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I was there about a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes. Then I rode back for home. When I came in sight of the lock, there I saw a man standing alone, sharp in the moonlight. As I came nearer I recognised the same man, Major Boyce. There were no lights in the lock-keeper's cottage. He and his wife had gone to bed long before.
You will not talk to me, for it is disintegrating to your tissues. Allons, compose yourself and attend. Now I come into it, if you please, out of gratitude. Mr. Boyce I have it in command from His Majesty to present you with his thanks for very gallant and faithful service." "Oh, the boy got off then?" "King James is returned to France, sir," says McBean with dignity. "Look 'e, tie up your tongue.
Then we went to New York with meet-my-friend letters thick as a pile of napkins. "In two days we landed a job at Divinerries', and I learned to shimmy from a kid at the Palais Royal. We stayed at Divinerries' six months until one night Peter Boyce Wendell, the columnist, ate his milk-toast there.
"And then again this evening, sir," continued Marigold, slipping me into my pyjama jacket, "as I was starting the Major's car, who should be waiting there for him but Mr. Gedge." "Gedge?" I cried. "Yes, sir. Waiting by the side of the car. 'Can I have a word with you, Major Boyce? says he. 'No, you can't, says the Major. 'I think it's advisable, says he.
Ov a summer night the chillen, three on 'em, is all of a sweat afore they're asleep. An' no garden, an' no chance o' decent ways nohow. An' if yer ask for a bit o' repairs yer get sworn at. An' that's all that most on us can get out of Squire Boyce!" There was a hasty whisper among some of the men round him, as they glanced over their shoulders at the two ladies on the back bench.
I want no tears of sensibility shed over Boyce. I want you to judge him by the evidence that I am trying to put before you. If you judge him as a criminal, it is my poor presentation of the evidence that is at fault. I claim for Boyce a certain splendour of character, for all his grievous sins, a splendour which no criminal in the world's history has ever achieved.
Men are men and women are women. We've tried for tens of thousands of years to lay down hard and fast lines for the sexes to walk upon, and we've failed miserably. Suppose Leonard Boyce did make love to Althea Fenimore trifle with her affections, in the old-fashioned phrase. What then? I'm greatly to blame. It has only lately been brought home to me.
"A mess for both of us, and, as I have said, I'll leave it to you, sir." "Very well," said Boyce. "It's the simplest thing in the world. There were four killed at once, including Sergeant Oldham. You remained faithful when the others bolted. You and I tackled the old Boer and you got wounded. You and I went on trek for the rest of the troop.
But to tell you a secret, he never was alive. He doesn't like it known." Colonel Boyce, who had listened to the song and the first coruscations of wit with the condescending smile of a connoisseur, now exhibited some impatience. "Egad, Harry, why will you dress like a parson out at elbows?" "His customary suit of solemn black," said Geoffrey.
It was the first time that such a thing had ever happened in Mellor. Mrs. Boyce treated her visitor on their way home with a new respect, mixed, however, as usual, with her prevailing irony. For one who knew her, her manner implied, not that she liked him any more, but that a man so well trained to his own profession must always hold his own. As for Marcella, she said little or nothing.
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