William Le Queux - The Mystery of the Green Ray

As for Dennis and myself – but I am coming to that.

Having finished our early morning supper, we turned in for a few hours’ sleep, Jack and Tommy in one boat, Dennis and I in the other. But before we did so we stood up, as well as we could under our canvas roof, and drank “The King”; and I fancy that in the mind of each of us there was more than one other name silently coupled with that toast. Then, for the first time in my memory of our intimacy together, we solemnly shook hands before turning in. But, try as I would, I couldn’t sleep. For a long time I lay there, in the beautiful silence of the night, my thoughts far away, sleep farther away still. Presently I grovelled for my tobacco-pouch.

“Restless, Ron?” Dennis asked, himself evidently quite wide awake.

“Can’t sleep at all,” I answered. “But don’t let me disturb you.”

“You’re not disturbing me, old man. I can’t sleep either. Let’s light the lamp and smoke.”

Accordingly we fished out our pipes and relighted the acetylene lamp, which hung from the middle hoop. Jack turned over in his sleep.

“Put out the light, old fellow. Not a cab’net meeting, y’know,” he murmured drowsily. And by way of compromise I pulled the primitive draught curtain between the two boats, and as I sat up to do so I noticed with a start that Dennis wore a worried look I had never seen before. I lay back, got my pipe going, and waited for him to speak.

“I wonder,” he said presently, through the clouds of smoke that hung imprisoned beneath our shallow roof – “I wonder if there would have been any war if the Germans smoked Jamavana?”

“What’s worrying you, Den?” I asked, ignoring his question.

“Worrying me? Why, nothing. I’ve got nothing to worry about. What about you, though? I don’t want to butt in on your private affairs, but you’ve a lot more to be worried about than I have.”

“I? Oh, nonsense, Dennis,” I protested.

“None of that with me, Ron. You know what I mean. There’s no point in either of us concealing things. This war is going to make a big difference to you and Myra McLeod. Now, tell me all about it. What do you mean to do, and everything?”

“There isn’t much to tell you. You know all about it. We’re not engaged. Old General McLeod objects to our engagement on account of my position. Of course, he’s quite right. He’s very nice about it, and he’s always kindness itself to me. You know, of course, that he and my father were brother officers? Myra and I have been chums since she was four. We love each other, and she would be content to wait, but, in the meantime – well, you know my position. I can only describe it in the well-worn phrases, ‘briefless barrister’ and ‘impecunious junior.’ There’s a great deal of truth in the weak old joke, Dennis, about the many that are called and the few that are briefed. Of course the General is right. He says that I ought to leave Myra absolutely alone, and neither write to her nor see her, and give her a chance to meet someone else, and all that – someone who could keep her among her own set. But I tried that once for three months; I didn’t answer her letters, or write to her, and I worried myself to death very nearly about it. But at the end of the three months she came up to town to see what it was all about. Gad, how glad I was to see her!”

“I bet you were,” said Dennis, sympathetically. “But what d’you mean by telling me you’d got nothing to worry about? Now that you’re just getting things going nicely, and look like doing really well, along comes this wretched war, and you join the army, and such practice as you have goes to the devil. It’s rotten luck, Ronnie, rotten luck.”

“It is a bit,” I admitted with a sigh. My little bit of hard-earned success had meant a lot to me.

“Still,” said Dennis, “you’ve got a thundering lot to be thankful for too. To begin with, she’ll wait for you, and then, if necessary, marry on twopence-halfpenny a year, and make you comfortable on it too. As far as her father is concerned, she’s very devoted to him, and would never do anything to annoy him if she could possibly help it, as I easily spotted the night we dined with them at the Carlton. But she’s made up her mind to be Mrs. Ronald Ewart sooner or later; that I will swear!”

“I’m very glad to hear you say so,” I answered, “but the thing that worries me, of course, is the question as to whether I have any right to let this go on. If war is declared – ”

“Which it will be,” said Dennis.

“Well, then, my practice goes to the devil, as you say. How long after the war is it going to be before I could marry one of Myra’s maids, let alone Myra? And, supposing, of course, that I use the return half of my ticket, so to speak, and come back safe and sound, my own prospects will be infinitely worse than they were before the war. The law, after all, is a luxury, and no one will have a great deal of money for luxuries by the time we have finished with it and wiped Germany off the map. Besides, if there’s no money about, there’s nothing to go to law over. So there you are, or, rather, there I am.”

“What do you intend to do, then?” my friend asked.

“I shall go up to Scotland to-morrow night – well, of course, it’s to-night, I should say – and see her – and – and – ”

“Yes – well, and – ”

“Oh, and tell her that it must be all – all over. I shall say that the war will make all the difference, that I must join the army, and that she must consider herself free to marry someone else, and that, as in any case I might never come back, I think it’s the best thing for us both that she should consider herself free, and – er – and – and consider herself free,” I ended weakly.

“Just like that?” asked Dennis, with a twinkle in his eye.

“I shall try and put it fairly formally to her,” I said, “because, of course, I must appear to be sincere about it. I must try and think out some way of making her imagine I want it broken off for reasons of my own.”

Dennis laughed softly.

“You delicious, egotistical idiot,” he said. “You don’t really imagine that you could persuade anyone you met for the first time even that you’re not in love. By all means do what you think is right, Ron. I wouldn’t dissuade you for the world. Tell her that she is free. Tell her why you are setting her free, and I’ll be willing to wager my little all that you two ridiculous young people will find yourselves tied tighter together than ever. By all means do your best to be a good little boy, Ronald, and do what you conceive to be your duty.”

“You needn’t pull my leg about it,” I said, though somewhat half-heartedly.

“I’m not pulling your leg, as you put it,” Dennie answered, in a more serious tone. “If ever I saw honesty and truth and love and loyalty looking out of a girl’s eyes, that girl is Myra McLeod.”

“Thank you for that, Den,” I answered simply. There was little sentiment between us. Thank heaven, there was something more.

“And so you see, you lucky dog, you’ll go out to the front, and come back loaded with honours and blushes, and marry the girl of your dreams, and live happy ever after.” And Dennis sighed.

“Why the sigh?” I asked. “Oh, come now,” I added, suddenly remembering. “Fair exchange, you know. You haven’t told me what was worrying you.”

“My dear old fellow, don’t be ridiculous, there’s nothing worrying me.”

I pressed him to no purpose. He refused to admit that he had a care in the world, and so we fell to talking of matters connected with the routine of army life, how long we should be before we got to the front, the sport we four should have in our rest time behind the trenches, our determination to stick together at all costs, etc. Suddenly Dennis sat bolt upright.