“Hopping-race for the future, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Brinton. “Pull his jacket up.”
Helen had seen the first incision, and the whole thing seemed to her the most heartless exhibition she had ever witnessed. They were talking about football ... when here was this poor boy—— And then a sudden illumination came to her. They were not heartless at all; they were simply employed in their work, doing the best they could, making life instead of death. It was natural they should talk about a League match: it was one of those humanities that enabled you to face the grim work of healing.
A button had torn loose as the nurse took the edge of Jaye’s pyjama jacket out of the way, and the whole of his body was exposed, strong and supple and charged with the potentiality of its manhood. Soon he would be a truncated thing, an object of pity. And why? Just because he had faced the peril and the pain. He had been willing, even as Robin had been willing, to fight for the inviolable law. He had done it for her.... Suddenly Jaye began to talk. For a moment Helen almost shrieked at the idea that he had come out of the anæsthetic, and was conscious again with that great gash in his leg, and a half-dozen of forceps clinging like leeches to the severed veins and arteries. Then she remembered having heard that people under an anæsthetic talked, and listened to a mumble of obscene things. Surely the nurse who had thought it unladylike to smoke, would be paralysed by this....
And then she saw her mistake. Nurse Killick had a bunch of small sponges in her hand, and paid no more attention to what Jaye was saying than she would have given to the whistling of the wind. She was just an operation nurse now: all that she existed for was to have a sponge ready when Mr. Brinton called for it. Close beside her were wads of sterilized cotton-wool, and nothing else except her particular department hadthe smallest meaning for her. The patient might say what he pleased: it fell on deaf ears. All that Miss Killick had to attend to, and all that would subsequently concern her, was the physical welfare of Jaye, not this farrago of things which his decent responsible self held in check. Then as suddenly as if a tap had been turned off he was silent again.
There was a pause in the surgical work as the patient was turned over on to his right side, and then it began again. The surgeon was standing between Helen and the work on which he was engaged, and she saw nothing now of what was going on. But presently the sound of sawing began, and with a spasm of contempt for herself, she felt her hands growing cold and damp, and a sick, empty feeling rising into her throat. At that she laid hold of her courage and clung to it with clenched fingers, determined not to brand herself in the eyes of those busy, skilful folk as a woman without stability or control. Slowly she regained possession of herself, for presently shemustbe herself again, when Jaye came round, and before that sawing noise ceased she was mistress of her nerves.
“Take it away,” said the surgeon suddenly, and one of the nurses wrapped up something in a sheet. The ligatures were tied and forceps removed and counted, and the flap of skin bound over the stump. Finally the surgeon turned round, went to the basin by the wall and washed his hands. As he dried them, he turned to her, the suave, polite Mr. Brinton again.
“You seem to have stood that very well for your first operation,” he said. “You’ll be able to stand by with sponges and ligatures next time.”
She went up to the room where they took Jaye, andput him to bed still unconscious. But before long he came round, and she had her reward.
“Hullo, sister,” he said faintly, “when are they going to begin?”
“But it’s all over, Jaye,” she said. “You’re back in bed, and you’ll have no more trouble.”
“And were you there all the time?” he asked.
“Of course. I told you I should be.”
“Thank you, sister,” said the boy.
Robin had arrived some minutes before, and presently she went down to him.
“Ah, my darling,” she said, “I’m late, but I couldn’t help it. Robin, we’re going to have such a nice day. I’ve got nothing more to do in the hospital till this evening. I got up at six o’clock in order to get through my work before you came.”
He kissed her.
“You are rather a trump,” he said. “Do you know, when you began I wondered whether you would stick to it. You smell of ether, mother.”
“Do I? Give me a cigarette, then. Robin, how very rude of you to wonder if I would stick to it.”
He laughed.
“You didn’t stick to the muffler-knitting very long,” he said.
“No, that’s true. I want to ask you something. Were you ashamed of me last autumn for not working at something?”
“Oh, it wasn’t my business,” said he.
“That’ll do: that’s enough. And how is your Jim?”
“My Jim? I think he’s yours. He told me to give you his love, if I thought you wouldn’t mind. I didn’t think you would.”
“My dear, how kind of him! Why didn’t you bring him down with you?”
“Because I wanted you all to myself, of course.”
She put her arm through his.
“Oh, Robin,” she said, “I should have been so disappointed if you had brought him. But I didn’t want to tell you not to. I thought perhaps you would, and I should have hated you for not wanting me all to yourself. And how is Miss Diphtheria Coombe? Is that her name?”
“Yes. She sent her love to you, too, and asked when you would talk over settlements with Mommer.”
“What a liar you are, darling,” said she. “I don’t know where you get it from. Whom else have you been seeing?”
“I saw Lady Gurtner—oh, I think she’s Gardner now—yesterday: I dined with her. She asked me to dinner nine times, so at last I went. One does go in the end.”
“Dinner-party?” asked his mother.
“Yes: about twenty. Not a single one of them had I ever seen before except that horrid friend of yours, what’s his name?”
It could not be Kuhlmann, so she tried Boyton.
“Yes,” said Robin. “He gave me a bad taste in the mouth. He was making odious insinuations about the Gurtner-Gardners, implying German sympathies. If you go and dine with people you shouldn’t do that. Because if you believe what you say, you’ve got no business to be there.”
“I quite agree. I knew Mr. Boyton had been saying things of the sort, and since then I haven’t seen him. What did you do after dinner?”
“We danced. There was a band and a great supper,as if it had been a regular ball. But only about a dozen people came.”
“Aline is not a very clever woman,” remarked his mother. “I warned her not to give a ball.”
Robin hesitated a moment.
“Have you had any sort of row with her?” he asked.
“She was a good deal vexed with me when I saw her last, more than a couple of months ago,” she said.
She longed to ask if Aline had said anything unfriendly about her, but that was just the sort of thing she never did ask. Robin would tell her if he thought fit.
“I gathered as much,” he said. “I’m sorry I went, but what was I to do? As I say, she asked me heaps of times, and I thought she was a friend of yours.”
Again it would have been very simple to have said: “Did she appear not to be?” but Helen left that question unuttered.
“Poor Aline,” she said, “I’m sorry her ball did not go off well.”
“Yes: it upset her. It must be horrid to stand at the top of your stairs and wait for people who don’t come. Is that enough about them, do you think?”
“Yes: just this one thing more,” she said. “I’m glad you went. Aline would like it. Now, Robin, will you take me for a walk? I’m still breathing ether, and I want to get rid of it.”
“Yes, but why are you so full of ether?”
“I attended an operation this morning. One of these poor boys had to have his leg off, and he had taken rather a fancy to me, and wanted me to be with him.”
“How horrible for you. Didn’t you hate it?”
“Loathed it, but I couldn’t help myself, could I?”
“You might have gone away, as soon as he was under the anæsthetic.”
“I meant to, but when it came to, I just couldn’t.”
Robin smiled at her with the beautiful mouth Miss Jackson admired so much.
“And he’d actually taken a fancy to you, had he?” he asked. “I expect they’re all in love with you. Lord! I should flirt with you if you weren’t my mother.”
“You darling. But I’m a little old for you, aren’t I? You’d better stick to Miss Diphtheria.”
“She’s so damned respectable. She wouldn’t let me kiss her. Now, you’re not respectable: you don’t mind.”
Helen thought she had disciplined herself into acquiescing in Robin’s going out to France, had got used to it. But at the sight and the touch of him on this his last morning in England, her fortitude wavered like a blown flame. For the moment she could not face it at all.
“Ah, Robin, Robin!” she said.
He guessed what was in her mind, for the two read each other like open books.
“There never was such a mother,” he said. “Now let’s go out.”
It was the mildest of mid-winter days: all the autumn had been warm, too, and chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies still lingered, though already the squills and aconites, first messengers of the spring, had opened their blue bells and their yellow stars. Overhead the pale azure of the winter sky was flecked with little wrinkled clouds, as if some quiet sea had retreated, leaving the marks of breaking ripples on the ribbed sand. There was a chirruping of sparrows in the house-eaves, and a chatter as of razor-stropping from varnished starlings in a hawthorn bush, where they were lunching on the red berries, which they threw aboutin the rudest manner. Below the terrace the beech-woods, with trunks powdered by the green lichen growth of the autumn, and branches round which hovered a faint purple haze, clothed the steep hill-side down to the river.
At the bottom of the avenue the water, running high with rains, had flooded part of the valley, and the lowest of the trees stood mirrored in it. A pheasant with burnished copper back got up from the rough grass, and rose above the beeches with downward beating wings, and a rabbit scuttled silently into the fringe of undergrowth. Across the river the red roofs of the villages gleamed among the bare elms, and no more peaceful winter day could have been imagined. Only above the house there drooped the Red Cross flag, and in the loggia were sitting half a dozen blue-clad men with slings or crutches, and a nurse moved about among them. And yet all England was becoming one camp, one arsenal to brew the beer of war.
“Pheasant!” said Robin. “They’ve got peace on earth this autumn, anyhow.”
“I know. I wish it was the other way about. Oh, Robin, would you like to shoot this afternoon? I told the keeper to come up to see.”
“Well, then, I shouldn’t. I’ve told you once why I came down here.”
“I thought I should like to hear it twice,” said she.
Robin threw back his head. “I Came To See You!” he shouted.
“That will do beautifully. I think you’ve deafened me. You can stop and dine here, can’t you, and drive back afterwards?”
“Rather!” said Robin hoarsely. “That was my plan. I’ve broken a vocal chord. May I have an operation, and will you sit by me?”
“Operation for acute idiocy,” said she.
“Yes, inherited. Mother’s side.”
She looked at him a moment in silence, summing him up, reckoning what he was to her.
“Robin, one of the next things I want to be is a grandmother,” she said at length. “Do manage it for me before very long. Nobody else in the world can do it except you.”
“All right,” said he. “I’ll go and propose to Diphtheria, if you like. But if we’re to be married to-day, I must go back to town before dinner.”
“Then it must be put off. Oh, there’s the men’s dinner-bell. I shall have to go in for ten minutes and see that everything is right.”
“Mind you’re not longer,” said he.
The winter twilight closed in early, and after tea she had to leave him again to see to her duties, but they dined together, and she had nothing more to do in the hospital, which she could not delegate for once, until he would have to leave. Not until his car was round did either of them speak of what was coming, but talked exactly as they would have talked if weeks of quiet, unsundered life were in front of them. Then, at this last moment, she slipped from her chair and knelt by his side, as he sat in front of the fire in her white sitting-room upstairs where they had dined.
“Robin, there is only one word from me to you, and even that is unnecessary, for you know it already. My whole heart is yours, my darling, and it goes with you ever so bravely, and is always by your side, praying God to protect and bless you, and let you come back to me. I went to church in the big ward yesterday, on Christmas morning, and there was a jolly verse in the Psalms that made me think of you: ‘Good luckhave thou with thine honour,’ it said.... My dear, the treasure of my heart!”
He leaned forward to her and kissed her.
“It has been the best day of all the days,” he said. “I don’t believe we’ve ever loved each other so much. Absolutely top-hole. And now I’m going. Don’t come down with me, mother. I want to say good-bye to you here in your white room. It’s you. I shall see the last of you together. And as I leave the room, I shan’t look back.”
His lip quivered for a moment.
“And we’re brave and gay, both of us,” he added. “Good-bye.”
There were no spoken words between them after that, just a whisper passed between them, and in a couple of minutes he had left her. Presently there came the sound of his motor-wheels crunching the gravel.
From that hour there began in Helen Grote a change, vital and immense, in the spirit in which she devoted herself to the hospital. Her pride had hitherto demanded of her that she should do her work as perfectly and conscientiously as she was able, and there was no actual difference now in the quality of her performance of it. But now love began to inspire it, in that the men she looked after had been injured in the cause for which Robin was now in France. They and he were fellow-workers, she was looking after members of his brotherhood; more than that, she even at times seemed to herself to be directly serving him, for all those who fought were part of a corporate body, individuals who could not be dissevered from each other. Faintly at first, but with increasing splendour, even as dawn floods the sky and heralds theday, dimming the stars and turning the moon to ashes, so the New Spirit permeated her, extinguishing the lesser lights of self-respect which demanded of her an efficient performance, and filling the inter-stellar darkness with the glory of the sun not yet risen upon the earth.
She walked as in clear shadow, with the brightness still high and far above her, for often her heart was faint, and her soul was utterly lonely and quivered with apprehensions that she would not of her best will give a home to; but visible above her, brightening as it descended the stair of heaven, dawn stepped down towards the earth with luminous feet. And if sometimes her pulses were feeble with fear, there were other moments when they beat strong with the impulse of some new perception....
Often the light of this new dawn was hidden, so thickly clouded over that the emptiness and rebellion of those autumn months seemed to have returned, with this added, that Robin was now out in the peril of the storm, and any day or hour might bring some news which would drive dawn altogether from the sky. But she no longer sought relief from that thought in running away from it, but in plunging herself into all that could most intimately bring home to her the horror of war. Her soul’s escape lay not in trying to hide her eyes and screen herself from it, but by going with open vision into the very thick of it. Constantly her work bored, discouraged and disgusted her: she would feel for whole days together that the stupidest woman in the world could do all she was doing with no less efficiency than she, and that a finer sympathy than hers would have gilded routine with splendour.
Here was the discouragement: that she was doingthe best she could, but that anybody else would have easily done better; but that served, thanks to the spirit which was now beginning to inspire her devotion, not as a hindrance to her labours, but as a spur to their complete performance, and her humility exalted her. So too with the boredom and disgust that at times assailed her over menial and repeated tasks: she did not slur over them or delegate them to others, but only struggled with her own littleness in thinking anything little. Her life, which once she had consecrated, as with vows, to her own amusement, vows that, when the war broke out, she sacrificed everything to keep, had slid from under her own hands, and shook itself free of the benumbing touch of her own self-centred aims.
To-day she made no fresh vows, she did not even trouble to repudiate the former ones, or register a new intention. She simply went straight forward with industry and simplicity. She had never been the least inclined to introspection, and did not waste time or energy in dwelling with regret on the years she had so devoted to her own satisfaction; indeed, if she had stopped to examine herself, she would have found no shred of regret hidden away in the cupboards of her mind. The past was over and done with, and, after all, she had enjoyed her years enormously. It was foreign to her nature to regret what had yielded her so much pleasure.
But the past was over and done with in this sense also, that she felt there was no going back to it. Already, even though but a few months had passed since August, for her the cleavage seemed complete, and if she looked forward to the day when the war was over, and leisure and security returned, she could not think herself back into the spirit of the days when Grote was a temple consecrated to the splendour andextravagance and desires of herself and her world. Perhaps it would be so; but she did not busy herself with such speculations, for in the conditions and with the occupations in which she now lived, she came to regard the old life as something phantasmal. All that was truly real, so far as reality concerned her, was comprised in the wards and workrooms of the hospital, and in a certain unlocated trench in France.
Robin was there somewhere: that was never wholly out of her mind. Whatever her occupation was, that fact stayed and regarded her. Sometimes it gave her strength and resolution, sometimes it made her hand falter and her knees fail, but in one aspect or another it was always there. She had moments in which she forgot everything else, when among her letters she would find the thin envelope, with its Army Post Office stamp and its rather faint pencilled inscriptions: she had moments of sick suspense when a telegram was brought her. On one such occasion she felt herself unable to open it, and, giving it to the matron, waited, feeling sure that it brought some intolerable message, until that not unsympathetic person asked her whether the consignment of cigarettes, to which it referred, had arrived. Miss Hawker had clearly guessed the cause of her being asked to open it, for she said, “It’s a mere waste of good anxiety to anticipate trouble, Sister.”
But as constant as the consciousness that Robin was away in France, and much more real, was the consciousness that Robin was here and was hers, and could not be parted from her. He partook of an immortal quality, and though for herself she had always looked forward, without fear and without any further expectation, to the moment when the great fish would gulp her down, as she floated all water-logged on the surface of spent life, she could not apply the sameimage to him, or to her relations with him. The image of her thought was at first vague and veiled, but it began to assume a firmer outline, as of a conviction in process of crystallization.
In front of this background, the life full of boredoms, and discouragements and disgusts went on its busy way. Independent of that which worked behind them, turning them to something that was in its essence gold, there were encouragements and surprises as well. Among these were the events of the evening of the New Year. The men had asked if they might give an entertainment to the staff, doctors and nurses, and housemaids and servants, and Helen had expressed her cordial assent. Thereafter for three days the lives of the staff, especially the female portion of it, had been rendered quite intolerable from sheer overwork.
All was wrapped in mystery, but for the sake of the entertainment those of the staff who could sew were bidden to make blouses, and shirts and scarves, and all the appurtenances of dress, which, it might have been thought, wounded men in hospital would certainly not have required. An eye had to be kept on seven-tail bandages; anything that could be converted into “attire” of any kind was requisitioned. Every member of the staff, of course, had been told in confidence what thepièce de résistanceof this entertainment was to be, but the fact that everybody knew, having been confidentially informed, kept the secret safe and inviolable.
A stage had been constructed at the end of the long dining-room (this was Helen’s responsibility as regards the entertainment), and for the rest, everybody knew (though nobody knew) precisely what was going to happen. But during those three days Helen wasin strong request, and she had to see that there was a curtain broad enough to cover the stage—two would do, to be parted in the middle, but this would be less satisfactory—a piano somewhere in front of the stage, and a practically unlimited amount of furniture. If there was a printing-press in the house, so much the better (there wasn’t): if not, her typewriter could, with industry, produce enough programmes to go round. She, above all, must be under an inviolable seal of secrecy.
The evening arrived, and in the front rows, immediately before the curtain, were those whom the doctor in charge permitted to be carried down recumbent from the wards. Behind them were seats for the staff, and the rest of the audience consisted of the minority who were not otherwise engaged, either directly, as entertainers, or, hardly less usefully, as scene shifters or dressers. The first part of the programme consisted of songs and recitations, all charged with the highest degree of sentiment, except a comedian, who made the most unblushing references to matrimony, mothers-in-law and high cheese. It concluded with a horn-pipe danced by two men with one leg apiece. They had arms interlaced round each other’s necks, and roared with laughter themselves.
The second part of the programme unveiled the complete mystery about the need for female attire, for it consisted of a revue. There was no plot of any kind, as Helen had already learned was the proper thing in revues, but there were numberless topical allusions to every member of the staff except herself, and these in the main constituted the dramatic action. But the weight of the occasion fell on the sumptuous ballet, that was a perpetual decoration both to eye and ear. When a parody of the hospital surgeonappeared, armed with a wood-saw and a meat-chopper, they sang, “Here comes the knifey-man;” when the anæsthetist glided on with the ghost-walk, and a football-bladder under his arm, this galaxy of bass-voiced maidens sang, “Hush-a-bye, baby.” In the intervals they danced, and never was there seen so light-hearted a chorus. Some had slings, some were bandaged, some were on crutches, but all were amazingly attired in the height of feminine fashion.
But still, not even after the ballet-girls had been recalled till they were surfeited with success, was there any allusion to Lady Grote. She would rather have liked them to laugh at her, too; the dignity of not being laughed at did not quite compensate in her mind for the fun of being derided. It was very nice of these boys not to laugh at her, but she felt that somehow she had not found the way to their hearts, in not having presented some ridiculous feature to them. But the whole feeling lasted no longer than lasts a breath in the frosty air, for as soon as the chorus ceased to be recalled, it was her nervous duty to say what is called “a few words.”
The curtain had at last been drawn again without the renewal of applause that demanded a fresh appearance of the chorus, and she was waiting for the turning-up of lights that should precede the “few words,” when it was drawn back again, and the stage-manager appeared. The chorus was trooping in at the back of the room, and he waited till they had all entered.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we’ve made fun of you all, and if you’ve enjoyed it as much as we have, why—you’ve enjoyed it as much as us. But there’s one of you as we haven’t said a word about yet, for you can’t laugh at such as her. We’ve laughed at the surgeon, and the doctors and the nurses, andeveryone, because they’ve been jolly good to us, and at the same time have worried us with their knives and their dressings, and their beastly medicines, and we thought it fair to get our own back over that, and now to thank them very kindly for their care. But there’s just one other as we can’t make fun of, because of her blessed love and goodness, and if anybody here doesn’t know whom I’m talking about, why, he don’t deserve to be here at all. I won’t even name her name, but she’ll be so good as to keep her seat, while everyone else in this room will just stand up and give her three of the biggest cheers as ever was, and wish her of the best.”
The whole speech was an utter surprise to her, and as she listened, her own “few words” completely deserted her. When nobody laughed at her, though they ridiculed everyone else, she had but determined to do better; now it appeared that she had done, in their opinion, so very much better than she had any idea of. And when, at the end of the cheering, she rose, she felt no touch whatever of the sentimentality which is supposed to choke a speaker’s voice when he returns thanks for handsome remarks. She felt merely grateful, grateful and surprised not in the region of the cheap emotions, but in her heart. They were pleased with her, and she loved her reward. She had no more inclination to choke and falter than has the man who has lain awake through a night of pain the desire to sob at the rising of the sun.
The supper was a swift affair, for the matron had ordained that everybody must go straight to bed the moment that midnight struck, and the laughter and the tramp of feet on the oak staircase were silent again a quarter of an hour afterwards. Helen had oftenpassed through the hall, where now she stood after bidding the men good-night, when the house was still, feeling unutterably lonely. To-night she did not feel that.
She passed through the dining-room where the entertainment had taken place on her way to her room. There were letters for her, but none from Robin, and the rest would wait until the morning. At this moment he and the men who had tramped and laughed their way to bed were the only people who had any significance for her. She warmed her heart at that dear firelight.
JANUARY was a very busy month in the hospital at Grote; the accommodation had been increased, and now it comprised a hundred and twenty beds. Early in the month a convoy had come with many very serious cases among its numbers, and during the next fortnight there were three deaths, the first that had yet occurred. Helen had waves of abject misery over these; she could not help wondering if something more might have been done to save the men, and Miss Hawker spoke to her, so she thought, rather brutally on the subject, in connection with certain supplies, which she had undertaken and forgotten to order, running short.
“If the work is too heavy for you,” she had said, “you had better ask for someone to help you. We can’t afford to have mistakes of that sort happen. Supposing it had been some ether you had forgotten about, and we had run short of anæsthetics?”
This was all quite well deserved, and Helen did not resent it.
“I know; I am very sorry,” she said. “But I have been worrying very much and that made me forget. It shan’t happen again.”
“Yes; I saw that,” said Miss Hawker. “You were worrying over those men who have slippedthrough our fingers. There’s nothing so useless as that. You’ve got to do your best, and when you’ve done that, you mustn’t let yourself get soft. You’ve got to think; it’s not your business to feel, if your feeling does no good.”
Helen made a great effort with herself; it cost her the jettisoning of all her pride to make the suggestion that she now offered.
“You must let me know if you think I’m not up to the work,” she said, “and get someone else.”
Miss Hawker, who was already half-way to the door, paused a moment.
“And a pretty rebellion we should have in the wards,” she remarked. “And have you heard from your son lately?”
“Yes, I heard this morning,” said Helen. “He’s very well.”
“So there is something left to be thankful for,” said Miss Hawker, leaving the room.
Miss Hawker, Helen thought, was like some mental tonic, bitter and rasping to the taste, but internally invigorating.... Then the pendulum swung back again in the hospital, and a couple more cases that hung to life by a mere thread, strengthened their hold, and passed out of danger. Though it was not permissible to feel dejection when things went badly, it was not only permissible but obligatory to be elated when things went unexpectedly well, and while Robin was safe, and doctors were satisfied with temperature charts, all that was of prime importance in life, apart from the existence of the war at all, must be accepted thankfully as outweighing the rest.
But as the days of January went on, there were events and tendencies which, though they belonged tothe class of secondary importance, were intensely pleasing to her. By far the best of these was a certain change that was taking place in her relations with her husband. For years their intimate life had lain so far apart, that they were no more than ships voyaging distantly at sea, and from time to time exchanging a perfectly friendly signal with each other; but of late the interval between them seemed to have sensibly diminished. It was as if Robin had both of them singly in tow, and, in consequence, they were rapidly approaching each other in his wake. His father, no less than she, had always been devoted to the boy, and though, when Robin was secure at home or at Cambridge, this tie failed to bring them together, now, when he was imperilled in the trenches, the steady pull of their love for him resulted in their drawing nearer to each other. To them both Robin’s safety, in their personal life, took precedence of all other desires and aims; it formed a living connection between them.
And as when from opposite sides of some southern pergola two sprays of vine touch and are entangled, they put forth tendrils that grope for each other, seeking interlacement, so between Helen and her husband now, when once the contact was made, it was continually being strengthened by sensitive feelers put forward shyly enough at first, which grew into anchors and interlockings of living tissue. It was, for instance, a very tentative touch, ready to be withdrawn, that made him suggest, a month ago, that he should come down to Grote to spend a week-end there, if he would not be a burden on her time and the arrangements of the hospital, but after that his visits grew frequent.
January turned sleepily over in its winter’s sleep and became February, who dreamed about spring. Themoss was vividly green now below the trees, and the sides of the path down to the river were white with snowdrops. Her husband had been unable to get down for the next week-end, but looked forward to an early visit, and for Helen the days passed swiftly in the monotony of a routine that only varied in details. The main end in view was always the same, namely, that the men should move on from the hospital wards into the convalescent wards, and from lying in the loggia should be promoted to the use of their own powers of locomotion again.
No very serious fresh cases had been brought in, and in this mild February air, soft and enervating to the hardy, but stimulating and life-giving to the weak, there was a general all-round rise in the well-being of the wards. Bad cases improved rapidly, slight cases got well, and for the present there was no influx of the severely wounded. She never could quite attain to the professional attitude of Miss Hawker, who one day when a case of pneumonia, following on a slight wound, exhibited very marked improvement, said, “The case presents no further interest.” But she knew that somewhere, down below, there was no tenderer heart than Miss Hawker’s. Her efficiency, as matron, was based on her having it in control. Sometimes Helen wished that her own heart was better drilled; sometimes she wanted to give it all the pangs of which it was capable. Experience was dearly bought, if you had to pay for it with even a superficial callousness. And then again she knew she was wrong. She did not really want Mr. Brinton to grow dim-eyed—as Aline would certainly have done—because an unconscious subject for his skill must lose a leg. Emotion must never impede efficiency, as long as there was anything practical to be done; you had to control such emotionsas pity and vague compassion. You could show your compassion best by doing your work well.
There came a morning with a throb of excitement in it. Jaye was promoted to the locomotive dignity of a bath-chair, to be pulled round the lawn by an orderly, and was allowed a half-hour on the terrace. Helen, for whom Jaye still “had a fancy,” accompanied this progress, and Jaye had questions of weight to communicate. The one that really mattered was whether it was reasonable of him to expect that his girl should feel for him now what she undoubtedly felt before when he had two legs instead of one. Apparently there was no question as to the sincerity of her affection when the boy was still a biped. Helen had heard something of that during his convalescence, and she knew that if she had been Jaye’s girl, she would have married him—even at the early age of nineteen, which was the case with both of them—before he had gone out to France. But in the present circumstances, was it fair of Jaye to expect constancy?
“It’s like this, sister,” he said. “If you arsk me if I would marry my girl, she having lost a leg, and me not, well, I should say I must think about it. I dessay I shouldn’t—I don’t see as you could blame me. Now, here am I, same as what we supposed she was, and what am I to expect of her?”
The orderly gave a suppressed giggle and said, “Gawd!”
“Don’t you be interrupting,” said Jaye, who was waxing fat like Jeshurun, and would willingly kick with his one leg. “You don’t understand nothing with your four arms and legs.”
Helen thought over rapidly what she knew of Jaye, for that was the first part of the problem. She had thought him a simple quiet boy when he first came,then a very nervous boy, when the time for his operation approached, then an almost angelic boy, because he had wanted her to be with him during it. (The want, it must be understood, was angelic, the demand the most trying that had ever been made of her.) Since then, as his convalescence restored him, he had ceased to be simple and quiet, and had become a bumptious life and soul of the ward, who, Miss Hawker said, should be sternly suppressed. And yet, all the time, in all his phases, he was only being a boy....
That was only the first part of the problem: the second part was even more vital to the correct solution, but it implied a knowledge of the character of Jaye’s girl, and Helen at present had not the privilege of her acquaintanceship.
“You must get your girl to come down and see you here, Jaye,” she said. “I don’t know what she’s like. She may be so fond of you that she doesn’t care a bit about your leg. She may not care two straws how many legs you have. But I think I should give her a chance, if I were you, instead of taking it for granted, quite straight off, that she can’t care for you any more.”
Jaye was suddenly seized with diffidence.
“Gawd! Fancy me talking to a real lady about my girl and me!” he said. “Seems cheek, doesn’t it?”
“Not a bit. We’ll have her down some afternoon,” said Helen. “Where does she live?”
“Isle o’ Man,” said Jaye uncompromisingly. “She had a situation in Hammersmith when we first met, and it was on a Bank Holiday it was, and we fair clutched each other, first time of meeting, in one of them hurly-go-rounds. Or was it a cock-shy at cocoanuts? I couldn’t say.”
And this was the quiet boy, reduced to apathy bypain and injury, now blossoming out again into his ordinary self. How many identities, how many characters, seemingly complete in themselves, she asked herself, went to make up one quite ordinary human being? And did she not supply, in herself, another case in point? So few months ago she had been the engrossed pilot in extravagant and rudderless voyagings: now, anchored in the same waters, she was equally engrossed in the not very promising love-affairs of a one-legged boy, with whom she had nothing in common except a bond of humanity, and the bond of the cause in which he had suffered. So long as all was well with Robin, she could not better spend priceless irrecoverable time than in participating in Jaye’s love-affairs.
“Isle o’ Man,” repeated Jaye again. “Her mother drank herself to death, and, like a good girl, she went back to see after her father. That was before I had my little accident.”
Helen rapidly reviewed those premisses. There was really a great deal to be said in defence of the girl if she decided to throw Jaye over. If she had been just attracted by this brilliant half-back in League matches, with his speed and his swiftness, and his certainty for some years to come of a good income, it would be requiring a heroism on her part to stick to a bargain which had lost its allurement. And yet you found heroisms where you would never look for them: her going back to the Isle of Man showed a capacity for devotion. Again, the real Jaye, something she had found in him, independent of his right leg, might have drawn her. Certainly, she must come down and see Jaye, but Helen wished that her family did not live quite so far away. Or would it be better for Jaye to go up there, when he had got his new leg and a facility in its use....
She was debating this when she saw her husband approaching them across the grass. He had not let her know that he was coming to-day, though she had been expecting to hear from him, by any post, that he could get down for a day and a night. The posts, too, were very irregular, he might easily have written, and the letter not yet arrived. But even as this went through her mind, and seemed all reasonable enough, she knew that she was holding at arm’s length a fear that threatened to spring upon her.
“We must talk about it again, Jaye,” she said, “for I must leave you now, as I see Lord Grote is coming to look for me. But I like her for having gone to the Isle of Man to see after her father.”
She left him with a smile and a nod, and struck on to the grass to meet her husband.
“I did not expect you,” she said, as they came within speaking distance, “but it is quite delightful to see you. Did you write or telegraph to say that you were coming? I have not received anything.”
“No, my dear,” said he. “I didn’t write or telegraph. I—I just came.”
She faced him quite quietly, knowing already that she knew. There was no tremor in her voice when she spoke.
“It’s about Robin, then,” she said. “Tell me: what about Robin?”
He took both her hands in his, and she spoke again:
“Robin has been killed,” she said.
“Yes, Helen,” said he.
They stood there looking at each other, with hands still clasped, and the steadfast love which had illuminated the sky above her came swiftly down the stairs of heaven and shone on them. And her lips smiled, and the light of that love was in her eyes as she kissed him.
“Robin gave himself,” she said. “We have to give him, too.”
“Can you do that, Helen?” he asked. “I can’t.”
“We must learn to,” said she.
He was silent a moment.
“There are no details yet,” he said. “Just the bare news was sent me. I thought I would tell you myself.”
“That was good of you,” she said. “I always dreaded a telegram, but I didn’t dread you.”
For that moment they came together more closely than their love of Robin had ever yet brought them.... More clearly than anything, more clearly even than the memory of her last day with him, she remembered now, how twenty years ago she stood with her husband here, and told him that she was with child. And through the estrangements, the unfaithfulness, and all the sequel of the marriage that had so soon been void of honour and of love, there shone, as through rent mists, the gold of a gathered harvest.
Together thus they walked back to the house. So short a time had elapsed since she left Jaye’s bath-chair, that it had still not arrived at the end of the terrace. The post had come in, and there was a pile of letters for her in the hall. The topmost of them was unstamped and addressed in pencil. “From Robin,” she said, and she took it up as she would have taken up some sacred thing....
She was alone again that evening, for her husband had to get back to town, sitting in the white room where she had seen the last of Robin, and the inevitable reaction from that first splendid spring of her spirit to accept what had happened, and not to grudge the gift he had made of himself, came upon her like some wind that withers.
Robin was dead, and she knew now that it was his unconscious inspiration entirely that had caused her to devote herself to the hospital which, together with the thought of him, had filled her life for the last months with the zest of unselfish and loving living. Apart from that, the only other cause of her taking it up was her inability to divert herself with her old amusements.
Now the light that had inspired her had gone, and her life here, which, when the light shone on it had seemed so real and solid, was nothing more than a shell of ash ready to crumble at a touch. Probably, for mere decency’s sake, she would continue at her work, especially since she had already proved her inability to amuse herself otherwise; but for the future it would be but a filling of the hours that passed more quickly if she was busy. She thought of the New Year’s party: she thought of Jaye: she thought of the incessant works and rewards that filled her day; but in this black flood of reaction that passed over her they signified no more than a flock of dispersed dreams.
Long ago she had foreseen that Robin’s death would leave her with nothing that was worth the trouble of living for, and her foresight was fulfilled. But it had underestimated the quality of the loneliness, the outer darkness of it. Perhaps she was vaguely, carelessly glad that she had been of some use to Jaye, that she had comforted her husband to-day with the high courage that had now utterly evaporated, leaving only the black sediment of despair; but she was glad only with such a remembrance as she might have had in having assisted a fly to escape from the web of a spider. It was easy to help it: it meant nothing. For her it was midnight with no star, nor any dawn to follow: a timeless, eternal midnight. In the course of yearsthe moment would come that she would cease to be conscious of the midnight, and that was all she could look forward to.
The darkness descended and closed round her. Perhaps she was wrong about the nothingness from which she came, and the nothingness into which she would go. Perhaps some ingenious artificer had designed all this, and how must he laugh to see the hearts into which he had put the capability of suffering, ache and rebel at his contrivances. Some day he would get tired of his sport, and throw away the play-thing that had diverted the tedium of eternity; but for the time it must amuse him to give his puppets the power of loving, so that he might listen to their squealings when he took away what he had encouraged them to love. No decent mother would let her child get fond of a toy with the intention of taking it away, but the artificer of the world laughed at the mother’s misplaced compassion.
Suddenly Helen felt herself pulled up by a rein external to herself. She was imagining things that her reason, at the least, was incapable of believing. She had allowed herself to do that out of sheer bitterness of heart; but it led to a conclusion that was unthinkable in its horror. She shook herself free from what must be a dream, and woke again to the lesser midnight of the nothingness from which she had come, and the nothingness which before many years would softly close round her again.
It was here she had knelt, saying good-bye to Robin, wishing him “good luck with his honour,” and here that he had said that he and she had never loved each other so much as to-day. Then he had gone out of that door without looking back, telling her that hewould not do so. Step by step, minute by minute, she went through again the hours he had spent here then.
Up till the last moment they had said to each other nothing that mattered; the day had been spent as if there had been a hundred other such days to follow. And yet through the idle talk and the laughter and the nonsense had come to him, even as to her, the clear knowledge that they had never loved each other so much. Then he had gone out of the door without looking back, and she, blind fool, had let him go. Why had she not gone up with him to London, and had a few more hours of him? She would gladly give all that remained to her now if he would only stand for one second by the door again, and look back at her, a little dim-eyed, and with mouth that quivered, so that she could see him once more with her mortal eyes, and hear him speak to her just one word. A minute of the world that once held Robin was surely worth more than anything in the world which held him no longer....
It was a surprise to herself when, without warning, the sobs gathered in her throat, and she gave herself up to an abandonment of desperate tears. Not since she had known that Robin was dead had she even wanted to cry. While Grote was with her, all she had desired was to give him of her courage, and when he had gone, the fatigue of that braced effort or the withdrawal from it of the love that had wanted it, had caused the reaction which denied all that she had held on to then, and all that had previously inspired her. But now she had none for whom she must be strong, and her heart was sick with its own bitterness.
She had tried everything: she had been eager for her own happiness, and had failed; she had been busyfor others; she had been brave for others; she had been bitter, and she had loved. Now, watering her desolation, and her bitterness and her love alike, came her tears. Like a moving thunder-shower they passed over her own desolation, her own bitterness, her own bravery, but over the field where her love rose in springing crop, like the blades of winter wheat, they lingered and poured themselves out, salt no longer, but with an amazing sweetness. She had no self-pity left in her, no compassion for her own sorrow: these would have made a saltness in her weeping, but none was there. She wept at first for the sorrow of her bereaved love, the natural salt tears; but what was it that made the sweetness, if it was not the joy of finding that love was still alive?
All her life she had been a friend to love. She had made friends too easily, but among all those tremulous times was there ever an occasion when her love had been quite alone, awaking no response of some kind? There had always been two in order to enable love to exist. They might differ in their kinds, there might be passive love, content to receive, active love content to give, low love content to get, high love content— ... content to be. But wherever love existed at all, there were two concerned in it. One might even reject, disdain, make mock, but he must be there. He might refuse to put his signature which made the contract valid, but the space for his signing must be there: the contract, though it should never come into effect, must have a space for two names. Otherwise, it could never have been drawn up.
Her thoughts swarmed to these conclusions, and before she knew that she had spoken, she heard her voice say “Robin.”
It was not to the memory of him that she had spokenwhen she said that. She had thought over the blessed days, and, in especial, the last thrice-blessed day of all, and she had said good-bye to them, for they were over. Gaze as she might at that door, never would Robin be outlined against it, as he left her without turning his head; on the arm of the chair where he had sat, never again could she feel his warm, smooth fingers grasping hers, as she wished him the good luck of his honour. But she had not spoken to the memories of what was irrecoverable: she had spoken to someone who remembered, even as she remembered, who loved even as she loved. She had not spoken to the past: she had spoken to the present, giving him the contract for him to sign yet once more. And if, with mortal eye, she had seen him by the door, turning back, though he had said he would not, to smile at her again, she would not have thought it strange. Nor would she have thought it to be a wraith, a phantom projected from her own longing to see him. It would have been just Robin; very likely he would have a smile and a ridiculous joke about Miss Diphtheria for her. Why not? Must he lose his human characteristics because a chance shell discharged not with regard to him had stiffened and stifled him? What had that shell todowith Robin? How could it conceivably lessen the might of love, or put love among the things that had been and were no longer?
Something dearly-loved, his laughing eyes, his mouth, his knee which she had kissed and covered up, the body of him that was born of her body, his blood and his bone, blood of her blood, and bone of her bone, were somewhere buried in France, shattered and torn to fragments, or perhaps pierced by some little pencil-mark of a wound that had left him fallen backwards where a moment before he had stood eager and alert.She hoped it had been like that, for she loved his beauty, and shrank from thinking of its violent disfigurement. Some day, perhaps, she would know how the supreme moment came to him; but it was no vital part of him that was concerned in that. That was secondary compared with something else that grew out of the darkness and glowed before her.
All this last month, after he had gone to France, she had felt his presence with her, and had told herself that it was their love, the reallest thing she knew, which had given her that certainty. That certainty was with her still, and it arose from no memory of their love, but from the love itself, which existed now. There were two to that contract still, Robin and herself.
* * * * * *
There began to be a stir of movement in the quiet house, and she started up, wondering if some emergency had arisen for which her help might be needed.... Then she saw that there was light coming through her curtains, and, looking out, knew that the late winter dawn was beginning to break....
She had to be up early that morning, for she had some arrears of work to do, left over from yesterday, and it did not seem worth while to go to bed for an hour. Presently there came a tap at the door from her bedroom, and Simpson looked in, her old face puckered and puzzled to find her sitting there.
“Eh, Miss Helen,” she said, “and you’ve not been to bed all night! You’ve been sitting up and grieving——”
And then Simpson could not go on.
Helen got up and kissed her.
“Yes, darling old Sim,” she said, “I’ve been grieving. And then I think—I think I’ve been rejoicing. I’ve found Robin again, Sim.”
Presently Simpson spoke again.
“And you’ll go to bed now, dear, won’t you?” she said. “You’ll take a rest to-day.”
“No, indeed, I won’t. But I’ll take my cup of tea if you will bring it in here. And then will you make me a hot bath? Really hot, Sim, so that I scream when I move.”
Simpson patted and stroked her hand a moment longer, smiling through her tears. “You were always one for a bath fit to boil you, Miss Helen,” she said.
It had rained in the night, and the lawn shone with the moisture as the sun rose. In the sky was “the bright shining after rain.”
THE END
Printed at The Chapel River Press, Kingston, Surrey.
Messrs. Hutchinson & Co.
are pleased to give the following particulars ofmany important New Books for the Autumn of 1919, and alsoa splendid list of New Novels, which, as will be seen by the undermentioned names, are almost all by theLeading Authors.
Hutchinson’s New Novels, 6/9 Net.
A Man and his Lesson
By W. B. MAXWELL
Author of “The Devil’s Garden,” etc.
“All Life is a Lesson” is the sub-title of this story, and the hero,Bryan Vaile, is forced to learn a good deal in a comparatively short time. He passes through various phases of social experiences and of love, and the interest of the novel centres in Vaile’s love for two women.
The book is full of up-to-date scenes and various backgrounds, but the steady purpose of the writer—a progress towards higher things—runs through the whole.
The Rubber Princess
By G. B. BURGIN
Author of “A Gentle Despot,” etc.
A new novel in Mr. Burgin’s most delightful style, happy, optimistic, and ending charmingly. The scene is laid in the beautiful English countryside where Sir Hilary has his mansion. Beryl Dennison and her selfish father, Sir Hilary, and his beloved wife, and Jimmy Carmichael, not forgetting “Blinder” and her lovers, are people we are better and happier for meeting.
Green Pastures
By UNA L. SILBERRAD
Author of “The Mystery of Barnard Hanson,” “The Lyndwood Affair.”
A novel which breathes an atmosphere of chivalry and courtesy and daintiness. The tale belongs to the period of the Beaux and Dandies, and all the fragrance and charm of a characteristically English setting cling about the figures ofMr. ScarletandDamaris, andTobiahandMistress Breadlebane.
A novel which is bound to bring the author many new admirers.
The Sleeping Partner
By M. P. WILLCOCKS
Author of “The Eyes of the Blind,” “Change,” etc.
Both in scene and atmosphere, an entirely new departure of Miss Willcocks’. A story with a most original plot, told in such a delightful manner that the readers’ interest is held and kept in suspense until the very end—a psychological surprise.
Sonia Married
By STEPHEN McKENNA
Author of “Sonia,” “Midas & Son,” etc.
Charming as ever, Sonia tackles the difficult questions of matrimony with all her usual courage and originality. Whether she is skimming merrily on the surface of Life, or diving into its tragic depths, she is equally irresistible, and gives Mr. McKenna full opportunity for a merciless analysis of the heart of modern woman.
The best novel Mr. McKenna has written.
Robin Linnet
By E. F. BENSON
Author of “Up and Down,” “Dodo,” etc.
A story with all the charm of style, witty dialogue and able characterisation which have always marked this author. Young Robin Linnet’s life at Cambridge, with his friends and his “dons” with which the story opens, is an excellent piece of descriptive work. A story of which the interest steadily increases and which combines all the elements of a first-class novel.
As God Made Her
By HELEN PROTHERO LEWIS
Author of “Love and the Whirlwind,” etc.
Rachel Higgins receives a legacy. Her method of spending it is most novel and interesting. The story goes with a dramatic swing and every scene interests and amuses. A good story in the best sense of the word.
Bait
By DOROTA FLATAU
Author of “Yellow English” (11th edition).
An uncommon story by the author of last year’s great success. Dimpsey Dorcas Durden is a more than up-to-date heroine, and her life among the smart set is the theme of a thoroughly smart novel replete with witty epigrams and catchy sayings. A distinctive book.
The Peculiar Major
By KEBLE HOWARD
Author of “The Smiths of Surbiton,” etc.
Asked how he came to write a novel so far away from his usual line as “The Peculiar Major,” Mr. Keble Howard replied:
“I didn’t write it. The Major wrote it, and he didn’t so much write it as set down in the form of a story the amazing things that happened to him. How could he help it? The Great War, a world in agony, a crowned villain, an astounding discovery, London, love, laughter—why anybody could knock up a yarn with such ingredients as those!
“As for my share, I just put in a comma or two, and got my friend, Mr. H. G. Wells, to give the enterprise his blessing.”
The Man’s Story
By H. B. SOMERVILLE
Author of “Ashes of Vengeance,” “The Mark of Vraye,” etc.
A fascinating story by this well-known author with an interest which grows as the pages are turned. “The Man” and his wife, Le Sars and the actress, the characters who act and react on one another are drawn with a fidelity and a knowledge which make the story vivid. A novel that will appeal to all, especially to feminine readers.
Happy House
By BARONESS VON HUTTEN
Author of “Sharrow” (48th Thousand), etc.
“Happy House” in Hampstead is a delightful sunny place in a garden, and the scene of a story full of dramatic incident.
Old Mrs. Mellish, the chief character of the book, is a vivid creation, the utter unexpectedness of her final action is the distinctive feature of this new novel by a well-known writer.
The Beach of Dreams
By H. de VERE STACPOOLE
Author of “The Blue Lagoon,” “The Pearl Fishers,” etc.
Mr. Stacpoole has no rivals in his own particular field, and “The Beach of Dreams” will certainly increase his popularity. It rivals in interest his famous stories, “The Blue Lagoon,” and “The Pearl Fishers,” and may be said to show even greater power and psychological insight. His descriptive writing is as vivid as ever; we hear the roar of the “Wooley” and of the breakers on the cliffs of Kerguelen, we see Cléo de Bronsart and Raft huddled together on a ledge, with the hungry waves below and the mighty cliffs above, and we thrill to Raft’s fight with Chang and Cléo’s intervention, which turns the day. A most exciting story with a great surprise at the end.
Konigsmark
By PIERRE BENOIT
The publishers believe that they can congratulate both the public and themselves on the appearance of this most remarkable novel, which has already taken France by storm. At heart the reading public still demand a good plot, and the plot of Konigsmark will be readily recognized as the work of genius. But the novel is far more than a most enthralling story. It introduces characters which, for truth and personality, stand out in a different class from the usual puppets of fiction, and, above all, the book is distinguished by that human touch, that all-pervading sense of humour and charm of style which cannot fail to make a deep and lasting impression.
Julian
By ISABEL C. CLARKE
Author of “The Children of Eve,” “The Elstones,” etc.
A new novel by the author of “The Elstones” and one written with all the power and insight displayed in that story. The heroine, Eunice Dampier, has a strange and eventful career; the development of her character under the care of the Parmeters is sketched with an able pen. Eunice is a real person with human faults and failings, as well as human charm and attraction.
The Further Side of the Door
By the author of “The Pointing Man”
The peculiar charm and ability to create an atmosphere of mystery which mark the author of “The Pointing Man” are very evident in this new novel. It is a well woven tale of uncommon distinction and quality. Richard Ansell’s story is one that may be the fate of many a man in these days. A story full of appeal and with a delightful current of romance.
Odds and Ends
By B. M. CROKER
Author of “Blue China,” etc.
Mrs. Croker’s signature is a hall-mark of excellence of workmanship, and that excellence is maintained in this delightful collection of her stories, some grave, some gay, and all showing the master hand.
The reader will be delighted with the variety of subject and mood and the finish of style. While the majority of the scenes are laid in her beloved Ireland, India furnishes the background for some of the most amusing as well as tragic incidents. A book that every admirer of Mrs. Croker will welcome with enthusiasm.
The Chinese Puzzle
By MARIAN BOWER and LEON M. LION
The Novel of the famous Play
This remarkable story will make as strong an appeal in novel form as it has done as a play.
There is tension throughout and clever characterization. All the persons in the tale are as vivid as on the stage, and the style is distinguished.
The Level Track
By CURTIS YORKE
Author of “Disentangled,” “Joyce,” “She Who Meant Well,” etc.
The Romance of Prudence Royton, who, from a humdrum, Cinderella-like existence, is suddenly thrown into the conflicting currents of wealth and matrimony. The story is characteristic of Curtis Yorke in its direct, vivid and arresting style, and will be one more favourite added to the long list of this popular writer’s popular books.
FIRST EDITION OF 60,000 COPIES
The Lamp in the Desert
By ETHEL M. DELL
Author of “The Hundredth Chance,” “The Bars of Iron,” etc.
A new novel by this most popular author is always an event. The scene of this powerful story is laid in the Indian hill country, and the story is replete with incident and remarkable characterisation. Stella Denzil and her lover will take their places in the gallery of favourites which Miss Dell has given her admirers.
My Trifling Adventures
By MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK