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Title: The Right ThingAuthor: A.E.W. Mason* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *eBook No.: 1100381h.htmlLanguage: EnglishDate first posted: Jan 2013Most recent update: Jan 2013This eBook was produced by: Maurie Mulcahy and Roy GlashanProject Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editionswhich are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright noticeis included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particularpaper edition.Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check thecopyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing thisfile.This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online athttp://gutenberg.net.au/licence.htmlTo contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au
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IT had been the universal opinion that nothing could come of it, sinceon the one side Mrs. Wildring was extremely ambitious for her daughter,while on the other Sir Henry Mardale lived in a small dowerhouse, andcould leave to his son George only an estate mortgaged to its last farm.So that no one was in the least surprised when George Mardale leftEngland for that country of will-o'-the-wisps, South Africa, and JuliaWildring kept her room for a week. The inevitable end had come, and acompassionate shrug of the shoulders was all that the occasion demanded.
From Africa George wrote home to his father, who found that crampeddowerhouse strangely large and solitary, and at the end of each letterturned to his magnum opus on the Labrador sea-fisheries with a sigh ofimpatience because that fortune from the gold-fields had still only thesolidity of an inspiration. At the close of the third year, however,George wrote in better spirits; at the close of the fourth he hadacquired a competency. Then, at the beginning of the fifth, occurred theRaid and the Matabele war, through which George Mardale served as avolunteer.
Sir Henry received in March of this year the letter wherein HarleyBurke's name was for the first time mentioned. It was mentioned onlybriefly, for the letter was no more than a reassuring scrawl, writtenfrom the Red Cross hospital in Bulawayo. Enough, however, was said toenable Sir Henry to understand that George owed his life to HarleyBurke. He heard nothing more of any consequence until October.
But in the month of October Mrs. Aylward, a widow, who was Sir Henry'sneighbour, while she sat at breakfast with her daughter, saw her elderlyfriend capering wildly up her gravel path, with a sheet of paperflourishing in his hand.
"From George!" he cried through the window.
"He is coming back?" said Mrs. Aylward.
"He is on his way," returned Sir Henry.
"I am glad," exclaimed Muriel. Mrs. Aylward looked with approval at herdaughter, who had spoken merely from a frank impulse of friendliness forSir Henry. Mrs. Aylward had her own views and intentions. The mortgagedestate, plus the competency acquired in South Africa, satisfied heraspirations, however insufficient they might appear to the ambitiousMrs. Wildring; and to her daughters exclamation she added—
"We shall all be delighted to see the dear boy again. When may we expecthim? Very soon, since he started so close upon his letter. This week,perhaps."
"Not so soon as that, Mrs. Aylward, I am afraid," answered Sir Henry;and, leaning on the window sill, he read aloud his letter of which thefollowing extract is all that need be quoted:—
"Harley Burke is coming with me. Everything is at a standstill inAfrica, and is likely to remain so for some while to come, so that thereis nothing to keep us. We propose to stop a few days at Madeira. I hearthat the Wildrings are there."
Mrs. Aylward's lips tightened. On the other hand, Muriel's relaxed intoa smile.
"Now, who in the world told him the Wildrings were at Madeira?" sheasked demurely.
"I am sure I didn't," said Sir Henry.
"I am sure Mrs. Wildring didn't," added Mrs. Aylward, with someasperity.
"And since I didn't—" said Muriel.
"The answer is obvious," added Sir Henry with a laugh. "I wish the boyhad come straight home, though. Heaven only knows how long he will stayat Madeira."
"Perhaps Mr. Burke is a rich man," said Mrs. Aylward suddenly and withtoo open a cheerfulness. "In that case—"
"Yes, in that case," said Sir Henry, interpreting the abrupt breakingoff of Mrs. Aylwards sentence, "we may expect George sooner, I suppose."
George arrived, in fact, within a fortnight. He had stayed only fivedays in Madeira, as he informed Mrs. Aylward and her daughter at dinneron the night of his arrival.
"And your friend, Mr. Burke?" asked Mrs. Aylward.
"Oh, he stayed behind," said George curtly.
"But he is coming down to us as soon as he reaches England," interposedSir Henry.
Mrs. Aylward, however, was not to be diverted.
"I suppose that Mr. Burke," she continued, "has been longer in Africathan you."
"Yes. He has been up and down the world all his life."
Mrs. Aylward was disappointed.
"A rolling stone," said she, with a barely perceptible hitch of theshoulders.
"A rolling stone with a deal of moss," answered George, a triflebitterly—"the sort of moss that grows in a bank. But he deserves allhe can get," he continued, forcing himself to cheeriness. "I shouldnever grudge him anything. I mean,"—and he coloured with confusion ashe sought to cover up his slip—"he saved my life at the risk of hisown, and I was a stranger to him. You mustn't forget that."
George Mardale told the story of his rescue that evening as the smallparty sat round the drawing-room fire. It appeared that he and Burke hadgone out from Bulawayo as members of the same patrol. The patroladvanced some miles within the Matopo Hills, and then, turning an angleof a ravine, was received with a scattered fire from the stone hillsidesand the long grass in the bed of the valley. The patrol retreatedprecipitately, leaving half a dozen men dead and George Mardale wounded.Burke saw Mardale fall, and saw, too, that he was still alive. He pushedhis way through the grass until he came upon the wounded man, and thensat down upon a boulder, laid his rifle on his knees, and lit his pipe.There was a Red Cross doctor with the rear of the patrol, who would besure to come to the front. There must be a chance of saving Mardale'slife, if Burke could only protect him meanwhile from the tender merciesof the Matabele. Burke did so protect him by the mere act of sitting byhis side upon the boulder, with his rifle across his knees. He could seeno one, the grass was too high; and the valley was very silent but forone incessantly reiterated explosion. But that explosion came from aspot in the grass some 20 yards from where Burke sat, and with eachexplosion a charge of potleg whizzed past Burke's head. One Matabelewith an antique elephant-gun was somewhere crouched in the grass about20 yards behind Burke's back. Burke did not dare to leave Mardale. Hecould not return his enemy's fire, since he was only aware of its vaguedirection; he could do nothing but sit in that tiny open space, smokehis pipe, and trust to the inaccuracy of the elephant-gun. For 15minutes he sat there, and then the doctor crawled up to him.
"Here's a man wounded," said Burke. "If you can fix him up, we mighttogether get him out of the ravine."
The doctor cut away Mardale's coat, and began to bandage the wound. Thenext moment he sprung back on to his feet; then he dropped again on tohis knees, ducking his head as he dropped. It seemed to him that thedrum of his ear was broken, and he most certainly felt the wind of thepotleg. Burke knocked out the ashes of his pipe against the boulder, andremarked quietly—
"I think we ought to be getting along as soon as we can, for I ratherfancy that there is some one shooting at us from the long grass."
The remark and the composure with which it was spoken had the designedeffect of steadying the doctor's nerves. He bound the wound and the twomen, stumbling and crawling through the towering grass, carried theirburden out of that valley of death.
"And how old is Mr. Burke?" asked Muriel, who had listened to the storywith parted lips.
"Thirty-seven," answered Mardale.
"Thirty-seven," repeated Muriel, with a deprecating droop of the lips.She was at an age when heroism must be never more than twenty-five.
Mrs. Aylward went home that evening very well content with what she hadheard, and yet more content with what George Mardale's manner hadsuggested. Harley Burke had stayed at Madeira; Harley Burke was rich;Harley Burke would have a strenuous ally in Mrs. Wildring. He wouldreturn to England engaged to Julia. Nothing could be more likely, andnothing more suitable and appropriate. There would be left GeorgeMardale and Muriel. That, too, would be very appropriate.
Mrs. Aylward was justified of her foresight. A letter from Burke came indue time to George Mardale. It announced his engagement to JuliaWildring, postponed his visit on the ground that he was makingarrangements to build a house in Park-lane, and added that he might,however, see George soon, since he would be coming down to theWildrings' house near by. Mrs. Aylward lost no necessary time. Georgewas pinned, she soothed his wounded vanity discreetly; she led himunconsciously to recognise the propinquity of Muriel.
Mardale acted under the influence of pique and proposed marriage. Murielhad known him from childhood. She felt for him a sincere friendliness,and had felt nothing stronger for any other man. She slid, as it were,into an engagement to him.
It was soon after this that the Wildrings returned to their home,bringing Harley Burke with them. George Mardale walked across to thehouse the next afternoon, and chanced to find Julia alone. They stoodfacing one another for a few moments in silence—the girl with her handpressed upon her heart; the man suddenly grown angry.
"So you are engaged," he began in a hard voice; and the girl lifted herhand and made no other answer.
"You could not wait," he continued "Of course not. I was a fool toexpect it."
"There was no use in waiting," she answered faintly. "You know. It wouldnever have been allowed." And the sound of her words seemed to give herstrength. For the faintness went from her voice and her attitude "Andyou?" she said, drawing herself up, "you speak the first word of blame!Surely you have not the right to be so quick."
"It was not until after I heard that you—" he began with something ofa stammer.
"Five minutes after, then," she interrupted bitterly, and her brightnessbrought him to her side in an instant.
"Julia. You know. There's only one woman for me."
"Yes, only one woman," she exclaimed, drawing quickly away from him."Only one—Muriel;" and at that the door opined, and Burke entered.
Burke walked back that afternoon with Mardale, who, now that he wasrecovered from his outburst, had become remorseful.
"You will look after her, old man, won't you?" he said. "She hasn't hada very good time, taking all things together."
"No, I don't think she has," said Burke slowly. "But are you afraid thatI won't do my best for her? Why?"
"No, not at all," returned Mardale eagerly. "Only, you see, I have knownher for a long while, and you don't seem to be very enthusiastic."
"You don't expect me to rave, I hope," said Burke with a laugh. "I takethings quietly. As you say, Julia has not had a very good time—"
Burke's placidity jarred upon his companion's overstrung nerves, and hebroke in upon him with a view to change the drift of their talk.
"And how is the house growing in Park-lane?"
Burke shrugged his shoulders.
"It will be all right, I think. There'll be cupids on the ceilings, anda winter garden. I don't hanker much after that sort of thing. But Isuppose it's the right thing to do, though sometimes I—" and hestopped.
"Well?"
"Well, sometimes I think there's a certain vulgarity in doing the rightthing to do—don't you?" and he repeated slowly. "As you say, Juliahasn't had the best sort of time."
Mardale construed the remark in his own way.
"Mrs. Wildring is looking after the house, then?"
"Precisely."
Burke stopped and held out his hand. Mardale shook it and walked away.When he had walked twenty yards he ran back again.
"Burke!" he cried, and Burke returned to him.
"You have got to come and stay with us, you know," said Mardale. "Whenwill you come?"
"I can come in a month's time, if I may. The Wildrings will be away onvisits. I shall be glad to come to you."
Mardale walked homewards, quite at a loss to account for Burke'spassivity, and indignant at it as a slight upon Julia. If he did notcare for her, why was he now engaged to her? Mardale found himselfconsidering that question and discovering answers. Burke had spoken ofmarriage fairly often in Africa, and had spoken with a sort of abstractdesire for the state of marriage. Had he proposed marriage formarriage's sake rather than for Julia's? Certain words he had spoken,too, this afternoon, came quickly back to Mardale—words which Burke hadrepeated. Had compassion anything to do with his proposal? Mardalecommunicated his doubts to Muriel Aylward; but since she had not as yetmet Harley Burke, she was unable to throw any light upon them.
Muriel, however, met Harley Burke the next evening. She remarked that helooked his thirty-seven years to the full. Anecdotes drawn from the wellof his experiences, and stray reminiscences of his varied life, left herto all appearances uninstructed and indifferent. On the other hand, shecould not but admit that Burke was no less apathetic towards her. Attimes, indeed, he seemed to evince an actual reluctance for her company.He was never so much at Julia's side as when Muriel Aylward happened tobe of the company. He even made a pretext to excuse himself from hispromised visit to Mardale; but the pretext was not allowed, he waspressed by Mardale for the reason of his wish to avoid the house, and heescaped from an answer by agreeing hurriedly to come.
The second evening of that visit he walked into the library about 9o'clock, and there found Muriel alone. A map was spread out upon thetable before her, and as she talked with Burke, she covered it with herarms and hands. Their conversation was interrupted by a footman, whobrought a salver to Burke, on which there lay a telegram and a letter.Burke took the telegram and opened it.
"There is no answer," he said, and took up the letter.
"The letter is for Mr. George," said the footman.
"No, for me," said Burke, for he had recognised the handwriting ofJulia. The footman, however, was right; the letter was for GeorgeMardale. It did not occur to Burke to feel any jealousy; Mardale andJulia were old friends. Why should they not write each to the other?
He turned back to Muriel as the footman passed out of the door. The maplay now uncovered before his eyes, and upon the map were marks. Burkenoticed the marks. There was a town marked at which he had lived forsome six months, and he spoke of it. There was a country in the eastthrough which he had travelled, and on the map a line was drawn.
"The line follows my route pretty nearly," he said, and Muriel coveredthe map again, but not so quickly but that he was able to distinguishthat a journey he had taken as first mate upon a coasting tramp had beenmarked out too. He looked quickly, only for a second, at Muriel, and herface told him what he wanted most of all to know.
He turned away towards the window, and Muriel with an impulse of shameflung the map into the fire. It blazed up, the draught lifted it fromthe grate on to the hearth. Burke ran to the fire and stamped the flamesout.
"That's done with," he said quietly.
Muriel nodded and said nothing. Burke looked at her for a moment, wentto the door, and turned back. Muriel was still seated at the table,looking at the black ashes on the hearth. Burke began to walk restlesslyabout the room, and in a little he spoke. He spoke in praise of hisfriend at great length, and with extreme earnestness. In the end hesaid,—
"Did you know that he once saved my life?"
Muriel raised her head towards him.
"How?" she asked, and kept her eyes upon him while he told her againthat story of the Matopo. Only this time the characters were reversed.It was he was wounded; it was Mardale who sat on the boulder with hisrifle on his knees. Muriel heard the story to the end and then—
"That is not true," she said.
"Then, for God's sake, think it true!" he exclaimed.
He took a step towards her, and that step roused her.
"You must go," she whispered. "You will go?"
"I can go to-night. This telegram will serve as an excuse."
"Yes, please, please!" she cried.
There was a train for London at midnight, and Burke travelled by it. Buthe was to meet Muriel Aylward again at a dance which Mrs. Wildring gavesome three months later. They danced together once, but stopped in themiddle of the dance, and coming out of the ball-room found the greathall empty except of one person. The one person was George Mardale. Hedid not notice them, for he was standing upon a chair adjusting theclock. They did not interrupt him, but watched him curiously from thedoorway. Later on during the evening, Burke was asked by Mrs. Wildringto find Mardale. He failed. Attention being once directed to Mardale'sabsence, it was immediately noticed that Julia Wildring had vanishedtoo. Mrs. Wildring gave one frightened look at the clock, and wasreassured. Both Mardale and Julia had been seen within the half-hour,and the clock marked twenty minutes to 1. Mrs. Wildring led the way into supper, relieved of a horrible fear that the pair had eloped. Burkeand Muriel were left alone in the hall, and each drew out a watch, andcompared it with the clock.
"They caught the train which you—" said Muriel.
"They might have caught that train," interrupted Burke. He added, "May Itake you into supper?"
"I was going in with—" said Muriel, and stopped.
"Yes, and I was taking in—" said Burke, and he stopped too. "Do youknow, I think it would be unwise to wait."
They went up the stairs together.
"We may congratulate ourselves upon having done the right thing," saidBurke. "You remember that evening in the library. There's nothing likedoing the right thing."
"So long as some else does the wrong thing," the girl added, upon amoment's reflection.
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