Part 18 (1/2)

Elsie looked up with a smile.

”After all, I wouldn't mind that very much, so long as he needed it.

It must be dreadful to lie out, cold and hungry, in the snow.”

”It is,” said Andrew. ”I've done something of the kind. Of course you're right; but ordinary people would rather help their own side, particularly when the other seems to be singularly unchivalrous.”

He stopped as he saw a tinge of color creep into her face; but she quietly met his apologetic glance.

”I know you didn't mean to hurt. I do remember sometimes, that, in a sense, I belong to the other side.”

”You can't help that, and you're Scottish to the backbone in all that matters.”

Elsie's eyes twinkled.

”You're not making it much better, but perhaps you'd lose something if you were not so frank. One distrusts people who always say the proper thing.”

Andrew glanced at a well-dressed, handsome man who was playing billiards with d.i.c.k. He came to Appleyard for a day or two now and then, and had been there when Andrew arrived from Canada.

”Does that mean you don't quite trust Williamson? I've sometimes wondered whether it's his right name.”

Elsie looked thoughtful and answered with some hesitation:

”I don't think it is. He hasn't a trace of foreign accent and his ways are ours, but I can't help feeling that he does not belong to us. Then I've noticed that he never talks to Mother much. But of course it's only changing his name that matters, not where he was born. Our enemies are not all treacherous and cruel. You have seen the portraits Mother has of her own people, and three or four were soldiers. They have kind, true faces. I think they were men with an unusual sense of duty.”

”You see what's best in everybody,” Andrew replied. ”But if there are good fellows on the other side, why do they behave like savages?”

”Ah!” said Elsie, and was silent for a few moments.

Andrew glanced at his cousin, who had soon recovered from his fall.

He was now chalking his cue, and his eyes had an excited glitter. A syphon and a whisky bottle stood on a table near by, and Andrew wondered whether Elsie had noticed that d.i.c.k's gla.s.s was full again.

”I'll beat you if I can make that cannon,” d.i.c.k was saying.

”Half a sovereign you don't; but you had better not take me,”

Williamson replied. ”It would need a professional's stroke.”

Andrew surmised that they were not playing for mere amus.e.m.e.nt.

”You can't do it, d.i.c.k!” Whitney said; and his tone was restraining, while Andrew imagined that Williamson's was meant to be provocative.

d.i.c.k raised his gla.s.s and put it down again half empty before he poised his cue.

”Watch me!”

He made the cannon; but something in his hot face suggested that it had been a nervous strain, and he turned to the table at once to refill his gla.s.s.

”Now,” he said, ”I think the game is mine.”

His play was clever, but Andrew, watching closely, imagined that Williamson was not doing quite his best. It was difficult to say what gave him the impression, but he was a judge of matters that needed accurate judgment and steadiness of hand. Williamson was cool and skilful, but he missed a cannon he ought to have made, and there was a break he bungled. It looked as if he did not want to win. That was curious, for Andrew did not think he felt any hesitation about taking d.i.c.k's money.

d.i.c.k reached out for his gla.s.s without turning round, and Whitney, standing behind him, neatly struck the bottle with his elbow in stepping back. It rolled across the table, upsetting the gla.s.s, and fell upon the floor.