What's death?—You'll love me yet!Pippa Passes.
What's death?—You'll love me yet!Pippa Passes.
What's death?—You'll love me yet!Pippa Passes.
What's death?—You'll love me yet!
Pippa Passes.
"Lettice, I've been down to Poupehan!"
Lettice was darning her stockings in the shade of the tower. Lettice would have darned her stockings on the Judgment Day. She suspended her work to look up, slowly, at Dorothea. Rose-brown, panting from the steep hill, lips laughing, eyes sparkling with excitement, she flung herself down among the stubble and the pink convolvuluses and fanned her face with her handkerchief.
"Oh, I'm so hot! I ran nearly the whole way. I went to try for a paper, and I fell over M. Lapouse, and oh, Lettice, what do you think he told me? There's been a French plane brought down near Florenville, and the pilot's escaped, and they're hunting him all over the place! Oh! don't you hope he'll get away?"
Lettice remained looking at her for a minute, then lowered her eyes and slowly resumed her work. Dorothea flounced away with an energy that upset Madame Hasquin's workbasket.
"Well, youarea fish! I did think you'd be interested in this. Don't you want to hear about it? Don't youcare?"
"Was—was the man hurt?" asked Lettice.
"No, they don't think so, or not much—he managed to burn his machine, anyway. Oh! don't I wish I'd been there! We might have patched her up between us, and flown her to the French lines. Oh! it would have been sport!"
"It's, it's—it's twenty miles to Florenville, isn't it?"Lettice pursued her train of thought in her own undeviating way.
"Yes, about. Why?"
"And when did it happen?"
"When did she come down, do you mean? Yesterday morning. Oh, were you thinking he might have come up here? He never would, Lettice. No such luck! He would make for the Dutch frontier, they always do, M. Lapouse was saying so. They're hardly even searching west of Bouillon."
"O-oh."
Lettice went on darning. Lettice in those days was hardly a personality. Withdrawn into herself,ensimismada, as Gardiner would have said, for hours on end she did not speak, she scarcely thought; she brooded. Her mind had been bruised and it was numb. She was like an automaton; the one definite feeling that emerged was an unwavering hostility to the destroyers of the Bellevue. Dorothea was compassionate to a fair young hussar who limped to the door one day after a fall from his horse; she gave him breakfast, put his sprained arm in a sling, and sent him on his way with good wishes in valiant German. Lettice made his coffee and broiled his ham—if thine enemy hunger, feed him; but he remained her enemy still. There were no good wishes from her.
Dorothea with an enormous sigh pulled over a bunch of stockings for a pillow, and lay back, still panting, hands clasped behind her head. She did not find Lettice a very satisfactory companion in those days. She was not an automaton, far from it! They had been at the farm for several weeks now, and she was wondering how much longer she could stand it. The same view, day after day—the steep down-slope of the meadow, the green velvet crease where the brook ran, the steep up-slope of the harvest field, silvery, with its slowly discoloring sheaves, the spires of the wood against the uneventful azure of the sky—oh dear! She wanted to fight, to defend her country, to stick bayonets into Germans, as they had stuck them into that dead girlin the woods—as she had already stuck a knife into the Uhlan. She held up her little brown hand; it didn't seem possible, yet it was true, that that hand had accounted for one of the enemy, and she wasn't sorry, no, she couldn't feel one little bit ashamed, though she knew in her heart that at the moment when she pushed the body over the lip of the well she hadn't been quite sure that it wasn't still breathing....
She tucked the hand back with a little shudder. That didn't bear thinking about. "Well, why didn't I stick a knife into Lieutenant Müller, then?" she reflected. Müller was the hussar. "There's nosensein me!" Hot and cold was Dorothea, Charlotte Corday one hour, Florence Nightingale the next. Inaction, presumably the woman's natural lot, was not natural to her. But for Lettice she would long ago have dressed up in one of Achille's suits and made a dash for the French lines—
"'Tis but the coat of a page to borrowAnd tie my hair in a horse-boy's trim—"
"'Tis but the coat of a page to borrowAnd tie my hair in a horse-boy's trim—"
"'Tis but the coat of a page to borrowAnd tie my hair in a horse-boy's trim—"
"'Tis but the coat of a page to borrow
And tie my hair in a horse-boy's trim—"
She didn't love skirts at the best of times—
"And I sit by his side, and laugh at sorrow—"
"And I sit by his side, and laugh at sorrow—"
"And I sit by his side, and laugh at sorrow—"
"And I sit by his side, and laugh at sorrow—"
Denis. All her thoughts always came back to him.
Denis was fighting, and she wanted news; oh! she did want news so badly! Tears came hot in her eyes; she turned over and buried her face in the grass, struggling with the sudden pain. Denis was fighting; any one of these blue days he might be dying; he might be already dead. And he hadn't forgiven her. Oh! she, with this vulture at her heart, how could she sit quiet, brood on still anger, like Lettice? She must be white-washing the kitchen, or helping wounded Germans, or exciting herself over stranded French aeroplanes twenty miles away—anything, anything to get away from her thoughts!
"There's a man in the wood," observed Lettice.
She had dropped her work and sat immobile, her intentgaze probing the shadows of the distant trees. Dorothea with an impatient sigh rolled over and sat up too.
"Where?"
"There, under that fir-tree—don't you see him? Now he, he, he's stooping down behind the bush."
"What eyes you have, Lettice!" said Dorothea, screwing up her own. "I can't see any old thing!"
"I've been watching him for some time. I think he's hiding."
"Hiding?"
"He was there before you came back, and then he got down out of sight. I don't think he can get away. I think he's hurt."
"Hurt?" Dorothea repeated wonderingly.
"There's been a lot of firing this morning down by the river."
"But, Lettice, you don't think—"
Lettice did not say she thought anything. She stuck her needle in her stocking and prepared to get up. She stood a moment shading her eyes, piercing the depths of the pine wood with her far-searching look, and then got under way to descend the hill. Dorothea seized her hand.
"Oh, don't, Lettice—it's sure to be some deserter, you know there are heaps, and you haven't even got your big scissors!"
"I am going to see if there are any mushrooms on the hill by the crucifix," said Lettice in the softly distinct tones which admitted no discussion.
"Well, wait half-a-minute for me, then!"
Lettice did not wait; when Dorothea came running out of the house with the carving-knife tucked inside her blouse, she was already at the white bridge over the brook. Dorothea overtook her half-way across the stubble field. She was making better time up the hill than ever she had before.
"Oh, darling Lettice, don't, don't go! Let me—it doesn't matter about me, I can take care of myself, and I don't mind things, but you know what it was to you last time! Lettice darling—please!"
Lettice shook off her hand. "I saw him again just now," she said. "He was wearing those leather overall things."
"Lettice!"
Next moment Dorothea loosed her hold on Lettice and ran on alone. She had seen him too.
He came out of the woods towards them, lurching like a drunkard. And Dorothea knew him, spite of disfiguring dust and blood, and his face—that face! His cheek had been sliced open; a flap of raw red flesh hung down over his jaw; his teeth showed white in the gap, like a skeleton's. He tried to wave back the girls, he tried to speak, a thick jumble of words; his feet dragged heavily together, and down he went, full length in the grass.
Dorothea was beside him. She nursed him against her breast, mourning over him with dove-like sounds, kissing away the blood, murmuring exquisite love, warding off friends and foes alike with jealous protecting arms.
Lettice knelt at a little distance, sobbing helplessly.
"Lettice!"
What radiant eager purpose! Here was the true Dorothea, come to her own at last, risen to her full stature.
"Help me to lift. They'll be up here directly, sure to, and we must hide him."
"The wood?"
"No, they'll search that first. Into the house. Take his feet; I can manage the head."
They could not have carried Denis—a six-foot man, in his heavy accouterments—they could not have raised him from the ground, in ordinary circumstances. But extraordinary need calls out extraordinary powers. One-half a man's strength is his conviction of strength. Dorothea lifted the man she loved with her love in addition to her muscles, and Lettice had the strength of endurance, if not that of passion. So they carried him across the bridge and laid him in the round tower among the hay. Dorothea spoke again.
"Get my first-aid things out of the dresser drawer, Lettice, while I see what's wrong. Quick as you can; we haven't a second to lose."
Lettice obeyed orders. When she came back Dorothea's uplifted face was sunshine unclouded.
"He's not going to die!" she cried, and her voice sang. "He isn't even dangerously hurt, it's only pain and loss of blood. And, Lettice, he's been telling me—darling, no; don't, don't try to talk, it does hurt you so—he's been telling me he's been bombing the Zeppelins at Aix! They got them, too, they set one on fire, and the other man got off safe; but Denis had a bullet through his tank. So he made for Rochehaut, but he couldn't get farther than Florenville, so he burnt his machine and came on on foot. And this morning he saw the Bellevue, and while he was asking about it he was seen, and they hunted him, all among the woods by the river, and he was hit, this"—she touched the cheek she was bandaging with thistle-down finger—"I wish I were a doctor, then I'd put some stitches in; it'll spoil your looks, my darling. Just think, Lettice, he was hiding in the wood, he could actually see us, but he never meant to come out for fear of getting us into a scrape. He meant to lie there till dusk and then get away—if they hadn't caught him first, which they would have. Watch how this bandage goes, you'll have to do it when I'm gone." She was working as she talked, with perfect swiftness and dexterity. "I wish, oh! I wish I could stay and see to you myself. Never mind, it can't be helped. Cover him up with the hay, Lettice—careful! don't crush it, or it'll give the show away. They may possibly look in here, for form's sake."
She stood up, struggling into the bloodstained coat she had taken from Denis. Lettice stared, bewildered.
"What—what are you going to do?"
"Lead them off on a false scent, of course," said Dorothea—"the Huns, I mean. Goodness, I shall never get my hair under this cap—where are your scissors?"
"But—"
Dorothea stamped, sawing at her thick plaits.
"They'll take me for him, don't you see? I'll lead them a lovely goose chase—I bet I know this country better than they do! There's the Grotte des Fées, if the worstcomes to the worst. They'll think he's gone off quite in the other direction—else, do you imagine we'd ever possibly be able to hide him, with the hue and cry there'd be? Good-by, darling, darling—" She flung herself down beside Denis, lavishing her whole heart on him, baring her soul, unveiling the holy of holies, the white fire of very love. Then, standing up, she held out both hands to Lettice; and in her face, unearthly bright yet grave, Lettice did visibly behold this mortal putting on immortality.
"It's—it's a frightful risk," she said.
Dorothea's gravity broke up into a laugh of pure glee.
"Yes, that's the very cream of it!" she cried. "Oh! Ihavewanted to do something like a soldier, and now I've got the chance. Oh! and Denis has forgiven me, he's taken me back again—oh! I do think I'm the very luckiest girl in all the world!"
She caught Lettice close and kissed her vehemently, and then fled down the hill, buckling her cap as she ran.
Then shall they begin to say to the mountains, Fall on us; and to the hills, Cover us.—St. Luke.
In the days of her not far distant childhood Dorothea had never loved any game like hide-and-seek; she flung herself into her present escapade with much the same zest and little more discretion. Her plan, so far as she had one, was to lie up in the fir wood till a search-party appeared, then show herself and give them a lead away from the farm. The rest she left to chance, naïvely confident that the luck which had sent Denis to her would let her save him. She had had enough hard knocks, one might have thought, to convince her that Fate does not necessarily favor the young and hopeful; but that was a lesson Dorothea never had learned, and never would.
Ten minutes after she had settled herself among the bracken a mounted patrol rode over the brow of the opposite hill and began slowly to descend towards the farm. Dorothea scrambled to her feet and came to the edge of the wood; she began to crawl along under the hedge, stooping, furtive, a fugitive in every line. She expected every minute to hear the shout of discovery. None came, and presently she erected herself and peeped over the bracken to see if they were stealing upon her unawares. The officer in command was just riding through the orchard gate, on his way to the farm.
This was a contingency she had not foreseen—that they wouldn't notice her. Dorothea stamped. "Oh, you idiots!" she apostrophized the soldiers of the Fatherland. She ventured herself clear of the wood. Still her pursuerswent tranquilly the wrong way; they were half down the orchard—in another minute they would be knocking at the back door of the farm. Dorothea, in a fright now, ran right out into the middle of the field. Ah, at last! Some one shouted; the troop gathered itself together, swept past the farm, galloped down the hill.
Dorothea turned and ran like a hare. She felt like one, too. They were firing at her. They wanted to bring her down before she could take cover. It wasn't believable. She couldn't be hit! But she was; it fell like a lash on her shoulder, rolling her over with the sudden shock. She was up in a minute and ran on again, crying as she went, poor little Dorothea, with the unexpected sharp pain, mortally terrified of the bullets flying past her and of the thundering hoofs behind, beginning to feel she had undertaken more than she could carry through. This wasn't a bit what she had expected—it wasn't any fun at all!
But the wood received her, and she knew its alleys better than they did; and presently she was tumbling head first into a tiny dell, under a low cliff veiled in ivy and drooping ferns. You might search the wood from end to end without finding the way into the dell; and if you found the dell, you would never guess that under the creepers there was a hole, the entrance of the Grotte des Fées. Dorothea had once tried to explore it: she got as far as a first chamber of exquisite white veils and icicles of stalactite, and then dropped her candle. She never tried again, because Madame Hasquin assured her the roof was unsafe. She was rather glad of the excuse; underground adventures were not to her taste. She crept inside now, but not far, not beyond the green light of the entrance.
For some time she lay panting like a dog, thought foundered in panic; but she gradually calmed down. She had a drink from the stream trickling down the cave, and by and by, feeling a good deal ashamed of herself, she made an effort, opened her coat and examined her wound. It was neither wide nor deep; the bullet had gone clean through her arm without touching the bone. But it had bled a good deal,and it hurt, it hurt dreadfully. She made shift to tie it up, feeling more ashamed than ever because she couldn't help whimpering with the pain. Oh, she was a horrid little coward! She had come down with a bump from her vainglory. But when it was done she took heart. She looked down on her stained sleeve; how splendid to see her blood mingling with Denis's! After all, she was a real casualty now; she had been really properly wounded, like a real proper soldier. That was a sustaining thought.
It was while she lay there, listening to the cool drip of the water, breathing in the cool mossy scent, that her active little brain got to work on the position. She had gone into it headlong, without thinking; she now saw many things she had ignored. First and foremost and at any cost, she must not allow herself to be caught. She was tall for a woman, and Denis slight for a man, and she had put on his leather coat and leggings over all her own things, but even so there was a good deal more of them, both lengthways and breadthways, than she could fill out. "Gracious! why, my wig alone would give the show away!" reflected Dorothea, with a dismaying vision of hidden dangers passed. "Besides, they would recognize me—Major von Marwitz would, I think, and Lieutenant Müller would, I know. And then, of course, they'd go straight and search the farm, and Denis without his kit, they'd shoot him as a spy, and Lettice too for hiding him—oh!" She had a moment of panic. "But I'm not going to be caught," she wound up firmly.
A plan suggested itself. She would stay here till dusk, then get away through the woods towards Vresse, say, show herself there, double back to the cave, leave Denis's things under the rocks, and emerge as her proper self once more. She had everything but her skirt, and it wouldn't be the first time Dot O'Connor had run about in knickerbockers. This was a beautiful scheme, and it would let her go back to the farm—she did want to go back to the farm. A dimple came in her brown cheek; her color rose; at that moment Dorothea did not look much like an escaped airman.... Dreaming such nonsense! She lifted the creepersresolutely and peeped out. Yes, it was already pretty dark, she might start now—and suddenly she discovered that she didn't, no, she didn't want to leave the safe shelter of the cave and adventure herself in a world where bullets were flying and men hunting for her life—"Oh, Dot O'Connor, you miserable littleworm!" said Dorothea. "It's just what people always say—women are no good when it comes to the point. But Iwillbe some good!" She marched out of the cave.
They were still beating the wood; there were soldiers everywhere. But Dorothea had been a Red Indian many times in the shrubbery at home. She lay in the brake not ten yards from Lieutenant Müller (yes, it was he in person), and laughed to hear him issuing his curt, disappointed orders. It was dark, and the men were bored, and not very numerous; she slipped between the cordon like a weasel, and had reached the next hill when by accidental good luck she showed herself against the sky-line. A sentry gave the alarm, and again she had the whole patrol streaming in pursuit. This suited her to a T, for she was drawing them away from the farm, and she was not in the least afraid of being caught. It was black as a wolf's mouth, and she knew the woods between here and Vresse like the palm of her hand. She had her second wind of courage now.
Somewhere about two in the morning she found herself—not at Vresse, but at Mogimont, in a totally different direction. It didn't matter, for it was miles away from Rochehaut, which was all she cared about; but in her ignorance of her whereabouts she nearly blundered into the tiny station, where a melancholy middle-aged German was brewing himself coffee. Beating a hasty retreat, she found a haystack in a corner of a meadow, and climbed into its warm depths to wait for the dawn.Imprimis, she had not yet showed herself at Mogimont, and she must;secundis, after her recent performance she wouldn't trust herself in the dark to find the way back to the farm. She was extremely tired (Dorothea liked a good eleven hours in her bed), and she fell fast asleep. The sun was high when she was arousedby the shaking of her couch. She opened drowsy eyes, to see the top of a ladder pushing itself up against the sky; a moment later she was gazing into the round astonished eyes and open mouth of the Landsturm sentry, who had come to fetch a truss of hay.
Dorothea had meant to show herself, but not at such close quarters. She hurled herself upon him and tipped his ladder over. He fell off, she slipped down the other side of the stack and made for the woods. Luckily she had only a few yards to cover. She was plunging through the hedge as her adversary turned the corner of the stack. He fired, and missed; out of the station rushed his comrades at the shot; down the hill through the woods fled Dorothea, laughing—yes—laughing; his expression had been so funny!
It was a close shave, nevertheless. She was up an oak-tree, flattened against the trunk, when the pursuit went past, and there she stayed until the alarm died away in another direction. She would have stayed longer; but when the world turned to black mist and began to spin round her she slid down as fast as she could, and ended by rolling out of the lower branches. When she came to herself she was lying at the foot of the tree in a pool of blood, ten feet from a path, at the mercy of any chance wayfarer. Her arm had broken out bleeding again; she was parched with thirst and felt like death. It was thirst which at last spurred her to her feet, in the hope of finding water. And in that land of brooks and springs she did find it—a tiny runnel, tasting of the brown leaves through which it oozed, but water of life to Dorothea with the wound-thirst on her. She drank and drank, and laved her head and face and arms, and drank again, till the sky stood still, and the trees left off dancing jigs before her eyes.
But she had lost a good deal of blood; she was weak, and feverish, and muddle-headed; and in consequence she made a blunder. She ought now to have stripped off Denis's things, which had served their turn, and left them hidden. But she had got into her head that she was to take themback to the cave, and she had not wits enough to mend her plan; she could only carry out what was fixed before.
All that day, then, she toiled along, still in the character of the escapedavion. But the forests of the Semois are lonely; she met no one but a couple of children picking whortleberries, who dropped their cans and their dinner and fled, taking her for a German. Dorothea shuddered at the bread; she tried a few berries, but they made her sick. She could not eat that day, but she drank of every brook she came across. It was very hot, and Denis's coat and cap and leggings were made of leather and lined with fleece, and their dark color attracted an Egyptian plague of flies. Dorothea was far spent by the time she struck the familiar track through the pine wood.
She was so far spent that for some time she walked along the track itself, forgetting it was no place for her. It seemed too much trouble, too much, to stoop and crawl and hide among the bracken. When a bramble caught her sleeve she burst out crying. She missed her way and stumbled into the hidden dell from the wrong side, brushing waist-high through flowering willow-herb which streamed down the hill-side, rose-pink, almost lilac in intensity of color.
Oh! the coolness, the green twilight of the cave! Dorothea with a great sigh buried her face in icy crystal water. Oh! it was good! She lay for some time before she discovered that one reason why she had been feeling so queer was that her arm was bleeding again. She gave a twist to her bandage, but she was too tired to see to it properly—too tired even to get rid of her flying kit; a deadly lassitude weighed on every limb. By and by, when it was cooler, and darker, and the flies were less troublesome, she would slip off down to the farm.
"This is where he went," said an eager voice. "See how he has broken these pink weeds! And here is the blood again."
"Himmel! I have passed this tree ten times, and never have I seen this path! But what is become of him? He cannot have flown out of the place!"
Dorothea sat up; she was cold enough now. Oh! why had she not thought of the wood being still patrolled?
Steps came swishing through the long grass. Suddenly the cave grew lighter, and there was a startled exclamation. They had lifted the curtain of ivy. Both began to chatter at once, rapidly, excitedly. "I tell you, it is not safe, these caves are dangerous!" "Aber, if we fetch the Herr Lieutenant he will not give us the reward, we shall have to share with the rest!" Private Blum had a young lady in Germany, and he wanted all he could get. Dorothea could not follow all their talk, but she gathered to her joy that one was going off to fetch help while the other stayed on guard. Yes, he was certainly alone; she could hear him walking up and down and singing to himself—"Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten—" Now, with any luck—
The song ceased. The ivy was lifted again.
"Englishman!" Pause. "Englishman, are you there? Do you hear me? If you will come out you shall have your life—I will not harm you!"
Private Blum had a mind to steal a march on his comrade. Getting no reply, he went head first into the hole on hands and knees, his rifle tucked under his arm. It was very dark and very wet, and disagreeable stories about underground rivers and bottomless abysses were running in his head. He paused. "Englishman!" he called again less confidently.
This time there was a reply; a shot came out of the dark. He seized his rifle and returned the compliment; then, feeling what seemed like the entire grotto tumbling about his ears, he backed out hurriedly. "Du lieber Gott!" he muttered, standing up in the sunshine and feeling himself all over to make sure he was not hurt, "but that is a dangerous one! I will leave him to the Herr Lieutenant—he will know how to settle him!"
The luck was all with the enemy. Dorothea lay weeping tears of rage over Denis's useless revolver. She had dropped it into the stream; she had never let one off before, she had no idea they kicked like that! And now what was she to do? If she could have disposed of Private Blum, as she hadhoped, she might have got away; but she had not disposed of Private Blum. He was out there, very much alive, and in another minute Lieutenant Müller would join him; and if Lieutenant Müller saw her—
Till this minute Dorothea had never doubted of success. But now? Dead or alive, if she fell into German hands, it would be equally fatal; Denis would be worse off than if she had never interfered. He might even owe his death to her. "Oh, darling, darling!" Dorothea murmured, crushing her hands together, an agonizing stricture at her heart. "Oh, it isn't fair. Oh, God, let me save him! Oh, I must save him, I can'tbearit if he dies through me, I can't, I can't, Ican't. Oh, isn't there any,anyway?"
Pieces of rock, loosened by the explosion, were still pattering down; one fell on her hand. She glanced round impatiently, and saw to her dismay that half the cave seemed ready to fall in; very little more would bring down an avalanche. She sprang to her feet—and stood still. She had seen how to save Denis.
So simple, after all! Why, of course it was what always happened, in the ordinary course of operations. So much neater, too, than if she had escaped. The search would come to an end, the roads would no longer be guarded, Denis would have a far better chance of getting off. And there would certainly be nothing left to identify. Oh, it was a topping idea! Perhaps if Denis crossed the frontier into Holland she might follow—no, she couldn't, though, she was forgetting; how queer! She would be dead.
Death. She was going to die, all alone here in the dark. She would never see the sunshine any more. She would never see Denis any more, never be his wife, never taste the happiness which niggard Fate, at long last, was offering her. It was the end. And while she was trying to subdue her aching, unsatisfied rebellion, to remind herself that she had only petitioned to be allowed to save him and should be thankful, in a flash of sunset light which illumined and interpreted the past, Dorothea saw that it was the only perfect end. She would have been his wife? Ah, but it wouldnever have been the same, he would never have given her what he once gave; she had spoiled that. It would have been pity, amends, the second best. He would never, never love her living; no, but he would love her dead. For her sake he would go softly all his days; she was sure, now, of an unfading shrine in his memory. Yes, and even apart from Denis, little Dorothea was shyly proud. She was not giving her life for him alone; she was dying as a soldier for her country, and could claim the soldier's due of amnesty and an honored grave.
How far away the world had gone! and how dim and queer she felt! Was it her arm again? Those moments of waiting might have been very cruel, but, more lucky in her death than in her life, Dorothea was spared them. She did not hear Lieutenant Müller outside, nor his orders to the men. She had drifted far away, to happy hours at Bredon and her beloved aeroplane. It was evening; the solemn splendors of the sunset were all about her in the sky. She was flying through a sea of gold—of pure gold, like unto clear glass—or was it the glory of God?
If only the dead could find out whenTo come back and be forgiven!Owen Meredith.
If only the dead could find out whenTo come back and be forgiven!Owen Meredith.
If only the dead could find out whenTo come back and be forgiven!Owen Meredith.
If only the dead could find out when
To come back and be forgiven!
Owen Meredith.
"Are your minds set upon righteousness, O ye congregation?" inquired Mr. Roche in skeptical tones.
It was Sunday morning, and all prisoners having the white Church of England ticket on their doors had been rounded up for the chapel. Not that that was any hardship, for they liked the service; it was commendably short, there were plenty of hymns, and even the lessons, as read by Dr. Scott in his voice of gold, were really quite amusing, especially thechroniques scandaleusesof the Old Testament. By contrast with the bareness of their cells they liked, too, the satins and the embroideries, the lights and the flowers and the incense on which the little doctor squandered most of his pocket-money. He was a believer in the beauty of holiness; he had transformed the bare little barn of a place into a gem. Only the jeweled cross and candlesticks, source of covetous desires in such members of the congregation as did not happen to be set upon righteousness, had been a thank-offering from another donor.
"Psalm 126, the first verse. 'When the Lord turned again the captivity of Zion—'"
By way of prelude to this boldly hopeful text, Mr. Roche had just announced the fall of Antwerp. Scott did not love the new chaplain, but he could not deny that he preached well, or that he got hold of the men. The atmosphere of the chapel was not as a rule what one might call devotional, but this morning there was a fullness in the responses and aclean-cut hush during the sermon which rather touchingly reflected the general state of feeling. It was hard in 1914 to be a prisoner, since even criminals may love their country. Several of Scott's patients had proclaimed their intention of enlisting the moment they were free. As months, or even years, had to elapse before that happy time, these protestations were cheap and safe. Others, who said less, perhaps felt more. Scott had been sorry for many, leashed in by their punishment; for none more than B14.
"Con—found—their—pol—itics,Frus—trate—their—knav—ish tricks—"
"Con—found—their—pol—itics,Frus—trate—their—knav—ish tricks—"
"Con—found—their—pol—itics,Frus—trate—their—knav—ish tricks—"
"Con—found—their—pol—itics,
Frus—trate—their—knav—ish tricks—"
The National Anthem having been roared out from throats kept artificially silent during the week, chapel was dismissed, and it was the immediate duty of the medical officer to take the casual sick. Scott made a rush to his house for a glance atThe Observer, which did not reach Westby till midday, and was back in the casualty room by a quarter to twelve. He stood at a desk, with Mackenzie, as chief warder, beside him, and a table covered with pills, potions, and ointments ready to hand. One by one, as their names were called, the patients came up for treatment.
"Mason A29, sir."
Mason advanced, a doleful wisp of a man. "Well, Mason, what's the matter with you?"
"Oh, if you please, sir, I've got such a dreadful cold in my head!" A fruity and exhaustive sniff lent point to the complaint.
"A cold in the head, have you? Give me your hand. Now let's see your tongue. H'm! Dose of No. 7."
No. 7 was poured out, Mason choked over it, and was passed out by the opposite door. "Next," said Scott.
"Gardiner B14, sir."
This was unexpected. Gardiner B14 stood cheerfully submissive, nursing his hand, which was wrapped in his clean Sunday handkerchief.
"Hullo, you in the wars again? What's the matter now, hey?"
"Bad thumb, sir," said Gardiner, gingerly unrolling it. Yes, his hand had broken out again. "I shall have to lance this," snapped Scott, and did so, with inward ruth. After twenty years of practice, he still hated inflicting pain. "What have you been doing to yourself? Why didn't you come to me before?"
"Well, sir, I never thought twice about it till this morning. I knocked it on a nail; I thought it would get all right."
"Get all right? Get all wrong! Your blood must be in a shocking state. Ever have anything of this sort before you came here?"
"N-no, I don't know that I have. I expect perhaps it's the confinement; I'm not used to it, you know."
"H'm! well, your time's up next month, isn't it? and then you'll be free to get some war work, which is what you're fidgeting after, aren't you? Take care of that hand, and don't go jabbing nails into it, unless you want to lose it altogether. Two thousand men of the Naval Division have crossed the Dutch frontier and will have to be interned. Next."
B14, with the faint suggestion of a smile, went the way of A29, and Scott looked after him with a sigh and the faint suggestion of a frown. Ever since his night in the padded cell it had been the same; Gardiner was polite, and even friendly, but he kept his distance. With no one is a reserved man more reserved than with the person before whom he has once been helplessly open. "I've lost him for good," Scott said to himself; and another sigh came, for he had not many friends. But he was right, it was irrevocable; Gardiner had definitively snapped the thread.
Sunday is a day of rest. Prisoners attend chapel twice, they have two separate hours of exercise, morning and afternoon; at half-past four they go to their cells for supper, and are then locked up for the night. In winter, all lights are put out. In summer, many read in bed. But on the brightest of June mornings Gardiner's cell was barely light enough for that; and by five o'clock in October it was as black as a cave. He had finished his supper, and wasscrewing up his patience to endure the interminable night, when his door opened to admit that very welcome sight, a visitor—Mr. Roche the chaplain.
"I meant to get round before, but I haven't had a moment; I've been up to my eyes in business the whole day. But I thought I might just catch you before bed-time. How are you, eh?"
"Very well, thank you, sir. Very glad to see you." Gardiner's manner was an odd blend of orthodox respect and unorthodox friendliness. It had its counterpart in Roche's own: he could not quite shake off the condescension of the chaplain, yet he did not take possession of the prisoner's stool and leave him to stand. The consequence was that both kept their feet.
"To tell the truth, Gardiner, I've come to say good-by. I shan't have another chance; I'm off first thing to-morrow."
"Off on leave, sir?"
"Off for good. I'm leaving the prison. It's been in the air for some time, but it was only finally arranged last night. I've said nothing about it, because I didn't want a fuss; but I could not leave without seeing you."
"Thanks," said Gardiner, smiling. "You'll be missed. I'm glad my time's nearly up. Are you going to another prison, or is it an ordinary parish job?"
"Neither. I am joining up."
"Chaplain to the forces?"
"Better than that. I enlist." Gardiner's face, in the first moment of surprise, was more expressive than he could have wished. Roche, with his odd touch of the theatrical, laid a hand on his shoulder. "You envy me?" he asked, his voice thrilling and deepening. "Never mind, my poor fellow, your turn will come. Another month and you too will be free to do your bit with the best of us. In the service of your country there is no respect of persons—"
The hand was vigorously shaken off, and Gardiner stepped back. "I'll be shot if I'm going to let you patronize me! If you think that because you happen to be the Honorable and Reverend Dalrymple-Roche, and I'm B14—Why, Iwas round the world and back again before you were out of your schoolroom!" He burst out laughing.
"Gardiner—"
"No, no, wait a bit; let me finish what I've got to say, now I've begun. I've had it on my mind for some time; I meant to save it up for when I got out, but as it seems I shan't have the chance then I'll do it now. You've been very decent to me, and you've kept me going through a rather beastly time, and I don't forget that, and I don't want to let it all lapse, and I rather think you don't either; but I won't be patronized. I may be in prison, but I've done nothing I'm ashamed of, and I do not consider myself disgraced. Got that?" The words were not bluff, they were plain truth; very telling was his vigorous independence. "Well, then, if I pay you deference here it's because discipline has to be maintained, and incidentally because I should get it hot if I didn't. For that reason, and for no other; certainly not because I feel deferential. Deferential! You wait till you've cut your wisdom teeth, my son, before you start preaching to me. There; I've done. You can report me if you like—sir."
Roche had colored up; he looked very haughty and very angry. "I think you forget yourself," he began, and then his mobile face changed. "I beg your pardon, Gardiner; you are perfectly right. I have no business to patronize you. I don't mean to do it; but it's the more or less official manner, and one slips into it—to tell the truth, that's one reason why I want to get away."
"Oh, that's all right, lots of parsons have a turn for magniloquence," said Gardiner, with a laugh, "and if you do it again I shall tell you again, that's all. You inevitably will. And so you mean to enlist? Ho ho!" His smile broadened as he ran his eye over Roche's handsome figure. He did not say, "You won't like that, my friend," but he thought it.
"The French priests take their places in the ranks," said Roche, "why not we? I put that to my bishop. He refused to release me. One must act on one's own consciencein these matters. I am a priest, it is my duty to lead men; when peace comes, how can I expect them to follow me, if during the war I have been skulking behind my cloth here in England?Iwould not follow such a man. If the clergy shirk now, they will be digging the Church's grave."
"Very sound sentiments. I have an old daddy, and if he were thirty years younger—thank goodness he isn't, for he'd certainly get shot. Well, I congratulate you. Mind my finger, I'm still rather frail." Roche had wrung his hand with more fervor than discretion. "Funny beggar you are!" Gardiner added, with the laugh in his eyes that was often there when he talked to Roche. "Youwon't get shot. Bet you what you like you come out with the V.C.!"
"Priests don't bet."
"Privates do, though. Not that you'll stay a private. You'll be offered a commission—"
"I shan't accept it," Roche declared.
"More fool you, then, for you're just the sort they want. You lucky beggar—oh, you lucky beggar!"
The hunger of envy peeped out. Roche, at times self-absorbed and blind, had at other times an Irish quickness of perception.
"Gardiner—I'm sorry! Perhaps after all, if a competent surgeon sees your hand, instead of that wretched little sawbones—"
"Oh, that's all right, I shall get my whack by and by, even if I can't go into the trenches. Which reminds me: you won't forget to put through that little bit of business I asked you about, will you? (There's old Busy Bee locking up for the night, you'll have to clear out in two twos.) Just a word of introduction to Lord Ronayne, that's all I want. You see a criminal just out of jail does need some sort of sponsor." Gardiner's grin was quite free from bitterness.
"I won't forget," said Roche hurriedly, "I hadn't forgotten. I can answer for my father. Good-by, Gardiner—God bless you!"
Again he wrung the prisoner's hand, and again left himlaughing and swearing and shaking his fingers—a characteristic farewell.
Chim-chime. Chim-chime. Chim-chime. A quarter to five. St. Agnes' clock was striking as Roche came out into the lilac and gold of the October sunset, which lightened and broadened down the clean deserted streets, and glittered like tongues of fire in all the western windows. The trees in the square were brilliant, gold lace over iron filigree. Beyond them three tall chimneys stood, slender, black, and tapering against the cornflower-blue of distant hills. A train, just arrived in the station, was veiling itself in snowy mist, sun-smitten; and as Roche turned into the High Street St. Agnes' bells began to playThe King of Love, merry and clear, a sweet little rocking tune in triplets. How bright the town was, and how peaceful in its Sunday rest! Not a soul was about, except the half-dozen travelers from the train; one of these, a tall man in the then unfamiliar uniform of the Royal Flying Corps, stopped to ask Roche the way to the prison.
In B14's cell it was already night. There was no sunshine here, not even light enough for him to throw his shoe at the blackbeetle which had crawled up the hot-water pipes, and was running about on the concrete floor. Gardiner lay on his back, hands clasped behind his head, staring at the gray oblong of his window, and wondering how he was going to get through the thirteen hours of darkness. He was not laughing now. He would have given twenty pounds for a candle and a book to read, fifty for a cigarette—he might as well have offered to buy the moon.
In the padded cell he had touched bottom; nothing could ever be so bad again as the days before that night, in their agony of impotence, or the night itself, in its agony of despair. Prison—it was a tedious business, no doubt, but what of that? He could only wonder why he had ever made a fuss about such a trifle. He had grappled with his bogy, and behold it turned out to be only a turnip-lantern ghost after all. Difficulties, once surmounted, have a way ofsinking back and effacing themselves in the past; absorbed in a greater trouble, Gardiner did not realize that he had at last fought and won the battle, long impending, which made him master of himself.
He did believe, from the first he had never doubted, that Lettice was dead. Wandesforde's message, which he faithfully delivered in person, had not shaken that conviction. It had only made him feel that Denis was dead too. Yes, they were both gone; but Gardiner no longer held himself responsible. That dreadful crazy feeling of guilt, which his sanity, half insane, had used to save him from himself, had passed with the crisis it provoked. He had not killed her; yet she was dead, and he missed her more instead of less every day; every day he came upon fresh tracts of his mind marked broad with her mark, and saw with dismay the widening scope of his loss. But no one knew of it, and no one was going to know, through him. "Not that anybody would be particularly interested," he reflected. "My dear daddy—he would, bless his heart, but he'll never see, and I shall never tell him; he'd get the shock of his life to think I was old enough to want to get married. Married! Oh, my Lord, I wish I had married her; I could have stood it better now if I'd ever had one ounce of satisfaction.... And besides daddy, who else? Tom? Roche? I don't think!" He laughed. "Little Scott, then—he'd be all agog, but he isn't going to have the chance, confound him! I wish old Denis were here. I could have talked to him. He would have understood. He knew me pretty well, did Denis, after all these years. I wonder how I'm going to get on without him. 'Their soul was much discouraged because of the way.' Hard going: that's what I'm to expect, I suppose, for the rest of my wanderings in this wilderness.... There was a lot of likeness between them at bottom. I expect that's why I feel as though I'd known her all my life and before I was born—I did know her, in him. But he would always try to hide his dear old head in a bag whenever I did anything to upset his little feelings, and she never did. Not she! She'd go picking her way with her little lamp round all yourdark corners, inexorably showing you every cobweb and every speck of dust that her highness didn't approve, and all without a word spoken, just by the poise of that darling little head of hers and those inimitable hazel eyes—hazel? No, b' Jove! What was it she used to say? 'Weak Bovril, with little bits of carrot floating about'—oh, Lettice, Lettice! oh, why the devil did I let myself begin on this?"
He flung his arm across his eyes, as if he would have hidden his trouble even from himself. Blind instinct had first dragged him to Lettice, a straw in the current; he felt he needed her long before he knew he loved her. But love, and even passion, had come since, flooding in by back ways, filling him to the brim. He was tormented by his lost opportunities. "When I had her to myself there in Rochehaut, why didn't I make her marry me? She'd have done it if I'd put the screw on; you can get pretty well anything out of Lettice if she's only sorry enough for you. Or here in prison, why couldn't I have put my arm round that little waist of hers and taken a kiss? What would she have done if I had? Would she have had the impertinence to ruffle up all her pretty feathers and make believe to be affronted? Or could I have got right down through all her defenses to the very heart of her, and made her drop her lashes, and color, and—acknowledge me? I'd give my eyes to know, and I never shall, never. She had more reticences and reserves and evasions than any human being I have ever met. She was as delicate as the bloom on a butterfly. Angelita de mi corazón, I would have respected your little fads; you should have kept your fenced garden and your fountain sealed. I could have held your life in my hand and never closed my fingers on it—yes, I could; even that. I was your very true lover. I wonder, was it a bayonet—"
To this precipice Gardiner always came, sooner or later. We talk of unimaginable horrors; there were none he had not imagined. How do men live, with thoughts like these? God knows.
"B14, are ye waukin? Ye're to dress and come wi' me."
"Hullo! is that Mr. Mackenzie? What's up?"
"It's a veesitor for ye."
"A visitor at this time of night? Here's an exciting go! Who is it—an officer? Big man in the R.F.C.?"
Mackenzie shook his head. "I canna tell ye, for I havena seen him."
"Now I wonder what good you think you are?" said Gardiner, sitting up, laughing, blinking at the light. "Rousing me out of my beauty sleep! Yes, I beg your pardon, sir, and all that, but I'm coming out quite soon, you know. Hold the light, do you mind, and let me find my socks?"
He laughed in self-defense, and he asked questions for form's sake; but he knew all the time that this was his doom. Only an urgent messenger would have been admitted at this hour. It was Wandesforde, come to tell him how she had died. That thought went with him down the twilit passages, it stood sentinel before the yellow-glimmering door of the visitors' room. "Ye've half-an-hour," said Mackenzie in business-like tones as he turned the handle. Gardiner drew a long breath and walked through the specter into the room.
A long-legged officer stood up. Wandesforde? No. Oh, good God!
"She's safe," said Denis instantly. "Here, hold on, old man; it's all right!"
Gardiner was not all right; he was nearly fainting. By and by he found himself sitting in a chair, still gripping Denis with both hands, while Denis patted him gently on the back.
"She's all right," he kept repeating—wise Denis, to harp on the one thing that mattered. "Quite all right; quite safe. Gently does it. Better now, are you?"
Yes, Gardiner was better and he said so with decision. Denis withdrew to the other side of the table and sat smiling at him.
"We got back last night. We've been together all the time. Didn't Wandesforde tell you? I went first to the W.O. to report myself, and then straight on to get leave to see you. Even a Government department has bowelsthese days. I wanted Lettice to come too, but she said she thought you'd rather not, so she's gone down to her own people in Kent. Rather rough luck on them all this time, what? She sent her love."
"Go on," said Gardiner, leaning back and composing himself to listen. "Begin at the beginning and go on to the end, then stop. Lord! I wish you'd asked the bowelful Home Office to let me have a smoke while you were about it. Anda, caballerito! Let's have the 'ole of the 'orrible details."
Denis launched into his tale. He began, as directed, with the raid on Aix, and his soft Irish tongue ran on fluently till he came to the Bellevue. "I can't tell you what it was like to see it, Harry. It's one thing to read about these things, safe here in England; but to see it—a place you've known—"
"A place you own," said Gardiner grimly. "Yes, that's what these beastly pacifists never seem to grasp. On a toujours assez de force—they'd sing a different song if it was their ownmauxinstead of those ofautrui. Poor old Bellevue. Well, I'll build it up again. Go ahead. What happened next?"
"Oh, well, of course I had to ask about it—them—I was a bit reckless, I suppose. I went down and hailed a man in the road. He told me they were safe at the Hasquins' farm. And so while we were talkin' of course a lot of beastly Boches came round the corner. I skipped like a young unicorn, I can tell you, but they potted me, and then they chased me all over the place. But I dodged 'em and got up into the fir wood. I wanted pretty badly to see for myself—"
Gardiner raised his eyebrows. "Bit risky, what?"
"Ah, but I never meant to show up. I was goin' to lie doggo and get off again after dark. It was Lettice spied me out—you know what her eyes are." Gardiner nodded. "I do blame myself," said Denis earnestly. "I'll never get over it; but I was bleedin' like a pig and a bit muzzy-headed. Well, there it was, anyway. I fainted, and they did whatthey liked with me. They got me over and hid me in the tower. Remember the tower?"
Did Gardiner remember the tower? He remembered it so well, and saw Lettice beside it so vividly, that he fell silent, and let Denis tell the rest of his tale almost without question. They had stayed at the farm till Denis was fit to travel. Then, one wet evening, they set out to tramp across Belgium, he in Monsieur Hasquin's blouse and loose trousers, she in Madame's Sunday skirt. "She didn't like it one bit," said Denis, with a reminiscent smile. "Wanted to take her hair curlers in the bundle. Very annoyed with me because I wouldn't let her. It rankled for days." Denis in addition had his scarred face tied up to represent toothache. "We did look rather scalawags," he admitted. They lay up by day and walked by night, keeping mostly to the fields, and guiding themselves by Denis's pocket compass. Once the café where they were at supper was invaded by soldiers, who luckily took no notice of their ragged companions. Another time when they were sheltering in a barn some Brandenburgers came in to search for fodder. They did not search behind the patent reaper in the corner. Yet again they went to sleep in a copse, and woke to find they had chosen the exercising ground of a squadron of cavalry. That was near the Dutch frontier. Next night they crossed under cover of darkness, and were safe.
"Well, I consider it all most compromising for Lettice, and if you'd a spark of proper feeling you'd offer to marry her," said Gardiner, yawning with his arms above his head, "but of course you never think of that, selfish brute. Lord! I shall sleep like a pig to-night. Spoiled your beauty, Denis," he added, looking at the scar, red and puckered. Denis put up his hand to the place.
"That was our friend Fritz. He does sometimes score a bull's-eye."
"Well, it seriously detracts from your market value as a husband. On second thought, I'm not sure but Lettice had better put up with me after all." He hesitated. A point that had not escaped him was Denis's significant change ofpronoun in the latter part of his narrative from "they" to "she." What in the world had they done with Dorothea? Left her behind at the farm? Anything was possible with that dear lunatic! He had no thought of tragedy. There seemed no room for it in Denis's straightforward tale, and no hint of it in his quiet, smiling manner. "I say, Denis, I've no wish to be indiscreet, and I'm not asking if I ought to hold my tongue—but Wandesforde said—"
"Yes," said Denis, "I was comin' to that. She died."
"Died!"
"Instead of me. I'd never have got off but for her. She put on my flying kit and led them away from the farm. She was always keen on dressin' up as a boy. Of course I'd have stopped it if I'd known, but I didn't; I was off my head. I can't tell you exactly what happened, but they shot her, and they hunted her, and finally they rounded her up in the fir wood. The officer in command was quite a decent boy, Lettice said; she'd have been all right if she'd given herself up. But that would have meant givin' me up, do you see, so she wouldn't do it. She crawled into one of those caves up there and refused to come out."
"Well?"
"They bombed her," said Denis simply. "Like clearin' a dug-out. So the whole place fell in. She must have counted on that. She knew it wasn't safe."
"That was pretty fine," said Gardiner under his breath. He could find nothing more. The contrast was too poignant. "The one shall be taken"—but Lettice was left.
"Yes," said Denis. "I've wondered, Harry: do you think there's anything in that Carth'lic idea of prayers for the dead?"
Gardiner, with those expectant dark blue eyes fixed on him in their inveterate simplicity, found himself answering: "Oh, I expect—"
"Because, you see, we didn't have much time to say things," Denis explained. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bore you with this, but it's been rather a facer for me. You know, if she'd lived, she'd have been my wife."
"Oh, my dear old Denis—!" said Gardiner.
Oh, believe me, Nell, it is an awful thing to be a wife.—Charlotte Brontë.
Lettice, dragging up the steps of No. 33 Canning Street, paused to unfasten her waterproof and shake her wet umbrella. It was raining, it seemed to have been raining ever since she got back to town, chill November rain, a yellow haze down every street; and the weather matched her mood. Ever since April she had been trying to shut her eyes to the future, but as time drew on it refused to be ignored. It lay in wait outside the Museum, it came home with her in the Tube, it took possession of her attic, it was translating itself with appalling rapidity into the present, and she was no more ready for it than she had been months ago.
Well! she had still a week's grace, and anything might happen in a week. Lettice detached her mind with an effort, picked up a letter from the hall table, and came upstairs at a snail's pace, reading it. Her own room she expected to be dark, so with her usual deaf and blind absorption in anything to read she lingered outside on the landing. She became aware, as she stood, of another scent mingling with that of the lamp, of another clearer light than its brownish obscurity, but her eyes remained glued to her letter; not till she had reached the end did she slowly raise them from the sheet, and then she saw her door open, her room full of firelight, a white cloth gleaming, a dark figure standing in the entrance watching her with a smile.
"Buenas noches, señorita," said Gardiner, politely removing his cigarette.
"O-o-oh—it's you," said Lettice with striking originality.
"The curse is come upon me!" suggested Gardiner. His smile widened. "Exactly. You look so pleased!"
Lettice, after that first involuntary pause of dismay, had come into the room; she stood by the table, slowly, slowly drawing off her gloves.
"Well, ofcourseI'm pleased; but why, why, why didn't you let me know? You said you weren't coming out till next week!"
"So sorry, but I didn't know myself. It was little Scott worked the oracle—said I was in a bad way or something." Lettice said nothing, but her chin had a mutinous cock. "Shall I go back again?"
"If you'd let me know intime," said Lettice, "I'd have got you somethingnicefor tea.Nowyou'll have to put up with what there is."
That minute offended voice, that reproachful pianissimo drawl! Gardiner laughed out.
"Lettice, you're inimitable! I swear you haven't turned a hair! Do you know—do you know you've got the same button off the same coat?"
"Well, you wouldn't expect me to have the same button off another coat, would you?"
"I would not have you in any single particular in any degree different from what you are now," Gardiner declared. He dropped into a chair. "As a matter of fact, they shot me out yesterday; and if it comes to letting people know, I went straight off to Starbridge under the impression I should find you in the bosom of your family. I was shown in right on top of a Belgian work party. Awful. I came out again with my tail between my legs. That upset I couldn't even face you. I spent the night in the fields."
"It was raining."
"Quite; it was. I was under a tarpaulin on top of a stack. Oh yes, thanks, I slept like a hog. I've been dropping off at intervals ever since, in the train or any old place. Making up for lost time, I suppose."
His speech ended in a yawn. Lettice stole a glance at him out of the tail of her eye. "Were you sleeping badly right up to the end?" she asked.
"Yes; it's been rather rotten. Never mind, all over now. It's good to be out. Brrr! You leave that toasting fork alone. Drop it! My job. You're tired; you've been fagging all day in the B.M. Siéntese usted, señorita."
"You'll burn it," cried Lettice, defensively holding on. He looked up lazily; his black eyes were melting soft, his voice a seductive murmur.
"Ah! prendita mía, don't you know I'm going to make your toast for you every evening of your life?"
Lettice was extinguished. She sat down, unwilling but unresisting. He could make toast, and he could do what was far more difficult and unusual—make her obey him. He spoke lightly, but he was watching her all the time; he beset her with his eyes. They said bold things, but he did not press them; he made her color, and he laughed, yet he did not touch her. Why he did it? That was quite plain; he was hoarding up his happiness, playing cat and mouse, holding her life in his hand, as he had sworn he could, without closing his fingers on it. Lettice knew not whether to be glad or sorry at the respite.
"Have you seen Mr. Gardiner yet?" she asked. She preferred talking to being watched.
"Not yet. I'm booked for Woodlands to-night, but I thought I'd see you first and present him with our plans ready made; he flurries himself over anything like a discussion, dear old boy. Bet you sixpence you don't guess what I mean to do?" Lettice looked inquiring. "No; not enlist. This hand does me out of that. But I've a job in my mind's eye that will do me quite as well or even better. What do you say to the Secret Service? Don't you dare screw your nose up at me!" He was laughing at her again. "Seriously, you know, I'm cut out for it. I pass anywhere as a Spaniard, and though I say it, I have quite a pretty turn for finesse. The padre at the prison, Roche his name was, has a father who's a big brass hat in that line, and he'sgiving me a leg up. I shall go directly I'm fit. I'm still pretty frail; I wouldn't trust myself not to leg it out of a tight place, which at best would be ignominious, and might lead to a handy wall and a firing squad—oh, wouldn't suit my book at all. No. I give myself a fat month. I've certain plans for that month which I propose presently to lay before you. You go raspberry-pink when you blush, Lætitia Jane; did you know it?"
"Will you have some more tea?" asked Lettice repressively.
"No, I will not have some more tea. No, and I won't have a cigarette either. You are a little liar, you hate smoke. I got that out of that pretty sister of yours—by the way, I think I can get round your people without much trouble; I'm rather a dog, you know, when I give my mind to it. Always well to be on good terms with your in-laws—but that's not the point at present. I've certain plans for this next month, as I said; but before we discuss them this house will go into committee on ways and means. The sad fact is that, bar a few pounds in the bank, I'm a blooming pauper. Every cent I possess went with the Bellevue. I suppose a grateful country will support me while I'm lying in the bosom of the Hun—What are you looking at me like that for?"
"Don't you know?"
"Know what?"
"About your, your—your what do you call it."
"My—?"
"It was in Denis's letter. I've just heard from him. About Dot O'Connor."
"Lucid, very," said Gardiner. "Get a move on, darling. Steady over the stones. What about Dot O'Connor?"
"Well, I'mtellingyou as fast as I can. You, you, you do hurry me so," Lettice complained. She took breath and tried again. "She, she—it was her will. You heard she left him a lot of money for his old aeroplanes?"
Gardiner nodded. "Yes, that was inThe Mail. 'Bequest to an Airman.' Roche told me. I was very gladabout it; poor dear old chap, it'll be something to take his mind off. But I don't see—"
"Well, she's left you some too. To show her gratitude for your consideration."
"How much?Five thousand?Good Lord! I say, Lettice, I can't possibly take it!" Lettice was silent. "Don't you agree with me?"
"No. I think you should."
"After all that's happened?"
"Well, you never did hate her, did you?" said Lettice. "And she didn't hate you, at any rate not at the last. She'd be sorry if you refused."
"No, I never hated her," said Gardiner. He lay back, thinking. "I say, Lettice."
"Well?"
"I say, I was cut up over that business. Weren't you?" Lettice nodded. He leaned forward, fingering the fringe of her tea-cloth. "Not for Denis's sake, I don't mean, but for her own. I—I liked her, you know. You couldn't help feeling she ought to have been such a jolly kid!"
"I owe her a good deal," said Lettice on a rare impulse.
"You do?"
"She stuck a knife into a German for me."
Gardiner looked up quickly. "In time?"
"If it hadn't been I shouldn't be here," said Lettice very concisely.
"H'm," said Gardiner. His face was expressionless. Lettice wondered what he was thinking. She was apt to go astray in other people's thoughts where they concerned herself, because she habitually underrated her own significance. She wished she had not told him. She had never told Denis. She scourged herself for giving confidences unasked.
There came a pause. Gardiner seemed deep in thought. Lettice with a darkened face was noiselessly putting cups and saucers together. She hoped to get out of the room without attracting his attention, but he shot out of his chair in time to open the door.
"Where are you off to with those things?"
"It's Beatrice's afternoon out, and I'm going to carry them down into the basement," said Lettice in an uninviting hurry. She was afraid he would offer to come too, but he did not, nor did her tone provoke a smile.
"Hurry up back, then, I want to talk to you," was all he said.
Lettice did not hurry back; she stayed to wash up, a work of supererogation, found half-a-dozen other unnecessary things to do, loitered on the stairs, delayed on the landing. She had at last to force herself to the door against a reluctance like a pain; and then she halted on the threshold. He had fallen asleep.
Lettice crossed the floor with her soft, slow step and stood looking down on him. Awake, except for being thinner, he was not so much changed from his old self; asleep, he showed the ravages of the past twelvemonth—helplessly, openly. Lettice knew without being told that he hated to be watched in his sleep for that very reason, because he could not guard his secrets; yet he trusted himself unreservedly to her. He and his secrets were quite at her mercy. It was too much; he gave too much and he asked too much. So unlike Denis, who asked nothing, took things for granted, never criticized either himself or her! But this alert, restless, observant mind, for ever analyzing and appraising—how was she to cope with it? She felt like a mole dragged into the sunshine.
There was some affinity between them, and she had power over him—yes; but she did not want it. She only longed to creep back underground. She could give him friendship, she could even give him love of the quality she gave to Denis, provided he asked no more; if he did ask more, all her instincts bent away from him towards something very like hostility. What was she going to do, then? Keep her word, that of course; but how? Could she deceive him? She could not; that was just what she found intolerable. But if she did not, would he be satisfied? Or would he actually enjoy holding her against her will? Lettice wasnot sure. He was not cruel, but he was passionate, and passion is cruel. He made her conscious, always, that he was a man. Entangled in the personal relation, her judgment was all astray.
Well! she supposed she must set her teeth and do the best she could. After all, the fault was hers, not his, the unnatural lack was in her. Remembering little Dorothea's freehearted giving, Lettice despised her own sterility.