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when Isobel said he must be innocent as she had been holding on to him all the time the light was out. If this came out, it would certainly fix the suspicion on Isobel, and if it did not, there was a strong probability that her declaration concerning Augustus would, as I have said, suggest collusion between them.
The more reason then for me to strengthen the obvious solution--that the thief was one of the Gestes.
If three people fled confessing their guilt, that was where the collusion would be--among the three rascally brothers who had plotted to rob their relative and share the spoil.
That the oldest had weakened and fled first, was to his credit, or not, according to whether you more admired courage or confession; but obviously and incontestably, the blame must lie upon these three, and not among those who remained at home and faced the music.
"But," said the voices of prudence, cowardice, and common sense, as well as the voice of love, "two are enough to take the blame, surely? Let people say it was one of those two, or perhaps the two in partnership."
"And why," replied the voices of self-respect and pride, "should those two share the blame (or the honour)? Why should they shield Isobel and YOU, as well as Claudia, from suspicion?" and to the latter voice I listened.
I could not possibly sit at home and enjoy life while the Captain and the Lieutenant were in trouble, disgrace, and danger--my whole life-training, as well as instincts, forbade.
I think that within two minutes of reading Digby's letter, the question of my going was quite definitely answered, and only the minor questions of where I should go, and whether I should say anything to Isobel, remained to be settled. And one of these two problems was subconsciously solved, though I had not intentionally considered it and come to a decision.
From the moment that I had learnt of Michael's flight, I had had somewhere, just below the level of consciousness, a vague remembrance of the existence of a romantic-sounding, adventurous corps of soldiers of fortune, called the French Foreign Legion.
When thinking of Michael, and seeing mental pictures of him in the setting of Brandon Abbas, our "Prep." school, Eton and Oxford, one of the clearest of these dissolving views had been of a group of us in the Bower, at the feet of a smart and debonair young French officer, who had thrilled us with dramatic tales of Algeria, Morocco, and the Sahara; tales of Spahis, Turcos, Zouaves, Chasseurs d'Afrique, and the French Foreign Legion of Mercenaries; tales of hot life and brave death, of battle and of bivouac. At the end, Michael had said:
"I shall join the French Foreign Legion when I leave Eton. . . . Get a commission and go into his regiment," and Digby and I had applauded the plan.
Had Michael remembered this, and was he, even now, on his way to this life of adventure and glory, determined to win his way to soldierly renown under a nom de guerre? . . . It would be so like Michael.
And Digby? Had he had the same idea and followed him? It would be so like Digby.
And I? Should I follow my brothers' lead, asking nothing better than to do as they did, and win their approval? . . . It would be so like me.
Three romantic young asses! I can smile at them now. Asses without doubt; wild asses of the wildest; but still, with the imagination and the soul to be romantic asses, thank God!
§10.
As compensation for a smaller share of the gifts of courage, cleverness, and general distinction possessed by my brilliant brothers, I have been vouchsafed a larger measure of prudence and caution--though some may think that still does not amount to much.
I have met few men to equal Michael and Digby in beauty, physical strength, courage, and intelligence; but I was, in spite of being an equally incurably romantic, "longer-headed" than they, and even more muscular and powerful. This is tremendous praise to award myself, but facts are facts.
Having decided to join them in disgrace and blame, as well as to join them in the flesh if I could--going to the Legion to look for them in the first place--I settled down to consider details, ways, and means.
I can think better in the dark, so I knocked out my pipe, burnt Digby's letter, and went up to bed.
The first fact to face, and it loomed largest and most discouraging of all, was separation from Isobel in the very moment of finding her. Paradoxically, however, the very exaltation and excitement of this wonderful thing that had happened, this finding of her, carried me along and gave me the power to leave her.
I was tête-montée, beside myself, and above myself, abnormal.
I would show my love that I, too, could do a fine thing, and could make a personal sacrifice to ward off from women, one of whom was mine, "the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune," outrageous suspicion and annoyance.
To leave her would be misery unspeakable--but what a beautiful misery and poignantly delightful sorrow for the heart of romantic youth to hug to itself!
Also I knew that it was quite useless for such children as ourselves--she nineteen and I twenty--at present penniless and dependent, to think of formal engagements and early marriages. Love was all and love was enough, until I should return, bronzed and decorated, successful and established, a distinguished Soldier of Fortune, to claim her hand.
I would then take my bride to be the admired and beloved Pride of the Regiment, a soldier's star and stay and queen. . . . (Twenty is a great age at which to be--with love in your heart and life before you. . . .)
Should I tell her what I was going to do and have one last beautifully-terrible hour, with her in my arms, or should I write her a letter to be given to her after I had gone?
I am glad to say that I had the grace to look at it from her point of view, and to decide according to what I thought would be better for her.
In the letter I could give the impression that this was only a short separation, and that I was writing to say "Au revoir" rather than "Good-bye."
If I told her in an interview, my obvious wretchedness and woebegone countenance would contradict my words. I knew I should kiss and embrace her as if for the last time on earth, and look as though I were going to the scaffold rather than into hiding for a while, until the missing jewel turned up, or the thief was caught.
Yes--I had better write, being careful to avoid the suggestion that this was any more a "separation" than my going back to Oxford for the next term would have been.
That question was settled.
The next thing to consider was the problem of procedure.
I should want sufficient money and kit to enable me to get to France and subsist for a few days, probably in Paris.
Ten pounds or so, a change of underclothing, and a tooth-brush, would be the sort of thing. With a very small suit-case one would be quite comfortable.
My watch, links, studs, cigarette-case, and a good gold pencil which I possessed would provide ample funds. I had more than sufficient ready money for my fare to London, and could there raise enough to carry me on to Paris and keep me for a few days.
I would breakfast with the others, and quietly walk off to catch the ten-forty to Exeter, and take the eleven-forty-five thence to London, arriving about three o'clock. I would cross to France the next day, getting there in the evening; sleep at an hotel, and, as soon as possible, become a soldier of France.
Whatever my brothers had done, I should at least have followed their example worthily, and have given a realistic and convincing imitation of the conduct of a frightened and desperate thief, fleeing from the consequences of his crime and the shame of facing his relatives and former friends.
And if Michael and Digby were actually there when I arrived--why, I should regret nothing but the separation from Isobel--a separation, albeit, during which I would qualify, in age, position, and income, for the honour of becoming her husband.
I think I had arrived at the position of Commander-in-Chief in Algeria and Grand Commander of the Legion of Honour