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Updated: June 9, 2025
The rage had faded from Byng's fevered eyes, and now there was a moisture in them, a look of incalculable relief. To believe in Jasmine, that was everything to him. He had not seen her yet, not since he left the white rose on her pillow last night Adrian Fellowes' tribute; and after he had read the letter, he had had no wish to see her till he had had his will and done away with Fellowes forever.
"Not like a grampus you can't, and don't you forget it." Keggs wagged his head reprovingly. "Well, so your Reggie Byng's gone and eloped, has he! That ought to teach you to be more careful another time 'ow you go gambling and plunging into sweepstakes. The idea of a child of your age 'aving the audacity to thrust 'isself forward like that!" "Don't call him my Reggie Byng! I didn't draw 'im!"
This was Byng's last day at Brinkwort's Farm, to which he himself had come to-day lest Rudyard should take note of his neglect, and their fellow-officers should remark that the old friendship had grown cold, and perhaps begin to guess at the reason why. "You say the Baas sent for you?" he asked presently. "Yes." "To sjambok you again?" Krool made a gesture of contempt.
On January 11th there was a sharp skirmish near Murraysburg, in which Byng's column was engaged, at the cost of twenty casualties, all of Brabant's or the South African Light Horse. On the 16th a very rapid movement towards the south began. On that date Boers appeared at Aberdeen, and on the 18th at Willowmore, having covered seventy miles in two days.
"Good-by, Scamp!" groaned Byng, estimating rapidly. "Not yet it ain't!" said Crothers, grabbing Byng's arm and nearly tearing out the muscles. It was a crude way of rousing Byng's latent speed, both of thought and movement, but it worked.
An investigation of this kind would enable him to form an opinion of Byng's own conduct even more exact and authentic than his other official opportunities for personal intercourse with the chief actors, but he must have refrained with much discretion from expressing his judgment on the affair in such way as to reach the public ear.
Going to marry her, I suppose," he added, cynically. Byng's jaw set and his eyes became cold. "Still, I'd suggest your minding your own business, Barry. Your tongue will get you into trouble some day.... You've seen Wallstein this morning and Fleming?" Barry replied sullenly, and the day's pressing work began, with the wires busy under the seas.
But first, with the scene still before me the broken bridge, the ruined lock, the splendid trench at my feet, and those innumerable white lines on the far hill-side let me recall the great story of the six months which preéceded the attack of Sir Julian Byng's Third Army on this bank of the Canal du Nord.
He could not afford to antagonize Byng; in any case, his heart was against doing so; though, like an Irishman, he had risked everything by his maladroit and ill-mannered attack a little while ago. "I wanted to warn you, so's you could be ready when Fleming jumped in," Barry continued. "No; I'm much obliged, Barry," was Byng's reply, in a voice where trouble was well marked, however.
Behind it all was the music of the song she had sung at Rudyard Byng's house the evening of the day Adrian Fellowes had died "More was lost at Mohacksfield." The stupefaction that comes with tragedy crept over her.
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