The court-martial was over and d.i.c.k could not question the justice of its sentence--he was dismissed from the army. Indeed, it was better than he had expected. Somewhat to his surprise, the Adjutant afterward saw him alone.

"I'm thankful our official duty's done," he said. "Of course, I'm taking an irregular line, and if you prefer not to talk--"

"You made me feel that you wanted to be my friend," d.i.c.k replied awkwardly.

"Then I may, perhaps, remark that you made a bad defense. In the army, it's better to tell a plausible tale and stick to it; we like an obvious explanation. Now if you had admitted being slightly drunk."

"But I was sober!"

The Adjutant smiled impatiently.

"So much the worse for you! If you had been drunk, you'd have been turned out all the same, but the reason would have been, so to speak, satisfactory. Now you're tainted by a worse suspicion. Personally, I don't think the lost plans have any value, but if they had, it might have gone very hard with you." He paused and gave d.i.c.k a friendly glance.

"Well, in parting, I'll give you a bit of advice. Stick to engineering, which you have a talent for."

He went out and not long afterward d.i.c.k left the camp in civilian's clothes, but stopped his motorcycle on the hill and stood looking back with a pain at his heart. He saw the rows of tents stretched across the smooth pasture, the flag he had been proud to serve languidly flapping on the gentle breeze, and the water sparkling about the bridge. Along the riverside, bare-armed men in shirts and trousers were throwing up banks of soil with shovels that flashed in the strong light. He could see their cheerful brown faces and a smart young subaltern taking out a measuring line. d.i.c.k liked the boy, who now no doubt would pa.s.s him without a look, and he envied him with the keenest envy he had ever felt. He had loved his profession; and he was turned out of it in disgrace.

It was evening when he stood in the s.p.a.cious library at home, glad that the light was fading, as he confronted his father, who sat with grim face in a big leather chair. d.i.c.k had no brothers and sisters, and his mother had died long before. He had not lived much at home, and had been on good, more than affectionate, terms with his father. Indeed, their relations were marked by mutual indulgence, for d.i.c.k had no interest outside his profession, while Mr. Brandon occupied himself with politics and enjoyed his prominent place in local society. He was conventional and his manners were formal and dignified, but d.i.c.k thought him very much like Lance, although he had not Lance's genial humor.

"Well," he said when d.i.c.k had finished, "you have made a very bad mess of things and it is, of course, impossible that you should remain here. In fact, you have rendered it difficult for me to meet my neighbors and take my usual part in public affairs."

This was the line d.i.c.k had expected him to take. It was his father's pride he had wounded and not his heart. He did not know what to say and, turning his head, he looked moodily out of the open window. The lawn outside was beautifully kept and the flower-borders were a blaze of tastefully a.s.sorted colors, but there was something artificial and conventional about the garden that was as marked in the house. Somehow d.i.c.k had never really thought of the place as home.

"I mean to go away," he said awkwardly.

"The puzzling thing is that you should deny having drunk too much,"

Brandon resumed.

"But I hadn't done so! You look at it as the others did. Why should it make matters better if I'd owned to being drunk?"

"Drunkenness," his father answered, "is now an offense against good taste, but not long ago it was thought a rather gentlemanly vice, and a certain toleration is still extended to the man who does wrong in liquor.

Perhaps this isn't logical, but you must take the world as you find it. I had expected you to learn more in the army than you seem to have picked up. Did you imagine that your promotion depended altogether upon your planning trenches and gun-pits well?"

"That kind of thing is going to count in the new armies," d.i.c.k replied.

"Being popular on guest-night at the mess won't help a man to hold his trench or work his gun under heavy fire."

Brandon frowned.

"You won't have an opportunity for showing what you can do. I don't know where you got your utilitarian, radical views; but we'll keep to the point. Where do you think of going?"

"To New York, to begin with."

"Why not Montreal or Cape Town?"

"Well," d.i.c.k said awkwardly, "after what has happened, I'd rather not live on British soil."

"Then why not try Hamburg?"

d.i.c.k flushed.

"You might have spared me that, sir! I lost the plans; I didn't sell them."

"Very well. This interview is naturally painful to us both and we'll cut it short, but I have something to say. It will not be forgotten that you were turned out of the army, and if you succeeded me, the ugly story would be whispered when you took any public post. I cannot have our name tainted and will therefore leave the house and part of my property to your cousin. Whether you inherit the rest or not will depend upon yourself. In the meantime, I am prepared to make you an allowance, on the understanding that you stay abroad until you are sent for."

d.i.c.k faced his father, standing very straight, with knitted brows.

"Thank you, sir, but I will take nothing."

"May I ask why?"

"If you'd looked at the thing differently and shown a little kindness, it would have cut me to the quick," d.i.c.k said hoa.r.s.ely. "I'm not a thief and a traitor, though I've been a fool, and it hurts to know what you think.

I'm going away to-morrow and I'll get on, somehow, without your help. I don't know that I'll come back if you do send for me."

"You don't seem to understand your position, but you may come to realize it before very long," Brandon replied.

He got up and d.i.c.k left the library; but he did not sleep that night. It had been hard to meet his father and what he said had left a wound that would take long to heal. Now he must say good-by to Helen. This would need courage, but d.i.c.k meant to see her. It was the girl's right that she should hear his story, and he would not steal away like a cur. He did not think Helen was really fond of him, though he imagined that she would have acquiesced in her relatives' plans for them both had things been different. Now, of course, that was done with, but he must say good-by and she might show some regret or sympathy. He did not want her to suffer, but he did not think she would feel the parting much; and she would not treat him as his father had done.

When he called the next morning at an old country house, he was told that Miss Ma.s.sie was in the garden, and going there, he stopped abruptly at a gap in a shrubbery. Beyond the opening there was a stretch of smooth gra.s.s, checkered by moving shadow, and at one side a row of gladioli glowed against the paler bloom of yellow dahlias. Helen Ma.s.sie held a bunch of the tall crimson spikes, and d.i.c.k thought as he watched her with a beating heart that she was like the flowers. They were splendid in form and color, but there was nothing soft or delicate in their aggressive beauty. Helen's hair was dark and her color high, her black eyes were bright, and her yellow dress showed a finely outlined form. d.i.c.k knew that she was proud, resolute, and self-confident.

Then she turned her head and saw him, and he knew that she had heard of his disgrace, for her color deepened and her glance was rather hard than sympathetic. The hand that held the flowers dropped to her side, but she waited until he came up.

"I see you know, and it doesn't matter who told you," he said. "I felt I had to come before I went away."

"Yes," she answered calmly, "I heard. You have courage, d.i.c.k; but perhaps a note would have been enough, and more considerate."

d.i.c.k wondered gloomily whether she meant that he might have saved her pain by staying away, or that he had involved her in his disgrace by coming, since his visit would be talked about. He reflected bitterly that the latter was more probable.

"Well," he said, "we have been pretty good friends and I'm leaving the country. I don't suppose I shall come back again."

"When do you go?"

"Now," said d.i.c.k. "I must catch the train at noon."

Helen's manner did not encourage any indulgence in sentiment and he half resented this, although it made things easier. He could not say he had come to give her up, because there had been no formal engagement. Still he had expected some sign of pity or regret.

"You don't defend yourself," she remarked thoughtfully. "Couldn't you have fought it out?"

"There was nothing to fight for. I lost the papers I was trusted with; one can't get over that."

"But people may imagine you did something worse." She paused for a moment and added: "Don't you care what I might think?"

d.i.c.k looked at her steadily. "You ought to know. Do you believe it's possible I stole and meant to sell the plans?"

"No," she said with a touch of color. "But I would have liked you, for your friends' sake, to try to clear yourself. If you had lost the papers, they would have been found and sent back; as they were not, it looks as if you had been robbed."

That she could reason this out calmly struck d.i.c.k as curious, although he had long known that Helen was ruled by her brain and not her heart.