The Yellow Dove. Gibbs George
is a sacrament. Love of woman—love of country, but the last is the greater of the two. No man who isn’t a patriot is fit to be a husband.”
“A patriot–”
She broke in before he could protest. “Yes—a patriot. You’re not a patriot—that is, if you’re an Englishman. I don’t know you, Cyril. You puzzle me. You’re lukewarm. Day after day you’ve seen your friends and mine go off in uniform, but it doesn’t mean anything to you. It doesn’t mean anything to you that England is in danger and that she needs every man who can be spared at home to go to the front. You see them go and the only thing it means to you is that you’re losing club-mates and sport-mates. Instead of taking the infection of fervor—you go to Scotland—to shoot—not Germans but—deer! Deer!” she repeated scathingly.
“But there aren’t any Germans in Scotland—at least none that a chap could shoot,” he said with a smile.
“Then go where there are Germans to shoot,” she said impetuously. She put her face to her hands a moment. “Oh, don’t you understand? You’ve got to prove yourself. You’ve got to make people stop speaking of you as I’ve heard them speak of you tonight. Here you are in the midst of friends, people who know you and like you, but what must other people who don’t know you so well or care so much as we? What must they think and say of your indifference, of your openly expressed sympathy with England’s enemies? Even Lady Betty, a kinswoman and one of your truest friends, has lost patience with you—I had almost said lost confidence in you.”
Her voice trailed into silence. Hammersley was moving the toe of his varnished boot along the border of the Aubusson rug.
“I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “Awf’ly sorry.”
“Sorry! Are you? But what are you going to do about it?”
“Do?” he said vaguely. “I don’t know, I’m sure. I’m no bally use, you know. Wouldn’t be any bally use over there. Make some silly ass mistake probably. No end of trouble—all around.”
“And you’re willing to sacrifice the goodwill, the affection of your friends, the respect of the girl you say you love–”
“Oh, I say, Doris. Not that–”
“Yes. I’ve got to tell you. I can’t be unfair to myself. I can’t respect a man who sees others cheerfully carrying his burdens, doing his work, accepting his hardships in order that he may sleep soundly at home far away from the nightmare of shot and shell. You, Cyril, you! Is it that—the love of ease? Or is it something else—something to do with your German kinship—the memory of your mother. What is it? If you still want me, Cyril, it is my right to know–”
“Want you, Doris—” his voice went a little lower. “Yes, I want you. You might know that.”
“Then you must tell me.”
He hesitated and peered at the eyeglass in his fingers.
“I think—it’s because I—” He paused and then crossed his hands and bowed his head with an air of relinquishment. “Because I think I must be a”—he almost whispered the word—“a coward.”
Doris Mather gazed at him a long moment of mingled dismay and incredulity.
“You,” she whispered, “the first sportsman of England—a—a coward.”
He gave a short mirthless laugh.
“Queer, isn’t it, the way a chap feels about such things? I always hated the idea of being mangled. Awf’ly unpleasant idea that—’specially in the tummy. In India once I saw a chap–”
“You—a coward!” Doris repeated, wide-eyed. “I don’t believe you.”
He bent his head again.
“I—I’m afraid you’d better,” he said uncertainly.
She rose, still looking at him incredulously, another doubt, a more dreadful one, winging its flight to and fro across her inner vision.
“Come,” she said in a tone she hardly recognized as her own, “come let us join the others.”
He stood uncertainly and as she started to go,
“You’ll let me take you home, Doris?” he asked.
She bent her head, and without replying made her way to the group beyond the alcove.
Hammersley stood a moment watching her diminishing back and then a curious expression, half of trouble, half of resolution, came into his eyes.
Then after a quick glance around the curtain he suddenly reached into his trousers pocket, took something out and scrutinized it carefully by the light of the lamp. He put it back quickly and setting his monocle sauntered forth into the room. As he moved to join the group at the piano John Rizzio met him in the middle of the room.
“Could I have a word with you, Hammersley?” he asked.
“Happy,” said the Honorable Cyril. “Here?”
“In the smoking-room—if you don’t mind?”
Hammersley hesitated a moment and then swung on his heels and led the way. At the smoking-room door from the hallway Rizzio paused, then quietly drew the heavy curtains behind them.
Hammersley, standing by the table, followed this action with a kind of bored curiosity, aware that Rizzio’s dark gaze had never once left him since they had entered the room. Slowly Hammersley took his hands from his pockets, reached into his waistcoat for his cigarette case, and as Rizzio approached, opened and offered it to him.
“Smoke?” he asked carelessly.
“I don’t mind if I do. But I’ve taken a curious liking for rolled cigarettes. Ah! I thought so.” He opened the tobacco jar and sniffed at it, searched around the articles on the table, then, “How disappointing! Nothing but Algy’s dreadful pipes. You don’t happen to have any rice-papers do you?”
Hammersley was lighting his own cigarette at the brazier.
“No. Sorry,” he replied laconically.
Rizzio leaned beside him against the edge of the table.
“Strange. I thought I saw you making a cigarette in the dining-room.”
Hammersley’s face brightened. “Oh, yes, Byfield. Byfield has rice-papers.”
“I’d rather have yours,” he said quietly.
The Honorable Cyril looked up.
“Mine, old chap? I thought I told you I hadn’t any.”
Rizzio smiled amiably.
“Then I must have misunderstood you,” he said politely.
“Yes,” said Hammersley and sank into an armchair.
Rizzio did not move and the Honorable Cyril, his head back, was already blowing smoke rings.
Rizzio suddenly relaxed with a laugh and put his legs over a small chair near Hammersley’s and folded his arms along its back.
“Do you know, Hammersley,” he said with a laugh, “I sometimes think that as I grow older my hearing is not as good as it used to be. Perhaps you’ll say that I cling to my vanishing youth with a fatuous desperation. I do. Rather silly, isn’t it, because I’m quite forty-five. But I’ve a curiosity, even in so small a matter, to learn whether things are as bad with me as I think they are. Now unless you’re going to add a few more gray hairs to my head by telling me that I’m losing my sight as well as my hearing, you’ll gratify my curiosity—an idle curiosity, if you like, but still strangely important to my peace of mind.”
He paused a moment and looked at Cyril, who was examining him with frank bewilderment.
“I don’t think I understand,” said Hammersley politely.
“I’ll try to make it clearer. Something has happened tonight that makes me think that I’m getting either blind or deaf or both. To begin with I