CHAPTER XV
BALTAZARhad asked his friend Burtingshaw,K.C., to suggest some sphere in which his gifts might be usefully employed by the nation. Burtingshaw, an unimaginative fellow, a professional exploiter of formulas, bade him become a special constable and join the National Volunteers. The man all agog to save his country, scoffed at the advice. If there was marching to be done and blows to be struck, he had far better enlist. Just like a Chancery lawyer to try to damp enthusiasm. He decided to bide his time, to adopt the unusual course of looking before he leaped. To judge by what he could gather from the press and from conversation, it had been the crying fault of the Government from the beginning of the war to use razors to cut butter and wooden blades to perform delicate operations. There must be waiting in the vast war machine one particular lever which he of all men was qualified to pull. To find it would take time. But what was it? Godfrey’s suggestions ran from vague to gloomy. Possibly he could find a billet in one of the new ministries springing up like mushrooms every day, or he might de Y.M.C.A. work, or drive a motor ambulance in France. All of which was as satisfactory to the perfervid patriot as the idea of joining the Special Constabulary or the National Volunteer Force. He rebelled at half-measures.
Meanwhile, his own house had first to be set in order. He began operations by removing his worldly goods (easily contained in one suit-case and a large brown-paper package) to a comfortable hotel at Godalming, so as to be near Godfrey and Marcelle. The quiet, too, of a private sitting-room in a country inn conduced to the prosecution of certain studies which Professor Weatherley, admirable guide in the world-welter, had recommended. He took up his quarters the most contented and sanguine of men. He had received a letter from Quong Ho, in faultless, Ciceronian English, conveying the news that he was well forward on the road to complete recovery, and in a few days would be in a fit condition to pursue whatever course of action his most venerated master might choose to prescribe. When he had disposed the books and pamphlets, contents of the brown-paper package, about his room, he sat down and wrote to Quong Ho. A room in the Godalming hotel was at Quong Ho’s disposal as soon as he was fit to travel. It would be an admirable opportunity for him to meet Godfrey. They were to be brothers, mutually helpful: Godfrey, a past-master in the science of modern life but a neophyte in mathematics, seeing that he was struggling with such childish puzzles as the elements of Rigid Dynamics; Quong Ho, on the other hand, a neophyte in the science of modern life, but a past-master in elementary mathematics. It was important, he wrote, that Quong Ho’s appearance should, as far as possible, be thoroughly European and his dress impeccable.
“Good Lord!” he cried aloud, throwing down his pen. “I clean forgot. The poor beggar hasn’t a rag to his back!”
He drafted a telegram to the tailoring firm in the cathedral city, instructing them to supply Mr. Ho with essential raiment, and then, continuing his epistle to his pupil, gave him safe counsel and his blessing, and enclosed a cheque to meet necessary expenses.
After which he lunched in the coffee-room with the appetite of the healthy man, lounged for a while with a pipe on the tranquil pavement outside the inn, and then went upstairs again, threw himself contentedly into an arm-chair with a German war publication lent him by Weatherley, and waited for Marcelle.
It was her afternoon of freedom. She had looked forward to the interview with mingled longing and apprehension. He had been the only man in her life, and it was all such a long time ago. The jealous grip of her nurse’s work had fastened upon neck and shoulders, and bent the concentration of her being within a succession of little horizons. Men she had met and known intimately, men in thousands; but they were all suffering men, men whose sole appeal to her womanhood was their helplessness, their dependence. If there crossed her path a man with strong protective arm and compelling eyes, he was whisked away sound and whole beyond her horizon’s misty rim. Now and then, but rarely, in haggard faces shone eyes of desire. Her sex revolted until experience taught her the nurse’s cynical indifference. Of course there are the romances of nursing. In her long career she had known of many; of many, too, in which the resultant marriages had been all that is adumbrated by the ends of the fairy tales. But no ghost of such a romance had ever come her way. And no romance had come her way in her restricted social life. Her holidays had been too rare and fleeting. Here and there, perhaps, a man had been attracted by her good looks and her graciousness, but before these had had time to consolidate a first effect, she was miles away, back again in uniform between the eternal rows of beds. She had worked hard and seriously, the perfect nurse, accepting, without question, the hospital ward as the sphere ordained for her by destiny. Yet to soften the rigid life, she had fostered in her heart the memory of the brief and throbbing love of long ago.
During her drive from Churton Towers in the motor-cab, foolish trepidations beset her. Although her woman of the world’s sound sense made mock of timidities, yet old-maidish instincts questioned the propriety of her proceeding. She was going to meet her former lover in a private room of an hotel. What about professional decorum? Matron, who kept a hard and unsympathetic eye on flirtatious tendencies in the junior staff, would regard her visit, should she come to know of it, as a horrifying escapade. She had seen her as she ran down the steps, hatted, gloved, prinked to her best, with a betraying flush (lobster colour, she thought) on her cheek; and being within earshot of the Gorgon, she had thrown the mere word “Godalming” at the chauffeur as she entered the car. When she gathered up courage to look at herself in the strip of mirror that faced her, her prejudiced eyes saw herself pale and haggard, smitten with lines which she had not noticed when she put on her hat. And all the time she knew that these feminine preoccupations were but iridescences on the surface of deep, black waters filled with fear, and that she was letting her mind play on them so as not to think of the depths.
Baltazar was waiting for her outside the hotel. Thus one little fear was sent packing. As a nurse she would have gone to Hell Gates to enquire for a man. She had done it many a time in France. As Marcelle Baring she was restrained by futile hesitancies. As Marcelle Baring, a woman with her own life to lead, she was unfamiliar to herself. She had shrunk from entering the inn alone and asking for Mr. Baltazar. But there he was awaiting her on the pavement, and no sooner had the car stopped than he had opened the door and helped her to alight. And following him through the passage and up the narrow staircase, while he talked loud and cheery and confident, as though he defied gossiping tongues, and every minute turned to smile upon her, she remembered with a little pang of remorse for unjust fears, that as now so it had been in the beginning; that there never had been a tryst hard or venturesome for her to keep, never one on which he was not there before her, big, responsible, inspiring confidence. He was singularly unchanged.
Obeying a breezy wave of the hand, she sank into an arm-chair. He shut the door and crossed the room, his face lit with happiness.
“For the first time in our lives we’re together alone within four walls. You and I. Isn’t it strange? We have to talk. Not only now, but often. As often as we can. It would have been monstrous of me to expect you to run up and down to London. Besides, there would have been no privacy. The lounges of the great hotels—I loathe them! A man and woman sit whispering in a corner and at once surround themselves with an atmosphere of intrigue. Horrible! And I couldn’t come every day to Churton Towers—even ostensibly to see Godfrey. There would have been the devil to pay. All sorts of scandal. So I’ve made this my headquarters, in order to be near you.”
The weather had turned raw and cold, and as she had driven in an open car, clad in light coat and skirt, with nothing to warm her but a fur stole, she felt chilly, and welcomed the bright fire in the grate. She smiled, and said it was very cosy. He searched the room for a hassock, and finding one set it beneath her feet.
“We’ll have tea soon, which will make it cosier,” he said. He threw himself into an arm-chair on the other side of the fire. “It’s like a fairy-tale, isn’t it?”
She admitted the strangeness of the circumstances in which they had met, and with instinct of self-defence began to speak of Godfrey, of their suddenly formed friendship, of his manifold excellences. Baltazar let her run on for a while, content merely to let his eyes rest on her and to listen to her voice. At last he rose, irrelevantly, and, striding across to her, held out both his hands. She could not choose but surrender hers.
“Can’t you realize what you’ve been to me? ‘All a wonder and a wild desire!’ ”
She fluttered a frightened glance at him and withdrew her hands. He stood looking down on her, one elbow resting on the mantelpiece.
“Do you remember? That Browning line—it was one of the last things I said to you. Then we lost our heads and broke off a delightful conversation. Why not continue it, starting from where we left off?”
“How can we go back twenty years?”
“By wiping out two hundred and forty unimportant months from our memories.”
She glanced up at him and shook her head. It was the grey and barren waste of those two hundred and forty months that formed the impassable barrier. In order to pick up the thread of that last talk it would be necessary to recapture the grace of those brief and exquisite moments.
“If we are to be friends,” she said, “we must start afresh. All that—that foolishness has been dead and buried long ago.”
“Buried, perhaps—or, rather, hidden away in a Sleeping Beauty sort of trance. But dead? Not a bit of it. It has been healthily alive all the time, and now—a magic touch—and it has reawakened strong and beautiful as ever.”
“It’s very easy to play with words and metaphors and analogies. You can make them appear to prove anything. As a matter of fact, we’ve both been subjected to the organic changes of twenty years. I can no more become the girl of eighteen than I can become the child of eight or the baby eight months old.”
Baltazar put his hands in his pockets, laughed, turned away, and sat down again in his chair.
“We seem to have got on to the basis of a nice and interminable discussion. Let us get off it for the present. We have plenty of time. If I’m anything at all, I’m a man of illimitable patience.”
She laughed out loud. She could not help it. A typhoon proclaiming its Zephyrdom! And proclaiming it not jestingly, but with the accent of deeply rooted conviction.
“You? You patient? Oh, my dear——”
“There,” he cried, jumping up from his chair. “You have called me ‘my dear’!”
Quickly she retorted: “I didn’t. At least, I didn’t mean to. You caught me up in your patient way. I was going to call you my dear something—my dear sir—my dear man——”
“My name happens to be John,” said Baltazar.
“ ‘My dear John’? No. I wasn’t going to say that.”
“Why?”
“It sounds as if we had been married for twenty years.”
With feminine instinct she had put her foot on his man’s vanity and had used it, like a rock climber, as a projection to mount to safety. She saw him uncertain, unhumorous, and felt pleasurably conscious of advantage gained.
“You said it twenty years ago, at any rate.”
She sat up victoriously in her chair. “I didn’t. Never. I don’t think I had the courage to call you anything. Certainly not John. I never even thought of you as John. As a label you were John Baltazar. But not John—tout court—like that. Oh no!”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Baltazar. “It’s a damned name. It’s everything that’s dull and prosaic in the English genius concentrated into one uninspiring vocable. Unlike other idiot names, it has no pleasing diminutive. ‘Johnnie’ is insulting. ‘Jack’ is Adelphi melodrama. Thank God I’ve been spared both. Now I burst upon you, after twenty years, as ‘John,’ and you naturally receive the idea with derision.”
“Oh, it’s not as bad as that,” she cried. “Look at the great men of your name. John of Gaunt, John Knox, John Bunyan, John Locke, John Stuart Mill——”
“A merry crew of troubadours, aren’t they?” said Baltazar.
Whereat they both laughed, and the situation, as far as it affected her, was relieved. They talked freely of the twenty years of their separation. She of her work, her family; her mother, still alive, looked after by an elder sister, her brothers, both younger than herself, in the Navy. He, of China and his lamentable adventure on the moorland. He found that Godfrey, carrying out his request, had saved him from the abhorred recital of his story. Quong Ho aroused her curiosity and amused interest. She longed to see Quong Ho. Tea was set out in old-fashioned style and she presided at the table. She laughed at the wry face he made over the first sip of the good, strong Ceylon blend. Not the least dismal aspect of the tragedy of Spendale Farm, he explained, was the destruction of the chests of priceless tea which he had brought from China—stuff that yielded liquid and fragrant gold, lingering on the palate like exquisite wine.
“Damn the Huns for robbing me of my tea!” he cried, “besides damning them for a million other devilries. And yet the just man must give even Huns their due. They’ve done one good thing.”
Marcelle flashed a protest. “They haven’t. They’re incapable of it. I’ve been in France, in the thick of it, close up to the Front—and I’ve seen things. I know. They haven’t done one good thing.”
“They have,” said Baltazar. “They’ve brought you and me together.”
“Oh!” said Marcelle rather foolishly. “I thought you were referring to something serious.”
He fastened on the word. “Serious? Do you suppose that your presence here at this minute, with that little bitten-into piece of buttered toast between your finger and thumb, isn’t the most serious fact in my life since I parted from you on the Newnham Road twenty years ago?”
She dropped the bit of toast into her saucer and regarded him with dismayed renewal of her earlier fears.
“Why spoil everything? We were beginning to get along so nicely.”
He became aware of her piteous attitude. “What have I said?” he asked solicitously.
In distress, she replied: “What you mustn’t say again. If you do, it’s the end. It makes things impossible.”
“I don’t see why it should. If I weren’t honest about it, it would be a different matter. But I am honest. I can’t tell you that I’ve waited for you all these years, for the simple reason that I never dreamed I should see your face again. But I’ve been true to your memory. It has knocked out the possibility of any other woman. That’s plain fact.”
Womanlike, she said: “I suppose I’ve wrecked your life. God knows I never meant to.”
Then he rose and flung his arms out. His essential integrity spoke through his egotism. He tapped his broad chest.
“Wrecked my life? If a man’s a man, do you suppose his life can be wrecked by anybody but himself? Do I look like a wreck? I’ve lived every minute of these twenty years to the full power of body and brain. If I made any appeal, on that score, to your pity or suchlike sentiments, I should be a contemptible liar. If there’s any question of playing the devil with lives, I did it with yours.”
“Oh, no, no!” Her voice quivered and she sank back in her chair, with averted head. “Of course not. That’s absurd.”
“Well then,” he asked, “what’s all the fuss about? We loved each other when we parted. Pretty passionately and desperately, too. Why we shouldn’t love each other now, when fate throws us together again, I can’t understand.”
She answered wearily: “I’ve told you. The years that the locust hath eaten.”
“What locust?”
“Ah!” she sighed.
He took a pace or two towards the door, halted, turned and looked at her as she sat by the tea-table, and the pain in her eyes and the piteous twist of her lips smote him with remorse. A remarkable idea entered his head. He clinched the entrance by smiting his left palm with his right fist. Naturally any idea coming into Baltazar’s head could not fail to be correct. He went behind her chair and laid his finger-tips on her shoulder.
“My dear,” said he tenderly, “forgive me. I ought to have thought of it before. A beautiful and accomplished woman——”
She swerved round. “Oh, don’t! You mean that there may have been someone else—since——? Well, there hasn’t. I’ve been far too busy.” And seeing him incredulous of the fallibility of his idea, she added with a touch of petulance: “If there had been anybody, I should have told you so at once.”
For the moment she wished there had been an intervening lover whose memory she could use as a rampart, for again she felt defenceless. If only Godfrey would come! He had promised to call for her on his way back from London, whither he had been summoned by a Medical Board. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Godfrey’s train would not arrive for another hour. With some apprehension she watched Baltazar, who was moving about the room in a restless, puzzled way.
“Don’t you see you’re spoiling it all?” she said. “And I haven’t even finished my tea.”
Laughter like quick sunshine lit his face. “A thousand pardons, Marcelle. I of all people to outrage the etiquette of tea-drinking!” He sat down. “Another cup, please. I shall get used to it soon. The Ceylon tea, I mean—not being with you.”
She breathed again, rather wondering at the power of a light word. Of course she had learned the way of tactful dealing with querulous or obstinate patients. Had she instinctively applied the method to Baltazar? A flush crept into her cheek. Perhaps those were right who proclaimed that man sick or man sound was the same overgrown child. Hitherto she had regarded man sick with maternal indulgence. Was she to regard man sound, in the person of John Baltazar, from the same maternal point of view? It would be a change from the old one. For twenty years she had looked on the John Baltazar of thirty with the eyes of the girl of eighteen; and she had beheld him as a god. Now she looked upon the man of fifty with the eyes of the woman of thirty-eight. It was not that either of them had grown wondrously old. On the contrary, he appeared to have changed absurdly little, for his face had ever been eager and marked with the lines of thought which time had but accentuated; his figure had retained its athletic suggestion of strength and activity; and his manner had the fire and vehemence of youth. And she herself had received assurance from an anxiously consulted mirror, of beauty that endured, and physically she rejoiced in the consciousness of splendid health, enabling her to work untiringly at tasks that had all but prostrated her fifteen years ago; in which respect she was younger than ever. No, it was not that he was an old man and she an old woman between whom the revival of romance would have been pathetically ludicrous. It wasn’t that at all. . . . After she had handed him the cup of tea, she took up the long abandoned bit of toast which she had dropped into the saucer. Laughing, he leaned forward and whipped from her fingers the cold and forlorn morsel, which he threw into the fire, and sprang to hand her the covered china dish from the warming hob.
“Not that unsacramental bit of bread,” he cried.
It was not done rudely or bearishly; it was done in the most charming way in the world; done with a cavalier, conquering lightness, what the French call “panache,” characteristic of the bright creature who had overpowered and overmastered her in her impressionable girlhood. She helped herself from the hot pile of toast, and her smile of thanks was not without a curl of ironic indulgence. The masterfulness of the proceeding in no way offended her, its manner being so perfect, but it did not strike the old romantic chord. Its symbolism flashed illuminatingly upon her. The god of the girl of eighteen to the woman of thirty-eight appeared merely as a self-willed, erratic and vehement man. The glamour that had invested him faded like the colours of dawn, and the sunshine beat on him in a hard, mistless air. He stood before her in the full light. While she listened to his pleasant talk, her feminine subconsciousness observed him in clear definition. It admitted his many virile and admirable qualities; he was a man out of the common mould; he was ruthless in the prosecution of the lines of conduct which he laid down for himself—and these same lines had been inspired by high moral or spiritual ideals; in his egotism he might unthinkingly trample over your body in order to reach his ends, but at your cry of pain he would be back in a flash, tearing himself to bits with remorse, overwhelming you with tenderness; a man, too, of great intellect—in his own sphere, of genius; a contradictory being, a hectoring giant, a wayward child, a helpless sentimentalist; possibly, with all that, the overgrown baby of the nurses’ tradition; a man, possessing all the defects of his masculine qualities. Not a god. Nothing like a god. Just a man. Just an interesting, forceful, even fascinating man whom she was meeting for the first time. A brilliant stranger. She gasped at a swift realization, even while she smiled at his description of what passed for a hospital at Chen Chow, the scene of Quong Ho’s prim and passionless amours. A stranger. Yet memory had made familiar every gesture, every intonation. He had not changed. It was she who had changed. The fault lay in herself, baffling attempts at explanation. She began to accuse herself of callousness, deadness of soul, and at last conscience impelled her to make some sort of amends.
There remained but a quarter of an hour before Godfrey was due. She lit a cigarette from the match which Baltazar held out.
“I wonder,” she said, with a little air of deliberation, “whether you would let me say something—and remain quite quiet?”
He replied happily: “I swear I’ll sit in this chair until you give me leave to get up. But why say it? You’ve never let me finish what I want to tell you. It has to be told now, or a month or six months or a year hence. It’s silly to waste time, so why not now? I’ve awakened from a long sleep to find myself in a world of marvels, in a new, throbbing England, and for the first time in my life every pulse in me throbs with my country. I must play my part in the big drama. I’ve also awakened to find even deeper and more passionate things gripping at my heart: My son, whom I never knew of. And you. You, Marcelle. No, no!” he laughed, “I’m not going to get up. I’ll put the point in the most phlegmatic way possible. I love you now as much as ever I did. I want to marry you at once. I’ve been pursuing shadows for half a century. I want to get into the substance of life at last. A man can’t do it by himself. He needs a woman, just as—to advance an abstract proposition—a woman needs a man. You’re the only woman in the world for me. Together, you and I, we can go forth strong into this wonderful conflict. You can help me, I can help you. If you’re tired and want rest, by God, you shall have it. You shan’t do a hand’s turn. But a smile and a whisper from you will fill me with strength for both of us. That’s the proposition.”
She looked for a long time into the fire, her head aslant, her lips and fingers accompanying her thoughts in nervous movements. Presently she said, in a low voice:
“A man like you would want the Sun, Moon and Stars.”
“And would see that he got them,” said Baltazar. “They’re there right enough.”
She shook her head despairingly.
“That’s where you make the mistake. You would want what I couldn’t give—what isn’t in me to give. Don’t you see it’s no good? The whole thing is dead. I thought it was alive, but it isn’t. It’s dead. I’m dead. I suppose a nurse’s work eventually unsexes a woman. That’s frank enough, isn’t it?”
“It’s a frank statement of a conclusion arrived at through fallacious reasoning,” replied Baltazar.
She shivered. “These things have nothing to do with reason. In all these years haven’t you learned that?”
“No,” said he. “Schopenhauer and his lot were idiots. Love is the apotheosis of reason. My dear,” he added, rising, “this is profitless argument. I’m getting up without your permission, but I’ll be as unobstreperous as thistledown. If you feel you can’t marry me, well, you can’t. The reasons you will find are perfectly logical—but throw away the rotten fallacy in your premise of sexlessness. You are woman all through, my dear, from your lips to your heart. Perhaps I’ve been rather like a bull at a gate—the gate of heaven. I suppose I was built like that. But if you’ll let us be friends, dear friends, I won’t worry you any more. I promise.”
She broke down. Tears came.
“I’m so sorry—so sorry. But you do understand, don’t you?”
“I don’t say I understand, my dear,” he replied very tenderly. “But I accept the phenomenon.”
He turned and looked out of the window at the quiet road. Presently a taxi-cab drew up outside.
“Here’s Godfrey,” he said.
She rose. “I’ll go down and meet him. It’s no use his climbing all these difficult stairs.”
“You’ll come again, won’t you?” And seeing a flicker of hesitation pass over her face, he added: “If only to let me show you Quong Ho.”
“Yes, I’ll come again,” she replied, “if only to show you——”
“What?”
“That I’m sorry.”
She moved quickly to the door, which he opened, and he followed her downstairs. In the vestibule they met Godfrey. Gloom overspread the young man’s candid face and dejection marked his behaviour, neither of which could be accounted for by the fact of the Medical Board having given him, as he announced, a further two months. Baltazar’s proposal to run over soon to Churton Towers for a talk, he welcomed with polite lack of enthusiasm. He took leave with the solemnity of a medical man departing from a house with a corpse in it.
“It doesn’t seem to be one of the House of Baltazar’s lucky days,” said Baltazar to himself, as he went up to his room.
CHAPTER XVI
ITwas not till long afterwards that Baltazar learned the cause of his son’s discomfiture. Marcelle learned it at once. The boy exploded with pent-up indignation. Dorothy had turned him down, callously turned him down. Could Marcelle imagine such heartlessness? He had gone to her after his Board. Seeing that she had undertaken to keep him in the army, it was only civil to report progress. Besides, the house had been open to him since childhood. Well, there she was alone in the drawing-room. Looked bewitching. Jolly as possible. Everything right as rain. Then, he didn’t know how it happened—perhaps because she hadn’t discouraged him at the Carlton—anyhow there it was; he lost his head; told her he loved her, worshipped her and all the rest of it, and asked her to marry him. She broke into peals of laughter and recommended him not to be an idiot. She had the infernal impudence to laugh at him! If she had been a man he would have wrung her neck.
“And that isn’t all,” he cried. “What do you think she had the colossal nerve to tell me? That she was engaged to my brother Leopold. Leopold! ‘Why,’ I said, ‘only the other day you informed me you were fed up with Leopold.’ ‘Oh! that,’ she said airily, ‘was before the engagement.’ Apparently the brute’s just home on leave and has stolen a march on me. Easy enough with two feet,” he added bitterly.
Marcelle tried to console. After all, he was very young, not yet one-and-twenty. It would be years before he could marry. He flared up at the suggestion. That was what Dorothy, a month older than he, had the cool cheek to say. What did age matter? He was as old as Hell. He had all his life behind him. In the trenches alone he had spent twenty years. As for marrying, he was perfectly able to support a wife, not being, through God’s grace, one of those unhappy devils of new army officers who were wondering what the deuce they would do to earn their living when the war was over. . . . She had treated him damnably. A decent girl would have been kind and sorry and let him down easily. But she!
“She treated me as though I were a lout of a schoolboy, and she a woman of thirty. Only the woman of thirty would at least have had manners. Well, she’s going to marry Leopold. I wish her joy of him. She’ll have a hell of a time.”
Decidedly it had not been a lucky day for the House of Baltazar. Marcelle was oppressed by a sense of guilt for her share in the family disaster, and felt tragically unable to administer comfort. Yesterday she would have poured healing sympathy over the hurts of the evilly entreated youth, and her wrath would have flamed out upon the heartless minx who had spurned the love of a gallant gentleman. But to-day how could she? Had not some horrible freak of chance put her in the same dock as Dorothy, worthless criminals both?
“I suppose you were very angry with her,” she said timidly.
He flung out a hand. Oh, that inherited gesture! Angry? Who wouldn’t have been angry? He would never see her, speak to her, think of her again. He had told her so. As for receiving favours from General Mackworth, she was not to dare insult him by dreaming of it. Marcelle pictured a very pretty rumpus. Godfrey was not John Baltazar’s son for nothing.
And she, in the modern idiom, had turned down John Baltazar; with less ostensible reason, for, after all, she had not engaged herself to another man. Was he, too, like his son, hurling anathema at the head of a faithless woman? Outwardly he had been very courteous, astonishingly gentle; but he was older and had learned self-restraint. How was he taking it now? She was very glad when they reached Churton Towers and when she stripped from herself the unfamiliar trappings of Marcelle Baring and put on the comforting impersonal uniform of the nurse.
Baltazar, however, carried out none of Marcelle’s forebodings. He neither upbraided her nor smashed furniture, nor made one of his volcanic decisions. He merely lit a pipe and sat down and tried to think out his unqualified rejection. It was a second Zeppelin bomb, annihilating the castle in the air which that morning had appeared utterly solid and assured, as effectively as the first had wiped out Spendale Farm and all that it signified. He couldn’t make head or tail of it. He sat a mystified man. For him the glamour of the old days had not faded. In her ripe woman’s beauty she was more desirable than ever. Flashes had shown the continuance of her old wit and gaiety. Thank God she wasn’t eighteen still. What would he do with a child of eighteen? The association was unthinkable. But the woman into which she had developed was the ideal mate and companion. As for her being dead, that was rubbish. Never was woman more splendidly alive. . . . Now let him try to get her point of view. He clenched his teeth on his pipe. At eighteen she loved him. She made some sort of hero of him. She kept up her idealization until she met him an elderly, unromantic savage of fifty. Then her romance fell tumbling about her ears, and she said to herself, “Oh, my God! I can’t marrythis!”
It was the “that” which he had thought himself that the second bomb had sent into eternity. It took a lot of confused and blinking wonder for him to realize Marcelle’s “this.” Having realized, he accepted it grimly.
He had a little passage of arms with her some days afterwards. She had invited it, anxious to know how deeply she had wounded.
“I’m wretched because I feel I’ve again brought you unhappiness,” she confessed.
“That you should be leading the life you wish to lead is my happiness,” he replied, not insincerely.
“I feel so selfish,” she said.
“Which means that if I pestered and blustered and raved and stormed and made your days a nightmare of remorse, you would end by marrying me out of desperation?”
She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. “I suppose I should.”
“Then I’m damned if I do it. You’d be merely a scared sort of slave of duty, suffering all the time from acute inflammation of the conscience. I being a product of human civilization, and not a German or a gorilla, or even a Hottentot, should be soon aware of the fact, and our lives would be the most exquisite misery the mind could conceive.”
“I can’t see why you don’t hate me,” she said.
“I think I’ve arrived at an understanding of the phenomenon,” he replied with a wry smile. “You might just as well try to recreate a vanished rainbow as a lost illusion.” He smiled. “Go in peace,” said he.
To himself he said: “I wonder what will be the next knock-down blow.”
Not being able to take charge of Marcelle and Godfrey, who both seemed bent on going their respective independent ways, and Quong Ho still lingering at Water End, Baltazar applied himself seriously to England. First he must learn, learn more fully the endless ramifications of national and international life that formed the nervous ganglion of that manifestation of activity known as the war. In pursuit of knowledge he not only read books, but eagerly availed himself of every opportunity of social intercourse. His circle of acquaintances grew rapidly. His three friends, loyal sponsors, had started him with the reputation of an authority on Far Eastern problems. He became a little lion and delighted in it like a child.
A great monthly review published an article on China written by a well-known diplomatist. It was so deplorably wrong in its failure to reach any possible Chinese point of view, that Baltazar shut himself up for a couple of days in his inn sitting-room and wrote a scathing refutation of the eminent sciolist’s propositions. This, the ink on the last sheets scarcely dry, he put into an envelope and sent off to the editor. A week later the article was returned with the stereotyped form of rejection. In a fury Baltazar sought Weatherley and consulted him as to the quickest means of wading in that editor’s blood. Here was this monstrous ass, he shouted, who, on the strength of having passed a few months at the Embassy in Pekin, with his owl’s eyes full of the dust politely thrown in them by bland Chinese officials, not knowing a word of any Chinese language written or spoken, without the vaguest idea of the thoughts or aspirations of the educated man in the interior of the kingdom, was granted the authority of a great review to spread abroad in this country the miasma of his pestilential ignorance. That stupendous and pernicious asses of his kidney should be allowed to mould British public opinion was a scandal of scandals. And when he, who knew, wrote to expose the solemn red-tape and sealing-wax dummy’s imbecility, an equally colossal ass of an editor sent back his article as if it were an essay on Longfellow written by a schoolgirl.
“When you’ve finished foaming at the mouth, my dear J. B.,” said Weatherley, “let me look at the manuscript. Ah!” he remarked, turning over the pages, “untyped, difficult to read, owing tosaeva indignatioplaying the devil with a neat though not very legible handwriting, and signed by a name calamitously unknown to the young and essentially Oxford Pennyfeather.”
“Your serene equanimity does me a lot of good,” growled Baltazar.
“You must advance with the times, my dear J. B.,” laughed Weatherley. “Why on earth didn’t you ring the man up, telling him who you were, and then have the thing typed?”
“Telephones and typewriters!” cried Baltazar. “This new world’s too complicated for me.”
“Never mind,” said Weatherley. “Leave things in my hands. I’ll fix up Pennyfeather. If he persists in his obscurantism, owing to a desire to save his face, I’ll send the article to Jesson ofThe Imperial Review, who’ll jump at it.”
“I accept your help gratefully,” replied Baltazar. “But all you’ve said confirms me in my opinion that your friend Pennyfeather is a lazy, incompetent hound. He and his jejune magazine can starve to death.”
He laughed after a while at his own vehemence. They talked of the points at issue. Presently Weatherley said:
“After all, you’re two years behindhand in Chinese affairs. Chinese adherence to the Allied Cause is of vast importance. Why don’t you go out again on behalf of the Government and pick up the threads?”
Baltazar burst out:
“I go back to China? That God-forgotten country of dead formulas, in which I’ve wasted the prime of my life? No, my dear friend, never again. I’m here at last, among my own people, in the most enthralling moments in the history of the civilized world. For years I looked upon myself as a damned Chinaman, and now I’ve woke up to find myself English. And English I’m going to remain.”
“But,” objected Weatherley, “by undertaking a Government mission in China, you can remain as English as you please.”
Baltazar refused to consider the suggestion. England, his rediscovered country, was his appointed sphere of action. No more China for him as long as he lived. He went away almost angry with Weatherley for putting such an idea into his head. No doubt he might be useful out there: much more useful than a diplomatist like the arid ass who had written the article; but to bury himself there again and leave Godfrey and Marcelle and the throbbing wonders of his resurrection, was preposterous. As he descended Weatherley’s staircase a shiver of dismay ran down his spine. A walk through the streets restored his equanimity. Those crowds which once had seemed so alien, were now his brothers, all fired by the same noble aspirations. He would have liked to shake hands with the soldiers from far oversea, Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders, South Africans, and thank them for their inspiring presence. The day was fine, the exhilaration of the Somme victories was in the air. The new mystery of the tanks exercised all London, which still showed the afterglow of the laughter caused by continued humoristic descriptions in the morning papers. A tank waddled up to a house filled with Germans, leaned against it in a comfortable way, and there was no more house and no more Huns. He heard scraps of conversation about them as he walked. Yes, Tennyson was right—a bit of a seer after all that Incarnation of Victorianism—when he remarked that fifty years in Europe were preferable to a cycle in Cathay. He went in gayer mood to lunch with Jackman at a club in the West End, for membership of which his host had proposed him. The club, like many London clubs, being hard hit by the war, had taken the unprecedented step of holding an autumn election for all candidates duly proposed and seconded. Baltazar found invited to meet him a little party of influential members. He went back to Godalming forgetful of Weatherley’s idiocy.
A few days afterwards he met Weatherley by appointment at his chambers in the Temple. A group of publicists outside professional journalism, of which Baltazar guessed his friend to be one of the initiative forces, were about to bring out a new weekly review, devoted to the international phases of the war; to all racial questions from Greenland to New Guinea. Its international outlook would be unlimited, but, of course, it would pursue a relentless anti-German policy. Would Baltazar care to join the band? If so, would he attend a meeting of the founders of the Review that afternoon?
“My dear fellow,” cried Baltazar, holding out both his hands, “it’s meat and drink to me.”
“You’ll take up the Far Eastern end of the thing,” said Weatherley.
“I’ll write about China till I’m dead, if you like,” said Baltazar, “so long as I don’t have to go back to the infernal country.”
Again, after the meeting, Baltazar returned to Godalming in a glow. Thanks to Weatherley, he had at last got a footing in the Great Struggle.
In a telephone talk with Marcelle he told her all about it. He heard a ripple of laughter.
“Where does the fun come in?” he asked.
Her voice said: “You’re so young and enthusiastic. You ought to be the son and Godfrey the father.”
“By the way,” said he, “what’s the matter with Godfrey? He’s about as cheerful as a police-court in a fog.”
Marcelle, who could not betray Godfrey’s confidence, attributed his depression to the tediousness of his recovery and the uncertainty of the future.
“Of course, of course!” replied Baltazar penitently. “I’m a selfish beast, never entering into other people’s feelings. I must brighten things up for him.”
The opportunity came very much sooner than Baltazar had any reason to anticipate, in their meeting with Lady Edna Donnithorpe in the lounge of the Carlton.
Young, beautiful, royally assured, she advanced laughing to Baltazar.
“What about your promise, Mr. Baltazar? Pie-crust?”
He had sat next her at dinner a week before and she had invited him to come to tea one afternoon; to have a quiet, interesting talk, she said, away from crowds of disturbing people. She was the wife of the Parliamentary Secretary of one of the new ministries, the daughter of the Earl of Dunstable, and in other ways a woman of considerable importance. Her radiant photographs recurred week after week in the illustrated papers. Gossip whispered that she had turned the Prime Minister round her little finger and that when he had recovered from dizziness, he found he had given her elderly and uninspiring husband a place in the Government. Certainly no one was more surprised than Edgar Donnithorpe himself. That he owed his advancement to his wife was common knowledge; but alone of mortals he was unaware of the fact. When asked by a friend why she had gone to so much pains, she replied: “To get Edgar out of the way and give him something to play with.” She was twenty-five, pulling a hundred strings of fascinating intrigue, a flashing member of scores of war committees, and contrived for herself illimitable freedom.
Baltazar made his apologies. He meant to keep his promise, but it required courage on the part of such a back number as himself.
“Back number?” she cried. “Why, on your own showing you’ve only been in existence a few weeks. You are the newest thing in numbers in London.”
“It is gracious of you to say so,” replied Baltazar. Then, as she gave no sign of withdrawal: “Lady Edna, may I introduce my son—Lady Edna Donnithorpe.”
“I thought it must be. How do you do?” There were dovenotes in her voice which, to the young man’s fancy, invested the commonplace formula with caressive significance; her liquid dark blue eyes regarded him understandingly and pityingly; her hand lingered in a firm clasp for just an appreciable fraction of a second.
“Don’t you agree with me about your father? You and I are old, wise, battered people compared with him?”
Youth spoke to youth, making gentle mock of middle age—and youth instantly responded.
“My father,” replied Godfrey, drinking in her laughing beauty and her sympathetic charm, “has brought back from China all sorts of quaint notions of filial piety—so, until I know whether my opinions of him are pious or not, I rather shy at expressing them.”
She beamed appreciation. “I have a father, too, and although he has never been to China, I sympathize with you. One of these days we’ll have a little heart to heart talk about fathers.”
“I should love to,” replied Godfrey.
“Would you really? Are you sure faithlessness is not hereditary in your family?”
“Lady Edna,” said Baltazar, holding out the signet ring on his little finger. “If you saw this motto of our ancient Huguenot family in a looking-glass, you would read ‘Jusqu’à la mort.’ The wordfidèle, of course, being understood.”
“Death is a long way off, let us hope,” she laughed. “But if the family faithfulness will last out—jusqu’à jeudi—no—I can’t manage Thursday—I’ll give it one day more—say Friday—may I expect you both to lunch with me? You have my address—160 Belgrave Square.”
Receiving their acceptance of the invitation, she shook hands and went across the lounge to her waiting friends.
“A most interesting type,” said Baltazar. “A woman of the moment.”
“She’s wonderful!” said Godfrey. And as her head was turned away, he looked long and lingeringly at her. “Wonderful!”