car. She's running now as sweetly----"

He was once again the chauffeur, intent on his charge.

"I know. I know." Sebastian was impatient. "But the great thing, my dear fellow, is to get you right as soon as possible. We want to get a first-class doctor on to you."

"What's a doctor got to do with it?" Green was slightly hostile. "I'm perfectly fit."

"Perhaps a doctor ought to see you all the same. Not here--in London. We don't want any talk down here."

Something in the tone of the speaker's voice attracted Green's attention. The flush came over his face.

"You mean the deserting business."

"No, no. To tell the truth, I can't get the hang of that. I mean something quite different."

Green looked at him inquiringly.

Sebastian thought: "Well, I suppose he's got to know sometime." Aloud he said:

"You see, thinking you were dead, your wife has--well--married again."

He was a little afraid of the effect of those words. But Green seemed to see the matter in a humorous light.

"That _is_ a bit awkward," he said with a grin.

"It doesn't upset you in any way?"

"You can't be upset by a thing you don't remember." He paused, as though really considering the matter for the first time. "Was Mr. Deyre--I mean, was I--fond of her?"

"Well--yes."

But again the grin came over Green's face.

"And I to be so positive I wasn't married. All the same"--his face changed--"it's rather frightening--all this!"

He looked suddenly at Jane, as though seeking assurance.

"Dear Vernon," she said, "it will be all right."

She paused, and then said in a quiet casual tone: "You drove Mr. Bleibner over to Abbots Puissants, you say. Did you--did you see anyone there? Any of the people of the house?"

"I saw Mr. Chetwynd--and I saw a lady in the sunk gardens. I took her to be Mrs. Chetwynd, fair-haired and good-looking."

"Did--did she see you?"

"Yes. Seemed--well, scared. Went dead-white and bolted like a rabbit."