XXVI
Almostinevitable as it had more than once seemed, in the crises of his illness, the Colonel’s death was a great shock to them all.
At the sound of Lois’s hasty tattoo on the floor, the others had hastened up to her. They found her still clasping the one thin cold hand with one of hers and still beating the floor with the other.
They thought at first that it might be a fainting fit—which in itself, in the circumstances, would have been ominous enough. But briefest examination showed them that their old friend had answered The Call and was gone.
They were down again in the small sitting-room, discussing it quietly and sadly, when Auntie Mitt, after staring fixedly at Lois for a full minute, as though she had suddenly detected something strange in her appearance, said suddenly,
“My dear, you are Lady Luard now.”
And Lois stared back at them both with a startled look, and gasped, “I never thought of that. Oh, I wish Ray were here!”
They all wished that, but no amount of wishing will bring men home from the war.
“We must send Alma word at once,” said Mrs Dare. “I will write out a telegram.”
“It will be a shock to her,” said Auntie Mitt. “Perhaps, my dear, aletter——”
“Alma was prepared for the worst,” said Mrs Dare. “Last time she was here she told me it would be a miracle if he got through such an illness at his age. She would like to know at once, I am sure,” and she sat down at the writing table to prepare the telegram.
And while they were still in the midst of these agitations, and Lois was wondering how she would ever be able to reconcile herself to the inevitable changes, she happened to glance vaguely through the window and saw Alma coming quickly up the front path.
“Here she is,” she cried, and jumped up and ran to meet her.
At sight of Lois at the door, Alma exultingly waved a paper she carried in her hand and quickened her pace almost to a run.
“Good news!” she cried. “Word of Con at last.”
“Oh, Al, Iamso glad,” and she burst into tears.
“Why, Lo, dear, what’s up? It’s goodnews——”
“Uncle Tony has just died. Mother was just writing a telegram to send to you.”
“I am not surprised, dear,” said Alma, putting her arm round her. “I had very little hope of his pulling through. He was an old man, you see. I am sure he was not very sorry to go; though he would have liked to see the end of this war, I know. And I do wish he had heard about Con. He would have been so glad. However, he knows more about it all now than any of us, and that will please him mightily,” and they went in together.
So the good news and the bad—nay, why call the news of a good man’s promotion bad news?—let us say, the other news tended to counteract one another in the hearts of those who were left. Indeed the net result that remained with them all was a sense of thankfulness,—for the peaceful passing of the fine full life, and for the young life spared for further work.
Alma’s letter was not from Con himself, which at first sight was disturbing. But the contents explained. Lieutenant Dare had been wounded—in the hand, the writer said,—at Landrecies during the retreat from Mons. He was now a prisoner in Germany—at Torgau, and was being well looked after. He was making good recovery from his wounds which had been severe, and they were all hoping that something might presently be arranged in the way ofan exchange of medical-staff prisoners. The writer signed himself Robert Grant, R.A.M.C.
“I can’t tell you what a relief it is,” said Alma. “I almost danced when I got it. It’s worry that kills, and I was beginning to worry about the boy. What about Ray?”
“It’s ten days since my last letter,” said Lois. “I’m hoping for the next every minute.... Do you know, Al, just at the very last, when Uncle Tony knew the end had come, he said, ‘Good lad, Ray! He will come back to you. And Con—good lad too! God bless you all!—all!’—that was almost the last thing he said.”
“The dear old man!... We will take it as a good omen.... I think, you know, that just at the last they often have an outlook—a forelook—altogether beyond our understanding. They see with other eyes than ours.”
“Undoubtedly!” agreed Mrs. Dare.
Alma’s stay, even under the circumstances, could not be a long one. They had had forty-nine wounded officers in, two days before, many of their nurses had gone to the front, and they were very short-handed.
Lois walked down to the station with her, and they talked in quiet sisterly fashion of the past, present, and future.
“It is very curious how things seem to work together at times,” said Lois.
“Always, maybe, if we knew more about it all, dear.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Here have I been so taken up with nursing Uncle Tony that I really have never had time to get anxious about Ray.”
“Ray will be all right, you’ll see. I pin my faith to Uncle Tony’s vision.”
“And yet, when one allows oneself to think about it all, after reading the terrible accounts of the fighting—and he would have me read them all to him—it seems almost impossible that any of them can come back alive.”
“We had forty-nine of them the other day, and it’samazing how well they stand it. They’re as cheerful as can be, laughing and chaffing and joking. And yet some of them are pretty bad. It’s just as well for all of us to take the cheerful view of things.”
“And then, just when Uncle Tony goes, and we were feeling it so badly, you come in with your good news of Con. I can’t tell you how glad I am, Al.”
“I know, dear. And I’ll be just as glad for you one of these days. Pin your faith to Uncle Tony.”
And through the many dark days when no news came—and in those days no news did not as a rule mean good news—the thought of Uncle Tony’s last words held mighty comfort for them all.
They would have liked to bury him quietly, with no great outward show of the esteem and love in which they held him. Their feelings were too deep for any outward expression and the times hardly seemed suitable for making parade of death. There was sorrow enough abroad without emphasising it.
But Colonel Sir Anthony Luard, V.C., C.B., was a person of consequence. He had died for his country as truly as any man killed at the front. The higher powers decreed him a military funeral, and the quieter-thinking ones at home had to give way. And, after all, they believed it would please him.
So, on a gun-carriage, escorted by a detachment from the reserve battalion of his old regiment, with muffled drums and mournful music, and the Last Post and the crackle of guns, he was laid to rest. And the others picked up the threads of life again and kept his memory sweet by constantly missing him and remembering all his sayings and doings.
His lawyer, Mr. Benfleet of Lincoln’s Inn, came out immediately after the funeral and explained to all concerned—so far as they were available—the remarkably thoughtful provisions of his will.
It had been made—or remade—immediately after the return of Ray and Lois from abroad, and it aimed at thecomfort and security of all his little circle, so far as he could provide for these.
There were many wet eyes and brimming hearts as Mr. Benfleet went quietly through the details.
To Miss Amelia Mitten—“my very dear and trusted friend”—he left four hundred pounds a year for life. And Auntie Mitt, with her little black-bordered handkerchief to her eyes, sobbed gratefully.
To Margaret Dare—wife of John Dare of The Red House, Willstead,—“in token of my very great love and esteem,”—he left the sum of £20,000, settled inalienably on herself, with power to will it at her death to whom she chose.
“To my niece, Victoria Luard—who-might-have-been-Balaclava,”—it was down there in the will in black and white, and they came near to smiling at the very characteristic touch,—the sum of £50,000 on attaining the age of twenty-one.
To Dr Connal Dare—if still alive—the sum of £25,000; and to his wife Alma, formerly Alma Luard, an equal sum. In case of Dr Connal Dare’s death the whole £50,000 came at once to Alma.
To Lois Luard, formerly Lois Dare, the sum of £25,000 in her own right.
To Raglan Luard, the residue,—which, said Mr. Benfleet, would amount to probably £100,000 or more when the securities, in which it was all invested, appreciated again after the war.
There were many little minor legacies and gifts to old servants and so on. And Uncle Tony, if he was present in the spirit at the reading of his will, must have been well pleased with the effect of his generous forethought.