Part 38 (2/2)
”You see,” he explained, ”I am a soldier of the Legion--that is to say, I enlisted for five years' service in the French colonies. I could not get leave.”
”Five years!” cried Warrisden. ”You meant to stay five years away?”
”No,” replied Stretton. ”If things went well with me here, as up till to-day they have done, if, in a word, I did what I enlisted to do, I should have gone to work to buy myself out and get free. That can be done with a little influence and time-only time is the one thing I have not now. I must go home at once, since no harm has yet been done.
Therefore I must desert. I am very sorry”--and again the wistfulness became very audible--”for, as I say, I have a good name; amongst both officers and men I have a good name. I should have liked very much to have left a good name behind me. Sergeant Ohlsen”--and as he uttered the name he smiled. ”They speak well of Sergeant Ohlsen in the Legion, Warrisden; and to-morrow they will not. I am very sorry. I have good friends amongst both officers and men. I shall have lost them all to-morrow. I am sorry. There is only one thing of which I am glad to-day. I am glad that Captain Tavernay is dead.”
Warrisden knew nothing at all of Captain Tavernay. Until this moment he had never heard his name. But Stretton was speaking with a simplicity so sincere, and so genuine a sorrow, that Warrisden could not but be deeply moved. He forgot the urgency of his summons; he ceased to think how greatly Stretton's immediate return would help his own fortunes. He cried out upon the impulse--
”Stay, then, until you can get free without----” And he stopped, keeping unspoken the word upon his lips.
”Without disgrace.”
Stretton finished the sentence with a smile.
”Say it! Without disgrace. That was the word upon your tongue. I can't avoid disgrace. I have come to such a pa.s.s in my life's history that, one way or another, I can't avoid it. I thought just at the first moment that I could let things slide and stay. But there's dishonour in that course, too. Dishonour for myself, dishonour for my name, dishonour for others, too, whom it is my business--yes, my business--to keep from dishonour. That's the position--disgrace if I stay, disgrace if I go. It seems to me there's no rule of conduct which applies. I must judge for myself.”
Stretton spoke with some anger in his voice, anger with those who had placed him in so cruel a position, anger, perhaps, in some measure, with himself. For in a little while he said--
”It is quite true that I am myself to blame, too. I want to be just. I was a fool not to have gone into the house the evening I was in London, after I had come back from the North Sea. Yes, I should have gone in then; and yet--I don't know. I had thought my course all out.
I don't know.”
He had thought his course out, it is true; but he had thought it out in ignorance of his wife's character. That was the trouble, as he clearly saw now.
”Anyhow, I must go to-night,” he said, rising from his chair. In an instant he had become the practical man, arranging the means to an end already resolved upon.
”I can borrow money of you?”
”Yes.”
”And a mule?”
”Yes.”
”Let me choose my mule.”
They walked from the tent to where the mules stood picketed. Warrisden pointed to one in the middle of the line.
”That is the strongest.”
”I don't want one too strong, too obviously well-fed,” said Stretton; and he selected another. ”Can I borrow a muleteer for an hour or two?”
”Of course,” said Warrisden.
Stretton called a muleteer towards him and gave him orders.
”There is a market to-day,” he said. ”Go to it and buy.” He enumerated the articles he wanted, ticking them off upon his fingers--a few pairs of scissors and knives, a few gaudy silk handkerchiefs, one or two cheap clocks, some pieces of linen, needles and thread--in fact, a small pedlar's pack of wares. In addition, a black jellaba and cap, such as the Jews must wear in Morocco, and a native's underclothes and slippers.
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