V

General Macarthur tossed from side to side.

Sleep would not come to him.

In the darkness he kept seeing Arthur Richmond’s face.

He’d liked Arthur—he’d been damned fond of Arthur. He’d been pleased that Leslie liked

him too.

Leslie was so capricious. Lots of good fellows that Leslie would turn up her nose at and

pronounce dull. “Dull!” Just like that.

But she hadn’t found Arthur Richmond dull. They’d got on well together from the

beginning. They’d talked of plays and music and pictures together. She’d teased him, made fun

of him, ragged¹ him. And he, Macarthur, had been delighted at the thought that Leslie took quite

a motherly interest in the boy.

Motherly indeed! Damn’ fool not to remember that Richmond was twenty-eight to Leslie’s

twenty-nine.

He’d loved Leslie. He could see her now. Her heart-shaped face, and her dancing deep

grey eyes, and the brown curling mass of her hair. He’d loved Leslie and he’d believed in her

absolutely.

Out there in France, in the middle of all the hell of it, he’d sat thinking of her, taken her

picture out of the breast pocket of his tunic².

And then—he’d found out!

It had come about exactly in the way things happened in books. The letter in the wrong

envelope. She’d been writing to them both and she’d put her letter to Richmond in the envelope

addressed to her husband. Even now, all these years after, he could feel the shock of it—the

pain….

God, it had hurt!

And the business had been going on some time. The letter made that clear. Weekends!

Richmond’s last leave….

Leslie—Leslie and Arthur!

God damn the fellow! Damn his smiling face, his brisk “Yes, sir.” Liar³ and hypocrite!

Stealer of another man’s wife!

It had gathered slowly—that cold murderous rage.

He’d managed to carry on as usual—to show nothing. He’d tried to make his manner to

Richmond just the same.

Had he succeeded? He thought so. Richmond hadn’t suspected. Inequalities of temper

were easily accounted for out there, where men’s nerves were continually snapping under the

strain.

Only young Armitage had looked at him curiously⁴ once or twice. Quite a young chap, but

he’d had perceptions, that boy.

Armitage, perhaps, had guessed—when the time came.

He’d sent Richmond deliberately⁵ to death. Only a miracle could have brought him through

unhurt. That miracle didn’t happen. Yes, he’d sent Richmond to his death and he wasn’t sorry.

It had been easy enough. Mistakes were being made all the time, officers being sent to death

needlessly. All was confusion, panic. People might say afterwards “Old Macarthur lost his

nerve a bit, made some colossal⁶ blunders, sacrificed some of his best men.” They couldn’t say

more.

But young Armitage was different. He’d looked at his commanding officer very oddly.

He’d known, perhaps, that Richmond was being deliberately sent to death.

(After the War was over—had Armitage talked?)

Leslie hadn’t known. Leslie had wept for her lover (he supposed) but her weeping was

over by the time he’d come back to England. He’d never told her that he’d found her out.

They’d gone on together—only, somehow, she hadn’t seemed very real anymore. And then,

three or four years later she’d got double pneumonia⁷ and died.

That had been a long time ago. Fifteen years—sixteen years?

And he’d left the Army and come to live in Devon—bought the sort of little place he’d

always meant to have. Nice neighbours—pleasant part of the world. There was a bit of shooting

and fishing. He’d gone to church on Sundays. (But not the day that the lesson was read about

David putting Uriah in the forefront of the battle. Somehow he couldn’t face that. Gave him an

uncomfortable feeling.)

Everybody had been very friendly. At first, that is. Later, he’d had an uneasy feeling that

people were talking about him behind his back. They eyed him differently, somehow. As

though they’d heard something—some lying rumour….

(Armitage? Supposing Armitage had talked.)

He’d avoided people after that—withdrawn into himself. Unpleasant to feel that people

were discussing you.

And all so long ago. So—so purposeless now. Leslie had faded into the distance and

Arthur Richmond too. Nothing of what had happened seemed to matter anymore.

It made life lonely, though. He’d taken to shunning⁸ his old Army friends.

(If Armitage had talked, they’d know about it.)

And now—this evening—a hidden voice had blared out that old hidden story.

Had he dealt with it all right? Kept a stiff upper lip? Betrayed the right amount of feeling—

indignation, disgust—but no guilt⁹, no discomfiture¹⁰? Difficult to tell.

Surely nobody could have taken the accusation¹¹ seriously. There had been a pack of other

nonsense, just as far-fetched. That charming girl—the voice had accused her of drowning a

child! Idiotic¹²! Some madman throwing crazy accusations¹³ about!

Emily Brent, too—actually a niece of old Tom Brent of the Regiment¹⁴. It had accused her

of murder! Any one could see with half an eye that the woman was as pious¹⁵ as could be—the

kind that was hand and glove with parsons.

Damned curious business the whole thing! Crazy, nothing less.

Ever since they had got here—when was that? Why, damn it, it was only this afternoon!

Seemed a good bit longer than that.

He thought: “I wonder when we shall get away again.”

Tomorrow, of course, when the motorboat came from the mainland.

Funny, just this minute he didn’t want much to get away from the island … To go back to

the mainland, back to his little house, back to all the troubles and worries. Through the open

window he could hear the waves breaking on the rocks—a little louder now than earlier in the

evening. Wind was getting up, too.

He thought: Peaceful sound. Peaceful place….

He thought: Best of an island is once you get there—you can’t go any farther … you’ve

come to the end of things….

He knew, suddenly, that he didn’t want to leave the island.

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