Had Wilmington toppled off his horse on the way,
why, there were the whispers silenced for ever. Had he ridden through
alive he earned distinction besides. But he didn't dare; he refused!
Imagine it if you can! He sat shaking on his horse and declined. You
should have seen the general. His face turned the colour of that
Burgundy. 'No doubt you have a previous engagement,' he said, in the
politest voice you ever heard--just that, not a word of abuse. A
previous engagement on the battlefield! For the life of me, I could
hardly help laughing. But it was a tragic business for Wilmington. He
was broken, of course, and slunk back to London. Every house was closed
to him; he dropped out of his circle like a lead bullet you let slip out
of your hand into the sea. The very women in Piccadilly spat if he spoke
to them; and he blew his brains out in a back bedroom off the Haymarket.
Curious that, eh? He hadn't the pluck to face the bullets when his name
was at stake, yet he could blow his own brains out afterwards."
Lieutenant Sutch chanced to look at the clock as the story came to an
end. It was now a quarter to one. Harry Feversham had still a quarter of
an hour's furlough, and that quarter of an hour was occupied by a
retired surgeon-general with a great wagging beard, who sat nearly
opposite to the boy.
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