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diff --git a/13883-0.txt b/13883-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..676b6d3 --- /dev/null +++ b/13883-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12824 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13883 *** + +THE TREE OF HEAVEN + +by + +MAY SINCLAIR + +Author of _The Belfry_, _The Three Sisters_, etc. + +1918 + + + + + + + +PART I + +PEACE + + + +I + +Frances Harrison was sitting out in the garden under the tree that her +husband called an ash-tree, and that the people down in her part of the +country called a tree of Heaven. + +It was warm under the tree, and Frances might have gone to sleep there +and wasted an hour out of the afternoon, if it hadn't been for +the children. + +Dorothy, Michael and Nicholas were going to a party, and Nicky was +excited. She could hear Old Nanna talking to Michael and telling him to +be a good boy. She could hear young Mary-Nanna singing to Baby John. +Baby John was too young himself to go to parties; so to make up for that +he was riding furiously on Mary-Nanna's knee to the tune of the +"Bumpetty-Bumpetty Major!" + +It was Nicky's first party. That was why he was excited. + +He had asked her for the third time what it would be like; and for the +third time she had told him. There would be dancing and a Magic Lantern, +and a Funny Man, and a Big White Cake covered with sugar icing and +Rosalind's name on it in pink sugar letters and eight little pink wax +candles burning on the top for Rosalind's birthday. Nicky's eyes shone +as she told him. + +Dorothy, who was nine years old, laughed at Nicky. + +"Look at Nicky," she said, "how excited he is!" + +And every time she laughed at him his mother kissed him. + +"I don't care," said Nicky. "I don't care if I am becited!" + +And for the fifth time he asked, "When will it be time to go?" + +"Not for another hour and a half, my sweetheart." + +"How long," said Nicky, "is an hour and a half?" + + * * * * * + +Frances had a tranquil nature and she never worried. But as she sat +under her tree of Heaven a thought came that made a faint illusion of +worry for her mind. She had forgotten to ask Grannie and Auntie Louie +and Auntie Emmeline and Auntie Edie to tea. + +She had come to think of them like that in relation to her children +rather than to her or to each other. + +It was a Tuesday, and they had not been there since Friday. Perhaps, she +thought, I'd better send over for them now. Especially as it's such a +beautiful afternoon. Supposing I sent Michael? + +And yet, supposing Anthony came home early? He was always kind to her +people, but that was the very reason why she oughtn't to let them spoil +a beautiful afternoon for him. It could not be said that any of them +was amusing. + +She could still hear Mary-Nanna singing her song about the +Bumpetty-Bumpetty Major. She could still hear Old Nanna talking to +Michael and telling him to be a good boy. That could only end in Michael +being naughty. To avert naughtiness or any other disaster from her +children was the end of Frances's existence. + +So she called Michael to come to her. He came, running like a little +dog, obediently. + + * * * * * + +Michael was glad that he had been sent across the Heath to Grannie's +house with a message. It made him feel big and brave. Besides, it would +put off the moment when Mary-Nanna would come for him, to make him ready +for the party. He was not sure that he wanted to go to it. + +Michael did not much like going to Grannie's house either. In all the +rooms there was a queer dark-greenness and creepiness. It smelt of +bird-cages and elder bushes and of Grandpapa's funeral. And when you had +seen Auntie Edie's Senegal wax-bills, and the stuffed fish, and the +inside of Auntie Louie's type-writer there was nothing else to see. + +His mother said that Grandpapa's funeral was all over, and that the +green creepiness came from the green creepers. But Michael knew it +didn't. She only said things like that to make you feel nice and comfy +when you were going to bed. Michael knew very well that they had put +Grandpapa into the drawing-room and locked the door so that the funeral +men shouldn't get at him and take him away too soon. And Auntie Louie +had kept the key in her pocket. + +Funerals meant taking people away. + +Old Nanna wouldn't let him talk about it; but Mary-Nanna had told him +that was what funerals meant. All the same, as he went up the flagged +path, he took care not to look through the black panes of the window +where the elder bush was, lest he should see Grandpapa's coffin standing +in the place where the big table used to be, and Grandpapa lying inside +it wrapped in a white sheet. + +Michael's message was that Mummy sent her love, and would Grannie and +Auntie Louie and Auntie Emmeline and Auntie Edie come to tea? She was +going to have tea in the garden, and would they please come early? As +early as possible. That was the part he was not to forget. + +The queer thing was that when Michael went to see Grannie and the +Aunties in Grannie's house he saw four old women. They wore black +dresses that smelt sometimes of something sweet and sometimes like your +fingers when you get ink on them. The Aunties looked cross; and Auntie +Emmeline smelt as if she had been crying. He thought that perhaps they +had not been able to stop crying since Grandpapa's funeral. He thought +that was why Auntie Louie's nose was red and shiny and Auntie Edie's +eyelids had pink edges instead of lashes. In Grannie's house they never +let you do anything. They never did anything themselves. They never +wanted to do anything; not even to talk. He thought it was because they +knew that Grandpapa was still there all the time. + +But outside it the Aunties were not so very old. They rode bicycles. And +when they came to Michael's Father's house they forgot all about +Grandpapa's funeral and ran about and played tennis like Michael's +mother and Mrs. Jervis, and they talked a lot. + +Michael's mother was Grannie's child. To see how she could be a child +you had only to think of her in her nightgown with her long brown hair +plaited in a pigtail hanging down her back and tied with a blue ribbon. +But he couldn't see how the three Aunties could be Grannie's other +children. They were bigger than Grannie and they had grey hair. Grannie +was a little thing; she was white and dry; and she had hair like hay. +Besides, she hardly ever took any notice of them except to make a face +at Auntie Emmeline or Auntie Edie now and then. She did it with her head +a little on one side, pushing out her underlip and drawing it +back again. + +Grannie interested Michael; but more when he thought about her than when +she was actually there. She stood for him as the mark and measure of +past time. To understand how old Grannie was you had to think backwards; +this way: Once there was a time when there was no Michael; but there was +Mummy and there was Daddy. And once there was a time when there was no +Mummy and no Daddy; but there was Grannie and there was Grandpapa. Now +there was no Grandpapa. But he couldn't think back far enough to get to +the time when there was no Grannie. + +Michael thought that being Grannie must feel like being God. + +Before he came to the black window pane and the elder bush he had to run +down the slopes and jump the gullies on his side of the Heath, and cross +the West Road, and climb the other slope to Grannie's side. And it was +not till you got to the row of elms on Judge's Walk that you had to go +carefully because of the funeral. + +He stood there on the ridge of the Walk and looked back to his own side. +There were other houses there; but he knew his father's house by the +tree of Heaven in the garden. + + * * * * * + +The garden stood on a high, flat promontory jutting out into the Heath. +A brown brick wall with buttresses, strong like fortifications on a +breastwork, enclosed it on three sides. From the flagged terrace at the +bottom of the garden you looked down, through the tops of the +birch-trees that rose against the rampart, over the wild places of the +Heath. There was another flagged terrace at the other end of the garden. +The house rose sheer from its pavement, brown brick like the wall, and +flat-fronted, with the white wings of its storm shutters spread open, +row on row. It barred the promontory from the mainland. And at the back +of it, beyond its kitchen garden and its courtyard, a fringe of Heath +still parted it from the hill road that went from "Jack Straw's Castle" +to "The Bull and Bush." You reached it by a lane that led from the road +to the Heath. + +The house belonged to the Heath and the open country. It was aware of +nothing but the Heath and the open country between it and Harrow on the +Hill. It had the air of all the old houses of Hampstead, the wonderful +air of not acknowledging the existence of Bank Holidays. It was lifted +up high above the town; shut in; utterly secluded. + + * * * * * + +Anthony Harrison considered that he had done well when he acquired West +End House for his wife Frances, and for his children, Dorothea, Michael, +Nicholas and John. + +Frances had said that, if he was thinking of her, he needn't buy a big +place, because she didn't want one. But he might buy it for the children +if he liked. Anthony had said that she had no idea of what she mightn't +want, once she began to give her mind to it, and that he would like to +think of her living in it after he was gone. Not that he had any +intention of going; he was only thirty-six (not much older than Frances) +and incurably healthy. But since his wife's attention had become +absorbed in the children--to the exclusion of every other interest--he +was always trying to harrow her by the suggestion. And Frances only +laughed at him and told him that he was a silly old thing, and that he +needn't think he was going to get round her that way. + +There was no other way open for Anthony; unless he were to go bankrupt +or get pneumonia or peritonitis. Frances would have been the first to +acknowledge that illness or misfortune constituted a claim. And the only +things he ever did get were loud, explosive colds in his head which made +him a mark for derision. His business was so sound that not even a +revolution or a European war could shake it. And his appearance was +incompatible with his pretensions to pathos. + +It would have paid him better to have been small and weedy, or +lamentably fat, or to have had a bald place coming, or crow's feet +pointing to grey hairs; for then there might have been a chance for him. +But Anthony's body was well made, slender and tall. He had blue eyes and +black-brown hair, and the look of an amiable hawk, alert, fiercely +benevolent. Frances couldn't see any pathos in the kind of figure she +happened to admire most, the only kind she would have tolerated in a +husband. And if she _had_ seen any pathos in it she wouldn't have +married it. Pathos, she said, was all very well in a father, or a +brother, or a friend, but in choosing a husband you had to think of your +children; and she had wanted boys that would look like Michael and +Nicholas and John. + +"Don't you mean," Anthony had said, "boys that will look like me?" + +"I mean," she had answered, "exactly what I say. You needn't be so +arrogant." + +_Her_ arrogance had been beyond all bearing since John, the third son, +had been born. + +And it was Frances, after all, who had made him buy West End House for +her own reasons. Both the day nursery and the night nursery had windows +to the south. It was the kind of house she had always dreamed of living +in, and of Michael, or Nicky living in after she and Anthony were gone. +It was not more than seven minutes' walk from the bottom of the lane to +the house where her people lived. She had to think about the old people +when the poor dears had come up to London in order to be thought about. +And it had white storm shutters and a tree of Heaven in the garden. + +And, because they had both decided that they would have that house +whatever happened, they began to argue and to tease each other. Anthony +had said it was all right, only the tree of Heaven wasn't a tree of +Heaven; it was a common ash. He was one of the biggest timber merchants +in the country and he ought to know. Frances said she mightn't know +much, but she did know that was the kind of tree the people down in her +part of the country called a tree of Heaven. Anthony said he couldn't +help that. It didn't matter what they called it. It was a common ash. + +Then she told him he had no poetry in his composition. She had always +dreamed of having a tree of Heaven in her garden; and he was destroying +her dream. He replied that he didn't want to destroy her dream, but the +tree really _was_ an ash. You could tell by the bark, and by the leaves +and by the number and the shape of the leaflets. And anyhow, that was +the first he'd heard about her dream. + +"You don't know," said Frances, "what goes on inside me." + +She said that if any of the children developed an imagination he needn't +think _he_ had anything to do with it. + +"I shan't," said Anthony. "I wouldn't have anything to do with it if I +could. Facts are good enough for me. The children must be brought up to +realize facts." + +An ash-tree was a fact and a tree of Heaven was a fancy; unless by any +chance she meant _ailanthus glandulosa_. (He knew she didn't.) If she +wanted to know, the buds of the ash were black like ebony. The buds of +the tree of Heaven were rose-red, like--like bad mahogany. Wait till the +spring and look at the buds. + +Frances waited till the spring and looked at the buds, and, sure enough, +they were black like ebony. + +Anthony also said that if they were choosing a house for the children, +it was no earthly use to think about the old people. For the old people +would go and the children would remain. + +As if to show how right he was, Grandpapa had died early in that summer +of 'ninety-five, one month after they had moved into West End House. +That still left Grannie and Auntie Louie and Auntie Emmeline and Auntie +Edie for Anthony to look after. + + * * * * * + +She was thinking of them now. She hoped that they would come early in +time to see the children. She also hoped that they would go early, so +that she and Anthony might have their three sets of tennis before +dinner in peace. + +There would be no peace if Louie and Edie wanted to play too. The one +thing that Anthony could not stand was people wanting to do things they +couldn't do, and spoiling them for those who could. He used to say that +the sight of Louie anywhere near the tennis court put him off +his stroke. + +Again, the faint illusion of worry was created by the thought that this +dreadful thing might happen, that Louie and Edie might want to play and +that Anthony would be put off his stroke and be annoyed, and that his +annoyance, his just and legitimate annoyance, would spoil the +perfection of the afternoon. And as she played with the illusion it made +more real her tranquillity, her incredible content. + +Her hands were busy now putting decorative stitches into a frock for +John. She had pushed aside a novel by George Moore and a volume of +Ibsen's plays. She disliked Ibsen and disapproved of George Moore. Her +firm, tight little character defended itself against every form of +intellectual disturbance. A copy of the _Times_ had fallen from her lap +to her feet. Jane, the cat, had found it there, and, purring loudly, had +trodden it down into a bed, and now lay on it, asleep. Frances had +informed herself of the affairs of the nation. + +At the bottom of her mind was the conviction (profound, because +unconscious) that the affairs of the nation were not to be compared for +interest with her own affairs, and an attitude of condescension, as if +she honoured the _Times_ by reading it and the nation by informing +herself of its affairs; also the very distinct impression that evening +papers were more attractive than morning papers. She would have admitted +that they owed their attraction to the circumstance that Anthony brought +them home with him in his pocket, and that in the evening she was not +obliged to inform herself of what might be happening. Anthony was +certain to inform her. + +Not that anything ever did happen. Except strikes; and even then, no +sooner did the features of the strike begin to get dramatic than they +were instantly submerged in the flood of conversation that was let loose +over them. Mrs. Anthony pitied the poor editors and reporters while +Parliament was sitting. She saw them as rather silly, violent and +desperate men, yet pathetic in their silliness, violence and +desperation, snatching at divorces, and breach of promise cases, and +fires in paraffin shops, as drowning men snatch at straws. + +Her imagination refused to picture any end to this state of things. +There would just be more speeches and more strikes, and still more +speeches, going on for ever and ever at home; while foreign affairs and +the British Empire went on for ever and ever too, with no connection +between the two lines of sequence, and no likeness, except that both +somehow went on and on. + +That was Anthony's view of England's parliament and of her imperial +policy; and it was Mrs. Anthony's. Politics, Anthony said, had become +static; and he assured Frances that there was no likelihood that they +would ever become dynamic again--ever. + +Anthony's view of politics was Mrs. Anthony's view of life. + +Nothing ever really happened. Things did not change; they endured; they +went on. At least everything that really mattered endured and went on. +So that everything that really mattered could--if you were given to +looking forward--be foreseen. A strike--a really bad one--might +conceivably affect Anthony's business, for a time; but not all the +strikes in the world, not all the silly speeches, not all the meddling +and muddling of politicians could ever touch one of those +enduring things. + +Frances believed in permanence because, in secret, she abhorred the +thought of change. And she abhorred the thought of change because, at +thirty-three, she had got all the things she wanted. But only for the +last ten years out of the thirty-three. Before that (before she was Mrs. +Anthony), wanting things, letting it be known that you wanted them, had +meant not getting them. So that it was incredible how she had contrived +to get them all. She had not yet left off being surprised at her own +happiness. It was not like things you take for granted and are not aware +of. Frances was profoundly aware of it. Her happiness was a solid, +tangible thing. She knew where it resided, and what it was made of, and +what terms she held it on. It depended on her; on her truth, her love, +her loyalty; it was of the nature of a trust. But there was no illusion +about it. It was the reality. + +She denied that she was arrogant, for she had not taken one of them for +granted, not even Dorothy; though a little arrogance might have been +excusable in a woman who had borne three sons and only one daughter +before she was thirty-two. Whereas Grannie's achievement had been four +daughters, four superfluous women, of whom Anthony had married one and +supported three. + +To be sure there was Maurice. But he was worse than superfluous, +considering that most of the time Anthony was supporting Maurice, too. + +She had only known one serious anxiety--lest her flesh and blood should +harbour any of the blood and flesh left over after Morrie was made. She +had married Anthony to drive out Morrie from the bodies and souls of her +children. She meant that, through her and Anthony, Morrie should go, and +Dorothea, Michael, Nicholas and John should remain. + +As Frances looked at the four children, her mouth tightened itself so as +to undo the ruinous adoration of her eyes. She loved their slender +bodies, their pure, candid faces, their thick, straight hair that parted +solidly from the brush, clean-cut and shining like sheets of polished +metal, brown for Dorothy, black-brown for Nicholas, red gold for Michael +and white gold for John. She was glad that they were all made like that; +slender and clear and hard, and that their very hair was a thing of +clean surfaces and definite edges. She disliked the blurred outlines of +fatness and fuzziness and fluffiness. The bright solidity of their forms +helped her to her adored illusion, the illusion of their childhood as +going on, lasting for ever and ever. + +They would be the nicest looking children at Mrs. Jervis's party. They +would stand out solid from the fluffiness and fuzziness and fatness of +the others. She saw people looking at them. She heard them saying: "Who +are the two little boys in brown linen?"--"They are Michael and Nicholas +Harrison." The Funny Man came and said: "Hello! I didn't expect to see +you here!" It was Michael and Nicholas he didn't expect to see; and the +noise in the room was Nicky's darling laughter. + +Music played. Michael and Nicholas danced to the music. It was Michael's +body and Nicky's that kept for her the pattern of the dance, their feet +that beat out its measure. Sitting under the tree of Heaven Frances +could see Mrs. Jervis's party. It shimmered and clustered in a visionary +space between the tree and the border of blue larkspurs on the other +side of the lawn. The firm figures of Michael and Nicholas and Dorothy +held it together, kept it from being shattered amongst the steep blue +spires of the larkspurs. When it was all over they would still hold it +together, so that people would know that it had really happened and +remember having been there. They might even remember that Rosalind had +had a birthday. + + * * * * * + +Frances had just bestowed this life after death on Mrs. Jervis's party +when she heard Michael saying he didn't want to go to it. + +He had no idea why he didn't want to go except that he didn't. + +"What'?" said Frances. "Not when Nicky and Dorothy are going?" + +He shook his head. He was mournful and serious. + +"And there's going to be a Magic Lantern"-- + +"I know." + +"And a Funny Man"-- + +"I know." + +"And a Big White Cake with sugar icing and Rosalind's name on it in pink +letters, and eight candles--" + +"I know, Mummy." Michael's under lip began to shake. + +"I thought it was only little baby boys that were silly and shy." + +Michael was not prepared to contest the statement. He saw it was the +sort of thing that in the circumstances she was bound to say. All the +same his under lip would have gone on shaking if he hadn't stopped it. + +"I thought you were a big boy," said Frances. + +"So I _was_, yesterday. To-day isn't yesterday, Mummy." + +"If John--John was asked to a beautiful party _he_ wouldn't be afraid to +go." + +As soon as Michael's under lip had stopped shaking his eyelids began. +You couldn't stop your eyelids. + +"It's not _afraid_, exactly," he said. + +"What is it, then?" + +"It's sort--sort of forgetting things." + +"What things?" + +"I don't know, Mummy. I think--it's pieces of me that I want to +remember. At a party I can't feel all of myself at once--like I do now." + +She loved his strange thoughts as she loved his strange beauty, his +reddish yellow hair, his light hazel eyes that were not hers and not +Anthony's. + +"What will you do, sweetheart, all afternoon, without Nicky and Dorothy +and Mary-Nanna?" + +"I don't want Nicky and Dorothy and Mary-Nanna. I want Myself. I want to +play with Myself." + +She thought: "Why shouldn't he? What right have I to say these things to +him and make him cry, and send him to stupid parties that he doesn't +want to go to? After all, he's only a little boy." + +She thought of Michael, who was seven, as if he were younger than +Nicholas, who was only five. + + * * * * * + +Nicky was different. You could never tell what Michael would take it +into his head to think. You could never tell what Nicky would take it +into his head to do. There was no guile in Michael. But sometimes there +was guile in Nicky. Frances was always on the look out for +Nicky's guile. + +So when Michael remarked that Grannie and the Aunties would be there +immediately and Nicky said, "Mummy, I think my ear is going to ache," +her answer was--"You won't have to stay more than a minute, darling." + +For Nicky lived in perpetual fear that his Auntie Louie might kiss at +him. + +Dorothy saw her mother's profound misapprehension and she hastened to +put it right. + +"It isn't Auntie Louie, Mummy. His ear is really aching." + +And still Frances went on smiling. She knew, and Nicky knew that, if a +little boy could establish the fact of earache, he was absolved from all +social and family obligations for as long as his affliction lasted. He +wouldn't have to stand still and pretend he liked it while he was being +kissed at. + +Frances kept her mouth shut when she smiled, as if she were trying not +to. It was her upper lip that got the better of her. The fine, thin +edges of it quivered and twitched and curled. You would have said the +very down was sensitive to her thought's secret and iniquitous play. Her +smile mocked other people's solemnities, her husband's solemnity, and +the solemnity (no doubt inherited) of her son Michael; it mocked the +demureness and the gravity of her face. + +She had brought her face close to Nicky's; and it was as if her mouth +had eyes in it to see if there were guile in him. + +"Are you a little humbug?" she said. + +Nicky loved his mother's face. It never got excited or did silly things +like other people's faces. It never got red and shiny like Auntie +Louie's face, or hot and rough like Auntie Emmeline's, or wet and mizzly +like Auntie Edie's. The softness and whiteness and dryness of his +mother's face were delightful to Nicky. So was her hair. It was cold, +with a funny sort of coldness that made your fingers tingle when you +touched it; and it smelt like the taste of Brazil nuts. + +Frances saw the likeness of her smile quiver on Nicky's upper lip. It +broke and became Nicky's smile that bared his little teeth and curled up +the corners of his blue eyes. (His blue eyes and black brown hair were +Anthony's.) It wasn't reasonable to suppose that Nicky had earache when +he could smile like that. + +"I'm afraid," she said, "you're a little humbug. Run to the terrace and +see if Grannie and the Aunties are coming." + +He ran. It was half a child's run and half a full-grown boy's. + +Then Mrs. Anthony addressed her daughter. + +"Why did you say his ear's aching when it isn't?" + +"Because," said Dorothy, "it _is_ aching." + +She was polite and exquisite and obstinate, like Anthony. + +"Nicky ought to know his own ear best. Go and tell him he's not to stand +on the top of the wall. And if they're coming wave to them, to show +you're glad to see them." + +"But--Mummy--I'm not." + +She knew it was dreadful before she said it. But she had warded off +reproof by nuzzling against her mother's cheek as it tried to turn away +from her. She saw her mother's upper lip moving, twitching. The +sensitive down stirred on it like a dark smudge, a dust that quivered. +Her own mouth, pushed forward, searching, the mouth of a nuzzling puppy, +remained grave and tender. She was earnest and imperturbable in her +truthfulness. "Whether you're glad or not you must go," said Frances. +She meant to be obeyed. + +Dorothy went. Her body was obedient. For as yet she had her mother's +body and her face, her blunted oval, the straight nose with the fine, +tilted nostrils, her brown eyes, her solid hair, brown on the top and +light underneath, and on the curve of the roll above her little ears. +Frances had watched the appearance of those details with an anxiety that +would have surprised her if she had been aware of it. She wanted to see +herself in the bodies of her sons and in the mind of her daughter. But +Dorothy had her father's mind. You couldn't move it. What she had said +once she stuck to for ever, like Anthony to his ash-tree. As if sticking +to a thing for ever could make it right once. And Dorothy had formed the +habit of actually being right, like Anthony, nine times out of ten. +Frances foresaw that this persistence, this unreasoning rectitude, +might, in time, become annoying in a daughter. There were moments when +she was almost perturbed by the presence of this small, mysterious +organism, mixed up of her body and her husband's mind. + +But in secret she admired her daughter's candour, her downrightness and +straightforwardness, her disdain of conventions and hypocrisies. Frances +was not glad, she knew she was not glad, any more than Dorothy was glad, +to see her mother and her sisters. She only pretended. In secret she was +afraid of every moment she would have to live with them. She had lived +with them too long. She foresaw what would happen this afternoon, how +they would look, what they would say and do, and with what gestures. It +would be like the telling, for the thirteenth time, of a dull story that +you know every word of. + +She thought she had sent them a kind message. But she knew she had only +asked them to come early in order that they might go early and leave her +to her happiness. + +She went down to the terrace wall where Michael and Nicky and Dorothy +were watching for them. She was impatient, and she thought that she +wanted to see them coming. But she only wanted to see if they were +coming early. It struck her that this was sad. + + * * * * * + +Small and distant, the four black figures moved on the slope under the +Judges' Walk; four spots of black that crawled on the sallow grass and +the yellow clay of the Heath. + +"How little they look," Michael said. + +Their littleness and their distance made them harmless, made them +pathetic. Frances was sorry that she was not glad. That was the +difference between her and Dorothy, that she was sorry and always would +be sorry for not being what she ought to be; and Dorothy never would be +sorry for being what she was. She seemed to be saying, already, in her +clearness and hardness, "What I am I am, and you can't change me." The +utmost you could wring from her was that she couldn't help it. + +Frances's sorrow was almost unbearable when the four women in black came +nearer, when she saw them climbing the slope below the garden and +the lane. + + + +II + +Grannie took a long time crossing the lawn from the door in the lane to +the tree of Heaven. + +She came first. Her daughters followed, forced to her slow pace, +advancing with an air of imperfect cohesion, of not really belonging to +each other, as if they had been strangers associated by some accident. +It had grown on them in their efforts to carry off the embarrassment of +appearing as an eternal trio. Auntie Louie carried it off best. Sharp +and rigid, Auntie Louie's figure never lent itself to any group. But for +her black gown she really might not have belonged. + +Mrs. Fleming went slowly, not because she was old, for she was only +sixty, but because, though she said, and thought, that she was wrapped +up in Frances and her children, she was still absorbed, fascinated by +her sacred sense of bereavement. She moved as if hypnotized by her +own sorrow. + +To her three unmarried daughters she behaved with a sort of mystic +hostility, a holy detachment and displeasure, as if she suspected them +of getting over it, or of wanting to get over it if they could. But to +her one married daughter and to her grand-children she was soft and +gentle. So that, when they happened to be all together, her moods +changed so rapidly that she seemed a creature of unaccountable caprice. +One minute her small, white, dry face quivered with softness and +gentleness, and the next it stiffened, or twitched with the inimical, +disapproving look it had for Louie and Emmeline and Edith. + +The children lifted up their pure, impassive faces to be kissed at. Old +Nanna brought Baby John and put him on his grandmother's knee. Dorothy +and Nicholas went off with Mary-Nanna to the party. Michael forgot all +about playing with himself. He stayed where he was, drawn by the +spectacle of Grannie and the Aunties. Grannie was clucking and chuckling +to Baby John as she had clucked and chuckled to her own babies long ago. +Her under lip made itself wide and full; it worked with an in and out +movement very funny and interesting to Michael. The movement meant that +Grannie chuckled under protest of memories that were sacred to +Grandpapa. + +"Tchoo--tchoo--tchoo--tchoo! Chuckaboo! Beautiful boy!" said Grannie. + +Auntie Louie looked at her youngest nephew. She smiled her downward, +sagging smile, wrung from a virginity sadder than Grannie's grief. She +spoke to Baby John. + +"You really are rather a nice boy," Auntie Louie said. + +But Edie, the youngest Auntie, was kneeling on the grass before him, +bringing her face close to his. Baby John's new and flawless face was +cruel to Auntie Edie's. So was his look of dignity and wisdom. + +"Oh, she says you're only rather nice," said Auntie Edie. "And you're +the beautifullest, sweetest, darlingest that ever was. Wasn't she a +nasty Auntie Louie? Ten little pink toes. And _there_ he goes. Five +little tootsies to each of his footsies." + +She hid herself behind the _Times_ disturbing Jane. + +"Where's John-John?" she cried. "Where's he gone to? Can anybody tell me +where to find John-John? Where's John-John? Peep-_bo_--there he is! +John-John, look at Auntie Edie. Oh, he won't pay any attention to +poor me." + +Baby John was playing earnestly with Grannie's watch-chain. + +"You might leave the child alone," said Grannie. "Can't you see he +doesn't want you?" + +Auntie Edie made a little pouting face, like a scolded, pathetic child. +Nobody ever did want Auntie Edie. + +And all the time Auntie Emmy was talking to Frances very loud and fast. + +"Frances, I do think your garden's too beautiful for words. How clever +of you to think of clearing away the old flower-beds. I hate flower-beds +on a lawn. Yet I don't suppose I should have had the strength of mind to +get rid of them if it bad been me." + +As she talked Auntie Emmy opened her eyes very wide; her eyebrows +jerked, the left one leaping up above the right; she thrust out her chin +at you and her long, inquiring nose. Her thin face was the play of +agitated nerve-strings that pulled it thus into perpetual, restless +movements; and she made vague gestures with her large, bony hands. Her +tongue went tick-tack, like a clock. Anthony said you-could hear Emmy's +tongue striking the roof of her-mouth all thee time. + +"And putting those delphiniums all together like that--Massing the +blues. Anthony? I _do_ think Anthony has perfect taste. I adore +delphiniums." + +Auntie Emmy was behaving as if neither Michael nor Baby John was there. + +"Don't you think John-John's too beautiful for words?" said Frances. +"Don't you like him a little bit too?" + +Auntie Emmy winced as if Frances had flicked something in her face. + +"Of course I like him too. Why shouldn't I?" + +"I don't think you _do_, Auntie Emmy," Michael said. + +Auntie Emmy considered him as for the first time. + +"What do you know about it?" she said. + +"I can tell by the funny things your face does." + +"I thought," said Frances, "you wanted to play by yourself." + +"So I do," said Michael. + +"Well then, go and play." + +He went and to a heavenly place that he knew of. But as he played with +Himself there he thought: "Auntie Emmy doesn't tell the truth. I think +it is because she isn't happy." + +Michael kept his best things to himself. + + * * * * * + +"I suppose you're happy," said Grannie, "now you've got the poor child +sent away." + +Auntie Emmy raised her eyebrows and spread out her hands, as much as to +say she was helpless under her mother's stupidity. + +"He'd have been sent away anyhow," said Frances. "It isn't good for him +to hang about listening to grown-up conversation." + +It was her part to keep the peace between her mother and her sisters. + +"It seems to me," said Auntie Louie, "that you began it yourself." + +When a situation became uncomfortable, Auntie Louie always put her word +in and made it worse. She never would let Frances keep the peace. + +Frances knew what Louie meant--that she was always flinging her babies +in Emmy's face at those moments when the sight of other people's babies +was too much for Emmy. She could never be prepared for Emmy's moments. + +"It's all very well," Auntie Louie went on; "but I should like to hear +of somebody admiring Dorothy. I don't see where Dorothy comes in." + +Dorothy was supposed, by the two Nannas, to be Auntie Louie's favourite. +If you taxed her with it she was indignant and declared that she was +sure she wasn't. + +And again Frances knew what Louie meant--that she loved her three sons, +Michael and Nicholas and John, with passion, and her one daughter, +Dorothea, with critical affection. That was the sort of thing that Louie +was always saying and thinking about people, and nobody ever paid the +slightest attention to what Louie said or thought. Frances told herself +that if there was one emotion that she was more free from than another +it was sex jealousy. + +The proof of it, which she offered now, was that she had given up +Dorothy to Anthony. It was natural that he should care most for the +little girl. + +Louie said that was easy--when she knew perfectly well that Anthony +didn't. Like Frances he cared most for his three sons. She was leaving +Dorothy to Anthony so that Anthony might leave Michael and Nicholas +to her. + +"You might just as well say," Frances said, "that I'm in love with +John-John. Poor little Don-Don!" + +"I might," said Louie, "just as well." + +Grannie said she was sure she didn't understand what they were talking +about and that Louie had some very queer ideas in her head. + +"Louie," she said, "knows more than I do." + +Frances thought: Was Grannie really stupid? Was she really innocent? Was +she not, rather, clever, chock-full of the secret wisdom and the secret +cruelty of sex? + +Frances was afraid of her thoughts. They came to her not like thoughts, +but like quick rushes of her blood, partly confusing her. She did not +like that. + +She thought: Supposing Grannie knew all the time that Emmy was unhappy, +and took a perverse pleasure in her knowledge? Supposing she was not +really soft and gentle? She could be soft and gentle to her, because of +her children and because of Anthony. She respected Anthony because he +was well-off and efficient and successful, and had supported her ever +since Grandpapa had gone bankrupt. She was proud of Frances because she +was Anthony's wife, who had had three sons and only one daughter. + +Grannie behaved as if her grandchildren were her own children, as if she +had borne three Sons and only one daughter, instead of four daughters +and only one son. Still, Frances was the vehicle of flesh and blood that +carried on her flesh and blood in Michael and Nicholas and John. She +respected Frances. + +But Frances could remember a time when she had been unmarried like her +sisters, and when Grannie had turned on her, too, that look that was +half contempt and half hostility or displeasure. Grannie had not wanted +her to marry Anthony, any more than she would have wanted Louie or +Emmeline or Edith to marry anybody, supposing anybody had wanted to +marry them. And Frances and Anthony had defied her. They had insisted on +marrying each other. Frances knew that if there had been no Anthony, her +mother would have despised her in secret, as in secret she despised +Emmeline and Edith. She despised them more than Louie, because, poor +things, they wanted, palpably, to be married, whereas Louie didn't, or +said she didn't. In her own way, Louie had defied her mother. She had +bought a type-writer and a bicycle with her own earnings, and by +partially supporting herself she had defied Anthony, the male +benefactor, Louie's manner intimated that there was nothing Frances had +that she wanted. She had resources in herself, and Frances had none. + +Frances persuaded herself that she admired and respected Louie. She knew +that she, Frances, was only admired and respected because she had +succeeded where her three sisters had failed. She was even afraid that, +in moments of exasperation, Grannie used her and Anthony and the +children to punish Emmy and Edie for their failure. The least she could +do was to stand between them and Grannie. + +It was possible that if Grannie had been allowed to ignore them and give +her whole attention to Frances or Michael or Baby John, she could have +contrived to be soft and gentle for an afternoon. But neither Louie nor +Emmeline, nor even Edith, would consent to be ignored. They refused to +knuckle under, to give in. Theirs was a perpetual struggle to achieve an +individuality in the teeth of circumstances that had denied them any. +Frances acknowledged that they were right, that in the same +circumstances she would have done the same. + +In their different ways and by different methods they claimed attention. +They claimed it incessantly, Louie, the eldest, by an attitude of +assurance and superiority so stiff and hard that it seemed invulnerable; +Emmy by sudden jerky enthusiasms, exaltations, intensities; Edie by an +exaggerated animation, a false excitement. Edie would drop from a +childish merriment to a childish pathos, when she would call herself +"Poor me," and demand pity for being tired, for missing a train, for +cold feet, for hair coming down. + +There would be still more animation, and still more enthusiasm when +Anthony came home. + +Frances prided herself on her power of foreseeing things. She foresaw +that Anthony would come home early for his game. She foresaw the funny, +nervous agony of his face when he appeared on the terrace and caught +sight of Grannie and the three Aunties, and the elaborate and exquisite +politeness with which he would conceal from them his emotion. She +foresaw that she would say to Annie, "When the master comes tell him +we're having tea in the garden, under the tree of--under the ash-tree" +(for after all, he was the master, and discipline must be maintained). +She foresaw the very gestures of his entrance, the ironically solemn bow +that he would make to her, far-off, from the terrace; she even foresaw +the kind of joke that, for the life of him, he would not be able to +help making. She was so made that she could live happily in this world +of small, foreseen things. + + + +III + +And it all happened as she had foreseen. + +Anthony came home early, because it was a fine afternoon. He made the +kind of joke that calamity always forced from him, by some perversion of +his instincts. + +"When is an ash-tree not an ash-tree? When it's a tree of Heaven." + +He was exquisitely polite to Grannie and the Aunties, and his manner to +Frances, which she openly complained of, was, he said, what a woman +brought on herself when she reserved her passion for her children, her +sentiment for trees of Heaven, and her mockery for her devoted husband. + +"I suppose we can have some tennis _now_," said Auntie Louie. + +"Certainly," said Anthony, "we can, and we shall." He tried not to look +at Frances. + +And Auntie Edie became automatically animated. + +"I can't serve for nuts, but I can run. Who's going to play with _me_?" + +"I am," said Anthony. He was perfect. + +The game of tennis had an unholy and terrible attraction for Auntie +Louie and Auntie Edie. Neither of them could play. But, whereas Auntie +Louie thought that she could play and took tennis seriously, Auntie Edie +knew that she couldn't and took it as a joke. + +Auntie Louie stood tall and rigid and immovable. She planted herself, +like a man, close up to the net, where Anthony wanted to be, and where +he should have been; but Auntie Louie said she was no good if you put +her to play back; she couldn't be expected to take every ball he missed. + +When Auntie Louie called out "Play!" she meant to send a nervous shudder +through her opponents, shattering their morale. She went through all the +gestures of an annihilating service that for some reason never happened. +She said the net was too low and that spoiled her eye. And when she +missed her return it was because Anthony had looked at her and put her +off. Still Aunt Louie's attitude had this advantage that it kept her +quiet in one place where Anthony could dance round and round her. + +But Auntie Edie played in little nervous runs and slides and rushes; she +flung herself, with screams of excitement, against the ball, her partner +and the net; and she brandished her racket in a dangerous manner. The +oftener she missed the funnier it was to Auntie Edie. She had been +pretty when she was young, and seventeen years ago her cries and tumbles +and collisions had been judged amusing; and Auntie Edie thought they +were amusing still. Anthony had never had the heart to undeceive her. So +that when Anthony was there Auntie Edie still went about setting a +standard of gaiety for other people to live up to; and still she was +astonished that they never did, that other people had no sense +of humour. + +Therefore Frances was glad when Anthony told her that he had asked Mr. +Parsons, the children's tutor, and young Norris and young Vereker from +the office to come round for tennis at six, and that dinner must be put +off till half-past eight. + +All was well. The evening would be sacred to Anthony and the young men. +The illusion of worry passed, and Frances's real world of happiness +stood firm. + +And as Frances's mind, being a thoroughly healthy mind, refused to +entertain any dreary possibility for long together, so it was simply +unable to foresee downright calamity, even when it had been pointed out +to her. For instance, that Nicky should really have chosen the day of +the party for an earache, the worst earache he had ever had. + +He appeared at tea-time, carried in Mary-Nanna's arms, and with his head +tied up in one of Mr. Jervis's cricket scarves. As he approached his +family he tried hard not to look pathetic. + +And at the sight of her little son her whole brilliant world of +happiness was shattered around Frances. + +"Nicky darling," she said, "why _didn't_ you tell me it was really +aching?" + +"I didn't know," said Nicky. + +He never did know the precise degree of pain that distinguished the +beginning of a genuine earache from that of a sham one, and he felt that +to palm off a sham earache on his mother for a real one, was somehow a +sneaky thing to do. And while his ear went on stabbing him, Nicky did +his best to explain. + +"You see, I never know whether it's aching or whether it's only going to +ache. It began a little, teeny bit when the Funny Man made me laugh. +And I didn't see the Magic Lantern, and I didn't have any of Rosalind's +cake. It came on when I was biting the sugar off. And it was aching in +both ears at once. It was," said Nicky, "a jolly sell for me." + +At that moment Nicky's earache jabbed upwards at his eyelids and cut +them, and shook tears out of them. But Nicky's mouth refused to take any +part in the performance, though he let his father carry him upstairs. +And, as he lay on the big bed in his mother's room, he said he thought +he could bear it if he had Jane-Pussy to lie beside him, and his +steam-engine. + +Anthony went back into the garden to fetch Jane. He spent an hour +looking for her, wandering in utter misery through the house and through +the courtyard and stables and the kitchen garden. He looked for Jane in +the hothouse and the cucumber frames, and under the rhubarb, and on the +scullery roof, and in the water butt. It was just possible that on a day +of complete calamity Jane should have slithered off the scullery roof +into the water-butt. The least he could do was to find Jane, since Nicky +wanted her. + +And in the end it turned out that Jane had been captured in her sleep, +treacherously, by Auntie Emmy. And she had escaped, maddened with terror +of the large, nervous, incessantly caressing hands. She had climbed into +the highest branch of the tree of Heaven, and crouched there, +glaring, unhappy. + +"Damn the cat!" said Anthony to himself. (It was not Jane he meant.) + +He was distressed, irritated, absurdly upset, because he would have to +go back to Nicky without Jane, because he couldn't get Nicky what +he wanted. + +In that moment Anthony loved Nicky more than any of them. He loved him +almost more than Frances. Nicky's earache ruined the fine day. + +He confided in young Vereker. "I wouldn't bother," he said, "if the +little chap wasn't so plucky about it." + +"Quite so, sir," said young Vereker. + +It was young Mr. Vereker who found Jane, who eventually recaptured her. +Young Mr. Vereker made himself glorious by climbing up, at the risk of +his neck and in his new white flannels, into the high branches of the +tree of Heaven, to bring Jane down. + +And when Anthony thanked him he said, "Don't mention it, sir. It's only +a trifle," though it was, as Mr. Norris said, palpable that the flannels +were ruined. Still, if he hadn't found that confounded cat, they would +never, humanly speaking, have had their tennis. + +The Aunties did not see Mr. Vereker climbing into the tree of Heaven. +They did not see him playing with Mr. Parsons and Anthony and Mr. +Norris. For as soon as the three young men appeared, and Emmeline and +Edith began to be interested and emphatic, Grannie said that as they +wouldn't see anything more of Frances and the children, it was no good +staying any longer, and they'd better be getting back. It was as if she +knew that they were going to enjoy themselves and was determined to +prevent it. + +Frances went with them to the bottom of the lane. She stood there till +the black figures had passed, one by one, through the white posts on to +the Heath, till, in the distance, they became small again and harmless +and pathetic. + +Then she went back to her room where Nicky lay in the big bed. + + * * * * * + +Nicky lay in the big bed with Jane on one side of him and his +steam-engine on the other, and a bag of hot salt against each ear. Now +and then a thin wall of sleep slid between him and his earache. + +Frances sat by the open window and looked out into the garden where +Anthony and Norris played, quietly yet fiercely, against Vereker and +Parsons. Frances loved the smell of fresh grass that the balls and the +men's feet struck from the lawn; she loved the men's voices subdued to +Nicky's sleep, and the sound of their padding feet, the thud of the +balls on the turf, the smacking and thwacking of the rackets. She loved +every movement of Anthony's handsome, energetic body; she loved the +quick, supple bodies of the young men, the tense poise and earnest +activity of their adolescence. But it was not Vereker or Parsons or +Norris that she loved or that she saw. It was Michael, Nicholas and John +whose adolescence was foreshadowed in those athletic forms wearing white +flannels; Michael, Nicky and John, in white flannels, playing fiercely. +When young Vereker drew himself to his full height, when his young body +showed lean and slender as he raised his arms for his smashing service, +it was not young Vereker, but Michael, serious and beautiful. When young +Parsons leaped high into the air and thus returned Anthony's facetious +sky-scraper on the volley, that was Nicky. When young Norris turned and +ran at the top of his speed, and overtook the ball on its rebound from +the base line where young Vereker had planted it, when, as by a miracle, +he sent it backwards over his own head, paralysing Vereker and Parsons +with sheer astonishment, that was John. + + * * * * * + +Her vision passed. She was leaning over Nicky now, Nicky so small in the +big bed. Nicky had moaned. + +"Does it count if I make that little noise, Mummy? It sort of lets the +pain out." + +"No, my lamb, it doesn't count. Is the pain very bad?" + +"Yes, Mummy, awful. It's going faster and faster. And it bizzes. And +when it doesn't bizz, it thumps." He paused--"I think--p'raps--I could +bear it better if I sat on your knee." + +Frances thought she could bear it better too. It would be good for Nicky +that he should grow into beautiful adolescence and a perfect manhood; +but it was better for her that he should be a baby still, that she +should have him on her knee and hold him close to her; that she should +feel his adorable body press quivering against her body, and the heat of +his earache penetrating her cool flesh. For now she was lost to herself +and utterly absorbed in Nicky. And her agony became a sort of ecstasy, +as if, actually, she bore his pain. + +It was Anthony who could not stand it. Anthony had come in on his way to +his dressing-room. As he looked at Nicky his handsome, hawk-like face +was drawn with a dreadful, yearning, ineffectual pity. Frances had +discovered that her husband could both be and look pathetic. He had +wanted her to be sorry for him and she was sorry for him, because his +male pity was all agony; there was no ecstasy in it of any sort at all. +Nicky was far more her flesh and blood than he was Anthony's. + +Nicky stirred in his mother's lap. He raised his head. And when he saw +that queer look on his father's face he smiled at it. He had to make the +smile himself, for it refused to come of its own accord. He made it +carefully, so that it shouldn't hurt him. But he made it so well that it +hurt Frances and Anthony. + +"I never saw a child bear pain as Nicky does," Frances said in her +pride. + +"If he can bear it, _I_ can't," said Anthony. And he stalked into his +dressing-room and shut the door on himself. + +"Daddy minds more than you do," said Frances. + +At that Nicky sat up. His eyes glittered and his cheeks burned with the +fever of his earache. + +"I don't mind," he said. "Really and truly I don't mind. I don't care if +my ear _does_ ache. + +"It's my eyes is crying, not me." + + * * * * * + +At nine o'clock, when they were all sitting down to dinner, Nicky sent +for his father and mother. Something had happened. + +Crackers, he said, had been going off in his ears, and they hurt most +awfully. And when it had done cracking his earache had gone away. And +Dorothy had brought him a trumpet from Rosalind's party and Michael a +tin train. And Michael had given him the train and he wouldn't take the +trumpet instead. Oughtn't Michael to have had the trumpet? + +And when they left him, tucked up in his cot in the night nursery, he +called them back again. + +"It was a jolly sell for me, wasn't it?" said Nicky. And he laughed. + + + +IV + +It seemed that Nicky would always be like that. Whatever happened, and +something was generally happening to him, he didn't care. When he scaled +the plaster flower-pot on the terrace, and it gave way under his assault +and threw him down the steps on to the gravel walk, he picked himself +up, displaying a forehead that was a red abrasion filled in with yellow +gravel and the grey dust of the smashed flower-pot, and said "I don't +care. I liked it," before anybody had time to pity him. When Mary-Nanna +stepped on his train and broke the tender, he said "It's all right. I +don't care. I shall make another." It was no use Grannie saying, "Don't +care came to a bad end"; Nicky made it evident that a bad end would be +life's last challenge not to care. No accident, however unforeseen, +would ever take him at a disadvantage. + +Two years passed and he was just the same. + +Frances and Anthony agreed behind his back that Nicky was adorable. + +But his peculiar attitude to misfortune became embarrassing when you had +to punish him. Nicky could break the back of any punishment by first +admitting that it was a good idea and then thinking of a better one when +it was too late. It was a good idea not letting him have any cake for +tea after he had tested the resilience of the new tyres on his father's +bicycle with a penknife; but, Nicky said, it would have been more to +the purpose if they had taken his steam-engine from him for a week. + +"You didn't think of that, did you, Mummy? I thought of it," said Nicky. + +Once he ran away over the West Heath, and got into the Leg of Mutton +Pond, and would have been drowned if a total stranger hadn't gone in +after him and pulled him out. That time Nicky was sent to bed at four +o'clock in the afternoon. At seven, when his mother came to tuck him up +and say Good-night, she found him sitting up, smiling and ready. + +"Mummy," he said, "I think I ought to tell you. It isn't a bit of good +sending me to bed." + +"I should have thought it was, myself," said Frances. She almost +suspected Nicky of insincerity. + +"So it would have been," he assented, "if I didn't 'vent things. You +see, I just lie still 'venting things all the time. I've 'vented three +things since tea: a thing to make Daddy's bikesickle stand still with +Daddy on it; a thing to squeeze corks out of bottles; and a thing to +make my steam-engine go faster. That isn't a punishment, is it, Mummy?" + + * * * * * + +They said that Nicky would grow out of it. But two more years passed and +Nicky was still the same. + +And yet he was not the same. And Dorothy, and Michael and John were not +the same. + +For the awful thing about your children was that they were always dying. +Yes, dying. The baby Nicky was dead. The child Dorothy was dead and in +her place was a strange big girl. The child Michael was dead and in his +place was a strange big boy. And Frances mourned over the passing of +each age. You could no more bring back that unique loveliness of two +years old, of five years old, of seven, than you could bring back the +dead. Even John-John was not a baby any more; he spoke another language +and had other feelings; he had no particular affection for his mother's +knee. Frances knew that all this dying was to give place to a more +wonderful and a stronger life. But it was not the same life; and she +wanted to have all their lives about her, enduring, going on, at the +same time. She did not yet know that the mother of babies and the mother +of boys and girls must die if the mother of men and women is to be born. + +Thoughts came to Frances now that troubled her tranquillity. + +Supposing, after all, the children shouldn't grow up as she wanted them +to? + +There was Nicky. She could do nothing with him; she could make no +impression on him. + +There was Michael. She couldn't make him out. He loved them, and showed +that he loved them; but it was by caresses, by beautiful words, by rare, +extravagant acts of renunciation, inconsistent with his self-will; not +by anything solid and continuous. There was a softness in Michael that +distressed and a hardness that perplexed her. You could make an +impression on Michael--far too easily--and the impression stayed. You +couldn't obliterate it. Michael's memory was terrible. And he had secret +ways. He was growing more and more sensitive, more and more wrapped up +in Himself. Supposing Michael became a morbid egoist, like Anthony's +brother, Bartholomew? + +And there was Dorothy. She went her own way more than ever, with the +absolute conviction that it was the right way. Nothing could turn her. +At thirteen her body was no longer obedient. Dorothy was not going to be +her mother's companion, or her father's, either; she was Rosalind +Jervis's companion. She seemed to care more about little fat, fluffy +Rosalind than about any of them except Nicky. Dorothy was interested in +Michael; she respected his queer thoughts. It was as if she recognized +some power in him that could beat her somewhere some day, and was humble +before a thing her cleverness had failed to understand. But it was Nicky +that she adored, not Michael; and she was bad for Nicky. She encouraged +his naughtiness because it amused her. + +Frances foresaw that a time would come, a little later, when Nicky and +Dorothy would be companions, not Nicky and his mother. + +In the evenings, coming home from the golf-links, Frances and Anthony +discussed their children. + +Frances said, "You can't make any impression on Nicky. There seems to be +no way that you can get at him." + +Anthony thought there was a way. It was a way he had not tried yet, that +he did not want to try. But, if he could only bring himself to it, he +judged that he could make a distinct impression. + +"What the young rascal wants is a thorough good spanking," said Anthony. + +Nicky said so too. + +The first time he got it Nicky's criticism was that it wasn't a bad idea +if his father could have pulled it off all right. But he said, "It's no +good if you do it through the cloth. And it's no good unless you _want_ +to hurt me, Daddy. And you don't want. And even if you did want, badly +enough to try and hurt, supposing you spanked ever so hard, you couldn't +hurt as much as my earache. And I can bear that." + +"He's top dog again, you see," said Frances, not without a secret +satisfaction. + +"Oh, is he?" said Anthony. "I don't propose to be downed by Nicky." + +Every instinct in him revolted against spanking Nicky. But when +Williams, the groom, showed him a graze on each knee of the pony he had +bought for Frances and the children, Anthony determined that, this time, +Nicky should have a serious spanking. + +"Which of them took Roger out?" + +"I'm sure I don't know, sir," said Williams. + +But Anthony knew. He lay in wait for Nicky by the door that led from the +stable yard into the kitchen garden. + +Nicky was in the strawberry bed. + +"Was it you who took Roger out this afternoon?" + +Nicky did not answer promptly. His mouth was still full of strawberries. + +"What if I did?" he said at last, after manifest reflection. + +"If you did? Why, you let him down on Golders Hill and cut his knees." + +"Holly Mount," said Nicky. + +"Holly Mount or Golders Hill, it's all the same to you, you young +monkey." + +"It isn't, Daddy. Holly Mount's much the worst. It's an awful hill." + +"That," said Anthony, "is why you're forbidden to ride down it. You've +_got_ to be spanked for this, Nicky." + +"Have I? All right. Don't look so unhappy, Daddy." + +Anthony did much better this time. Nicky (though he shook with laughter) +owned it very handsomely. And Anthony had handicapped himself again by +doing it through the cloth. He drew the line at shaming Nicky. +(Yet--_could_ you have shamed his indomitable impudence?) + +But he had done it. He had done it ruthlessly, while the strawberries +were still wet on Nicky's mouth. + +And when it was all over Michael, looking for his father, came into the +school-room where these things happened. He said he was awfully sorry, +but he'd taken Roger out, and Roger had gone down on his knees and +cut himself. + +No, it wasn't on Holly Mount, it was at the turn of the road on the hill +past the "Spaniards." + +Anthony paid no attention to Michael. He turned on Michael's brother. + +"Nicky, what did you do it for?" + +"For a rag, of course. I knew you'd feel such a jolly fool when you +found it wasn't me." + +"You see, Daddy," he explained later, "you might have known I wouldn't +have let Roger down. But wasn't it a ripping sell?" + +"What are you to do," said Anthony, "with a boy like that?" + +Frances had an inspiration. "Do nothing," she said. Her tranquillity +refused to be troubled for long together. + +"Nicky's right. It's no good trying to punish him. After all, _why_ +punish Nicky? It isn't as if he was really naughty. He never does unkind +things, or mean things. And he's truthful." + +"Horribly truthful. They all are," said Anthony. + +"Well, then, what does Nicky do?" + +"He does dangerous things." + +"He forgets." + +"Nothing more dangerous than forgetting. We must punish him to make him +remember." + +"But it doesn't make him remember. It only makes him think us fools." + +"You know what it means?" said Anthony. "We shall have to send him to +school." + +"Not yet," said Frances. + +School was the thing in the future that she dreaded. Nicky was only +nine, and they were all getting on well with Mt. Parsons. Anthony knew +that to send Nicky to school now would be punishing Frances, not Nicky. +The little fiend would only grin in their faces if they told him he was +going to school. + +It was no use trying to make impressions on Nicky. He was as hard as +nails. He would never feel things. + +Perhaps, Frances thought, it was just as well. + + + +V + +"I do think it was nice of Jane," said Nicky, "to have Jerry." + +"And I do think it was nice of me," said Dorothy, "to give him to you." + +Jane was Dorothy's cat; therefore her kittens were Dorothy's. + +"I wouldn't have given him to just anybody." + +"I know," said Nicky. + +"I might have kept him. He's the nicest kitten Jane ever had." + +"I know," said Nicky. "It _was_ nice of you." + +"I might want him back again." + +"I--know." + +Nicky was quiet and serious, almost humble, as if he went in the fear of +losing Jerry. Nobody but Jerry and Dorothy saw Nicky in that mood. + +Not that he was really afraid. Nothing could take Jerry from him. If +Dorothy could have taken him back again she wouldn't have, not even if +she had really wanted him. Dorothy wasn't cruel, and she was +only ragging. + +But certainly he was Jane's nicest kitten. Jane was half-Persian, white +with untidy tabby patterns on her. Jerry was black all over. Whatever +attitude he took, his tight, short fur kept the outlines of his figure +firm and clear, whether he arched his back and jumped sideways, or +rolled himself into a cushion, or squatted with haunches spread and +paws doubled in under his breast, or sat bolt upright with his four legs +straight like pillars, and his tail curled about his feet. Jerry's coat +shone like black looking-glass, and the top of his head smelt sweet, +like a dove's breast. + +And he had yellow eyes. Mary-Nanna said they would turn green some day. +But Nicky didn't believe it. Mary-Nanna was only ragging. Jerry's eyes +would always be yellow. + +Mr. Parsons declared that Nicky sat for whole hours meditating on Jerry, +as if in this way he could make him last longer. + +Jerry's life was wonderful to Nicky. Once he was so small that his body +covered hardly the palm of your hand; you could see his skin; it felt +soft and weak through the thin fur, sleeked flat and wet where Jane had +licked it. His eyes were buttoned up tight. Then they opened. He crawled +feebly on the floor after Jane, or hung on to her little breasts, +pressing out the milk with his clever paws. Then Jerry got older. +Sometimes he went mad and became a bat or a bird, and flew up the +drawing-room curtains as if his legs were wings. + +Nicky said that Jerry could turn himself into anything he pleased; a +hawk, an owl, a dove, a Himalayan bear, a snake, a flying squirrel, a +monkey, a rabbit, a panther, and a little black lamb of God. + +Jerry was a cat now; he was two years old. + +Jerry's fixed idea seemed to be that he was a very young cat, and that +he must be nursed continually, and that nobody but Nicky must nurse him. +Mr. Parsons found that Nicky made surprising progress in his Latin and +Greek that year. What had baffled Mr. Parsons up till now had been +Nicky's incapacity for sitting still. But he would sit still enough when +Jerry was on his knee, pressed tight between the edge of the desk and +Nicky's stomach, so that knowledge entered into Nicky through Jerry when +there was no other way. + +Nicky would even sit still in the open air to watch Jerry as he stalked +bees in the grass, or played by himself, over and over again, his own +enchanted game. He always played it in the same way. He started from the +same clump in the border, to run in one long careening curve across the +grass; at the same spot in the lawn he bounded sideways and gave the +same little barking grunt and dashed off into the bushes. When you tried +to catch him midway he stood on his hind legs and bowed to you +slantwise, waving his forepaws, or rushed like lightning up the tree of +Heaven, and climbed into the highest branches and clung there, looking +down at you. His yellow eyes shone through the green leaves; they +quivered; they played; they mocked you with some challenge, some charm, +secret and divine and savage. + +"The soul of Nicky is in that cat," Frances said. + +Jerry knew that he was Nicky's cat. When other people caught him he +scrabbled over their shoulders with his claws and got away from them. +When Nicky caught him he lay quiet and heavy in his arms, pressing down +and spreading his soft body. Nicky's sense of touch had been hardened by +violent impacts and collisions, by experiments with jack-knives and saws +and chisels and gouges, and by struggling with the material of his +everlasting inventions. Through communion with Jerry it became tender +and sensitive again. It delighted in the cat's throbbing purr and the +thrill of his feet, as Jerry, serious and earnest, padded down his bed +on Nicky's knee. + +"I like him best, though," said Nicky, "when he's sleepy and at the same +time bitesome." + +"You mustn't let him bite you," Frances said. + +"I don't mind," said Nicky. "He wouldn't do it if he didn't like me." + +Jerry had dropped off to sleep with his jaws closing drowsily on Nicky's +arm. When it moved his hind legs kicked at it and tore. + +"He's dreaming when he does that," said Nicky. "He thinks he's a panther +and I'm buffaloes." + +Mr. Parsons laughed at him. "Nicky and his cat!" he said. Nicky didn't +care. Mr. Parsons was always ragging him. + +The tutor preferred dogs himself. He couldn't afford any of the +expensive breeds; but that summer he was taking care of a Russian +wolfhound for a friend of his. When Mr. Parsons ran with Michael and +Nicky round the Heath, the great borzoi ran before them with long leaps, +head downwards, setting an impossible pace. Michael and Dorothy adored +Boris openly. Nicky, out of loyalty to Jerry, stifled a secret +admiration. For Mr. Parsons held that a devotion to a cat was +incompatible with a proper feeling for a dog, whence Nicky had inferred +that any feeling for a dog must do violence to the nobler passion. + +Mr. Parsons tried to wean Nicky from what he pretended to regard as his +unmanly weakness. "Wait, Nicky," he said, "till you've got a dog of +your own." + +"I don't want a dog of my own," said Nicky. "I don't want anything but +Jerry." Boris, he said, was not clever, like Jerry. He had a silly face. + +"Think so?" said Mr. Parsons. "Look at his jaws. They could break +Jerry's back with one snap." + +"_Could_ he, Daddy?" + +They were at tea on the lawn, and Boris had gone to sleep under Mr. +Parsons' legs with his long muzzle on his forepaws. + +"He could," said Anthony, "if he caught him." + +"But he couldn't catch him. Jerry'd be up a tree before Boris could look +at him." + +"If you want Jerry to shin up trees you must keep his weight down." + +Nicky laughed. He knew that Boris could never catch Jerry. His father +was only ragging him. + + * * * * * + +Nicky was in the schoolroom, bowed over his desk. He was doing an +imposition, the second aorist of the abominable verb [Greek: erchomai], +written out five and twenty times. (Luckily he could do the last fifteen +times from memory.) + +Nicky had been arguing with Mr. Parsons. Mr. Parsons had said that the +second aorist of [Greek: erchomai] was not [Greek: êrchon]. + +Nicky had said, "I can't help it. If it's not [Greek: êrchon] it ought +to be." + +Mr. Parsons had replied: "The verb [Greek: erchomai] is irregular." And +Nicky had retorted, in effect, that no verb had any business to be as +irregular as all that. Mr. Parsons had then suggested that Nicky might +know more about the business of irregular verbs if he wrote out the +second aorist of [Greek: erchomai] five and twenty times after tea. As +it was a particularly fine afternoon, an imposition was, Nicky admitted, +a score for Mr. Parsons and a jolly good sell for _him_. + +Mr. Parsons had not allowed him to have Jerry on his knee, or even in +the room; and this, Nicky owned further, was but just. It wouldn't have +been nearly so good a punishment if he had had Jerry with him. + +Nicky, bowed over his desk, struggled for the perfect legibility which +Mr. Parsons had insisted on, as otherwise the imposition would do him +more harm than good. He was in for it, and the thing must be done +honourably if it was done at all. He had only looked out of the windows +twice to make sure that Boris was asleep under Mr. Parsons' legs. And +once he had left the room to see where Jerry was. He had found him in +the kitchen garden, sitting on a bed of fresh-grown mustard and cress, +ruining it. He sat like a lamb, his forepaws crossed, his head tilted +slightly backwards. His yellow eyes gazed at Nicky with a sweet and +mournful innocence. + +Nicky did not hear the voices in the garden. + +"I'm awfully sorry, sir," Mr. Parsons was saying. "I can't think how it +could have happened." Mr. Parsons' voice was thick and his face was very +red. "I could have sworn the door was shut." + +"Johnnie opened it," said Anthony. He seemed to have caught, suddenly, +one of his bad colds and to be giving it to Mr. Parsons. They were both +in their shirtsleeves, and Anthony carried something in his arms which +he had covered with his coat. + +The borzoi stood in front of them. His face had a look of foolish +ecstasy. He stared at Mr. Parsons, and as he stared he panted. There was +a red smear on his white breast; his open jaws still dripped a pink +slaver. It sprayed the ground in front of them, jerked out with +his panting. + +"Get away, you damned brute," said Mr. Parsons. + +Boris abashed himself; he stretched out his fore legs towards Mr. +Parsons, shook his raised haunches, lifted up his great saw-like muzzle, +and rolled into one monstrous cry a bark, a howl, a yawn. + +Nicky heard it, and he looked out of the schoolroom window. He saw the +red smear on the white curly breast. He saw his father in his shirt +sleeves, carrying something in his arms that he had covered with +his coat. + +Under the tree of Heaven Dorothy and Michael, crouching close against +their mother, cried quietly. Frances was crying, too; for it was she who +would have to tell Nicky. + +Dorothy tried to console him. + +"Jerry's eyes would have turned green, if he had lived, Nicky. They +would, really." + +"I wouldn't have minded. They'd have been Jerry's eyes." + +"But he wouldn't have looked like Jerry." + +"I wouldn't have cared what he looked like. He'd have _been_ Jerry." + +"I'll give you Jane, Nicky, and all the kittens she ever has, if that +would make up." + +"It wouldn't. You don't seem to understand that it's Jerry I want. I +wish you wouldn't talk about him." + +"Very well," said Dorothy, "I won't." + +Then Grannie tried. She recommended a holy resignation. God, she said, +had given Jerry to Nicky, and God had taken him away. + +"He didn't give him me, and he'd no right to take him. Dorothy wouldn't +have done it. She was only ragging. But when God does things," said +Nicky savagely, "it isn't a rag." + +He hated Grannie, and he hated Mr. Parsons, and he hated God. But he +loved Dorothy who had given him Jerry. + +Night after night Frances held him in her arms at bed-time while Nicky +said the same thing. "If--if I could stop seeing him. But I keep on +seeing him. When he sat on the mustard and cress. And when he bit me +with his sleep-bites. And when he looked at me out of the tree of +Heaven. Then I hear that little barking grunt he used to make when he +was playing with himself--when he dashed off into the bushes. + +"And I can't _bear_ it." + +Night after night Nicky cried himself to sleep. + +For the awful thing was that it had been all his fault. If he had kept +Jerry's weight down Boris couldn't have caught him. + +"Daddy said so, Mummy." + +Over and over again Frances said, "It wasn't your fault. It was +Don-Don's. He left the door open. Surely you can forgive Don-Don?" Over +and over again Nicky said, "I do forgive him." + +But it was no good. Nicky became first supernaturally subdued and +gentle, then ill. They had to take him away from home, away from the +sight of the garden, and away from Mr. Parsons, forestalling the +midsummer holidays by two months. + +Nicky at the seaside was troublesome and happy, and they thought he had +forgotten. But on the first evening at Hampstead, as Frances kissed him +Good-night, he said: "Shall I have to see Mr. Parsons to-morrow?" + +Frances said: "Yes. Of course." + +"I'd rather not." + +"Nonsense, you must get over that." + +"I--can't, Mummy." + +"Oh, Nicky, can't you forgive poor Mr. Parsons? When he was so unhappy?" + +Nicky meditated. + +"Do you think," he said at last, "he really minded?" + +"I'm sure he did." + +"As much as you and Daddy?" + +"Quite as much." + +"Then," said Nicky, "I'll forgive him." + +But, though he forgave John and Mr. Parsons and even God, who, to do him +justice, did not seem to have been able to help it, Nicky did not +forgive himself. + +Yet Frances never could think why the sight of mustard and cress made +Nicky sick. Neither did Mr. Parsons, nor any schoolmaster who came after +him understand why, when Nicky knew all the rest of the verb [Greek: +erchomai] by heart he was unable to remember the second aorist. + +He excellent memory, but there was always a gap in it just there. + + + +VI + +In that peace and tranquillity where nothing ever happened, Jerry's +violent death would have counted as an event, a date to reckon by; but +for three memorable things that happened, one after another, in the +summer and autumn of 'ninety-nine: the return of Frances's brother, +Maurice Fleming, from Australia where Anthony had sent him two years +ago, on the express understanding that he was to stay there; the +simultaneous arrival of Anthony's brother, Bartholomew, and his family; +and the outbreak of the Boer War. + +The return of Morrie was not altogether unforeseen, and Bartholomew had +announced his coming well beforehand, but who could have dreamed that at +the end of the nineteenth century England would be engaged in a War that +really _was_ a War? Frances, with the _Times_ in her hands, supposed +that that meant more meddling and muddling of stupid politicians, and +that it would mean more silly speeches in Parliament, and copy, at last, +for foolish violent, pathetic and desperate editors, and breach of +promise cases, divorces and fires in paraffin shops reduced to momentary +insignificance. + +But as yet there was no war, nor any appearance that sensible people +interpreted as a sign of war at the time of Morrie's return. It stood +alone, as other past returns, the return from Bombay, the return from +Canada, the return from Cape Colony, had stood, in its sheer awfulness. +To Frances it represented the extremity of disaster. + +They might have known what was coming by Grannie's behaviour. One day, +the day when the Australian mail arrived, she had subsided suddenly into +a state of softness and gentleness. She approached her son-in-law with +an air of sorrowful deprecation; she showed a certain deference to her +daughter Louie; she was soft and gentle even with Emmeline and Edith. + +Mrs. Fleming broke the news to Louie who broke it to Frances who in her +turn broke it to Anthony. That was the procedure they invariably +adopted. + +"I wonder," Grannie said, "what he can be coming back for!" Each time +she affected astonishment and incredulity, as if Morrie's coming back +were, not a recurrence that crushed you with its flatness and staleness, +but a thing that must interest Louie because of its utter un-likeliness. + +"I wonder," said Louie, "why he hasn't come before. What else did you +expect?" + +"I'm sure I don't know," said Grannie helplessly. "Go and tell Frances." + +Louie went. And because she knew that the burden of Morrie would fall +again on Frances's husband she was disagreeable with Frances. + +"It's all very well for you," she said. "You haven't got to live with +him. You haven't got to sleep in the room next him. You don't know what +it's like." + +"I do know," said Frances. "I remember. You'll have to bear it." + +"You haven't had to bear it for fourteen years." + +"You'll have to bear it," Frances repeated, "till Anthony sends him out +again. That's all it amounts to." + +She waited till the children were in bed and she was alone with Anthony. + +"Something awful's happened," she said, and paused hoping he would +guess. + +"I don't know how to tell you." + +"Don't tell me if it's that Nicky's been taking my new bike to pieces." + +"It isn't Nicky--It's Maurice." + +Anthony got up and cleared his pipe, thoroughly and deliberately. She +wondered whether he had heard. + +"I'd no business to have married you--to have let you in for him." + +"Why? What's he been up to now?" + +"He's coming home." + +"So," said Anthony, "is Bartholomew. I'd no business to have let you in +for _him_." + +"Don't worry, Frances. If Morrie comes home he'll be sent out again, +that's all." + +"At your expense." + +"I don't grudge any expense in sending Morrie out. Nor in keeping him +out." + +"Yes. But this time it's different. It's worse." + +"Why worse?" + +"Because of the children. They're older now than they were last time. +They'll understand." + +"What if they do? They must learn," Anthony said, "to realize facts." + +They realized them rather sooner than he had expected. Nobody but Louie +had allowed for the possibility of Morrie's sailing by the same steamer +as his letter; and Louie had argued that, if he had done so, he was +bound either to have arrived before the letter or to have sent a wire. +Therefore they had at least a clear five days of peace before them. +Anthony thought he had shown wisdom when, the next morning which was a +Wednesday, he sent Grannie and the Aunties to Eastbourne for a week, so +that they shouldn't worry Frances, and when on Thursday he made her go +with him for a long day in the country, to take her mind off Morrie. + +They came back at nine in the evening and found Dorothy, Michael and +Nicholas sitting up for them. Michael and Nicky were excited, but +Dorothy looked grown-up and important. + +"Uncle Morrie's come," they said. + +"Dorothy saw him first--" + +"Nicky let him in--" + +"He hadn't got a hat on." + +"We kept him in the schoolroom till Nanna could come and put him to +bed." + +"He was crying because he'd been to Grannie's house and there wasn't +anybody there--" + +"And because he'd lost the love-birds he'd brought for Auntie Emmy--" + +"And because he couldn't remember which of us was dead." + +"No, Mummy, nobody's seen him but us and Nanna." + +"Nanna's with him now." + +Uncle Morrie never accounted, even to himself, for the time he had spent +between the arrival of his ship at Tilbury on Sunday morning and that +Saturday afternoon. Neither could he remember what had become of his +luggage or whether he had ever had any. Only the County Council man, +going his last rounds in the farthest places of the Heath, came upon a +small bundle tied in a blue handkerchief, a cap belonging to E.D. +Boulger, of the S.S. _Arizona_, a cage of love-birds, and a distinct +impression of a recumbent human form, on the grass together, under a +young birch tree. + +In the stuffy little house behind the Judge's Walk the four women lived +now under male protection. When they crossed the Heath they had no +longer any need to borrow Anthony from Frances; they had a man of their +own. To make room for him Auntie Louie and her type-writer were turned +out of their own place, and Auntie Louie had to sleep in Grannie's bed, +a thing she hated. To make room for the type-writer the grey parrot was +turned out of the dining-room into the drawing-room. And as Maurice +couldn't stand either the noise of the type-writer or the noises of the +parrot he found both the dining-room and the drawing-room uninhabitable. + +Day after day Dorothy and Michael and Nicky, on the terrace, looked out +for his coming. (Only extreme distance made Uncle Morrie's figure small +and harmless and pathetic.) Day after day he presented himself with an +air of distinction and assurance, flushed, and a little battered, but +still handsome, wearing a spruce grey suit and a panama hat bought with +Anthony's money. Sheep-farming in Australia--he had infinitely preferred +the Cape Mounted Police--had ruined Maurice's nerves. He was good for +nothing but to lounge in Anthony's garden, to ride his horses--it was +his riding that had got him into the Cape Mounted Police--to sit at his +table and drink his wines, and, when there was no more wine for him, to +turn into Jack Straw's Castle for a pick-me-up on his way home. + +And before July was out three others were added to the garden group: +Bartholomew and Vera and Veronica. And after them a fourth, Vera's +friend, Captain Ferdinand Cameron, home on sick leave before anybody +expected him. + +Frances's tree of Heaven sheltered them all. + + + +VII + +Bartholomew, Anthony's brother, lived in Bombay and looked after his +business for him in the East. He had something the matter with him, and +he had come home to look after his own health. At least, Bartholomew's +health was what he was supposed to be looking after; but Dorothy had +heard her father say that Bartie had come home to look after Vera. + +Vera was Bartie's wife and Veronica's mother. Before she became Mrs. +Bartholomew Harrison she had been Frances's schoolfellow and her dearest +friend. Frances Fleming had been her bridesmaid and had met Anthony for +the first time at Vera's wedding, when he had fallen in love with her; +and she had fallen in love with him when they stayed together in +Bartholomew's house, before Bartholomew took Vera to Bombay. + +Bartie had not been married ten months before he wanted to get Vera out +of England; and Vera had not been in India for ten weeks before he +wanted her to go back. They were always coming backwards and forwards, +but they never came together. Vera would be sent home first, and then +Bartie would come over in a great hurry and take her out again. + +Twelve years after their marriage Veronica was born at Simla, and the +coming and going ceased for three years. Then Bartie sent them both +home. That time Vera had refused to travel farther westward than +Marseilles. She was afraid of damp and cold, and she had got the ship's +doctor to order her to the Riviera. She and Veronica had been living for +two years in a small villa at Agaye. + +This summer she had come to England. She was no longer afraid of damp +and cold. And Bartie followed her. + +Dorothy and Michael had no difficulty in remembering Vera, though it was +more than six years since they had seen her; for Vera looked the same. +Her hair still shone like copper-beech leaves; her face had still the +same colour and the same sweet, powdery smell. And if these things had +changed Frances would still have known her by her forehead that looked +so broad because her eyebrows and her eyes were so long, and by her +fine, unfinished, passionate mouth, by her pointed chin and by her ways. + +But though her brother-in-law's ways had always been more or less +disagreeable, Frances was not prepared for the shock of the renewed +encounter with Bartholomew. Bartie was long and grey, and lean even when +you allowed for the thickness of his cholera belt. He wore a white scarf +about his throat, for his idea was that he had cancer in it. Cancer made +you look grey. He, too, had the face of a hawk, of a tired and irritable +hawk. It drooped between his hunched shoulders, his chin hanging above +the scarf as if he were too tired or too irritable to hold it up. He +behaved to Vera and Veronica as if it was they who had worried him into +cancer of the throat, they who tired and irritated him. + +Vera talked to him as you might talk to a sick child whose peevishness +prolongs, unreasonably, its pain. Bartie's manner almost amounted to a +public repudiation of her. The whole house vibrated to the shutting of +his door at Good-night time. Yet when Bartie came down in the morning, +late, and more morose than ever, Vera's mouth made as if it kissed some +visionary image of the poor thing's absurdity. She didn't believe for +one minute in his cancer. It was an excuse for the shutting of his door. + +She kept out of his way as much as possible; yet, when they were +together they watched each other. They watched; Bartie openly with +sudden dartings and swoopings of his hawk's eyes; Vera furtively. Her +eyes were so large and long that, without turning her head, or any +visible movement, they could hold his image. + +But for Captain Cameron Vera's eyes had a full, open gaze. Spread wide +apart under her wide forehead they were like dark moth's wings; they +hovered, rested, flickering, vibrating to the fine tips of +their corners. + +Whatever had been the matter with him in India, Captain Cameron had +recovered. His keen, fair, Highland face made Bartie's face look +terrible. Ferdie was charming; not more charming to Bartie's wife than +he was to Frances; not more charming to Frances than to her sisters; so +that even Louie unbent, and Emmeline and Edith fell in love with him. He +flirted with Frances under Anthony's nose; and with the Aunties under +Grannie's nose. The corners of Vera's mouth followed the tilt of her +long eyes' corners as she saw him do it. + +You could not think of Vera as the children's Auntie, or as Bartie's +wife, or as Veronica's mother. + +Veronica was a very little girl who sang songs and was afraid of +ghosts. + +She slept in her mother's room, and so never could be put to bed till +half-past seven, or till her mother was dressed to the last hook of her +gown, the last hairpin, the last touch of powder (adhesive without +bismuth), and the last shadow drawn fine about her eyelashes. When Vera +beautiful in a beautiful gown, came trailing into the room where +everybody waited for her, Veronica hid herself behind Uncle Anthony's +big chair. When her father told her to come out of that and say +good-night and be quick about it, she came slowly (she was not in the +least afraid of Bartie), showing herself bit by bit, honey-coloured +hair, eyebrows dark under her gold, very dark against her white; +sorrowful, transparent, lucid eyes. A little girl with a straight white +face. A little, slender girl in a straight white frock. She stood by +Anthony's chair, spinning out the time, smiling at him with her childish +wavering mouth, a smile that would not spread, that never went higher +than the tip of her white nose, that left her lucid, transparent eyes +still sorrowful. + +She knew that Anthony would take her on his knee, and that she could sit +there with her head tucked under his chin, smiling at him, prolonging +her caresses, till Vera told him to put her down and let her go. + +Bartie growled: "Did you hear your mother telling you to say +Good-night?" + +"Yes. But I must kiss Uncle Anthony first. Properly. Once on his mouth. +Once--on his nose. And once--on--his--eyes. And--once--on--his dear +little--ears." + +After that, Veronica went slowly from chair to chair, lingering at each, +sitting first on Frances's lap, then on Vera's, spinning out her +caresses, that spun out the time and stretched it farther and farther +between her and the unearthly hour ahead of her. + +But at her father's chair she did not linger for a single instant. She +slipped her hand into his hand that dropped it as if it had hurt him; +she touched his forehead with her small mouth, pushed out, absurdly, to +keep her face as far as possible from his. For, though she was not +afraid of Bartie, he was not nice either to sit on or to kiss. + +Half-way across the room she lingered. + +"I haven't sung 'London Bridge is broken down.' Don't you want me to +sing it?" + +"No, darling. We want you to go to bed." + +"I'm going, Mummy." + +And at the door she turned and looked at them with her sorrowful, lucid, +transparent eyes. + +Then she went, leaving the door open behind her. She left it open on +purpose, so that she might hear their voices, and look down into the +room on her way upstairs. Besides, she always hoped that somebody would +call her back again. + +She lingered at the foot of the stairs till Bartie got up and shut the +door on her. She lingered at the turn of the stairs and on the landing. +But nobody ever called her back again. + +And nobody but Nicky knew what she was afraid of. + +Veronica was sitting up in the cot that used to be Nicky's when he was +little. Nicky, rather cold in his pyjamas, sat on the edge of it beside +her. A big, yellow, tremendous moon hung in the sky outside the window, +behind a branch of the tree of Heaven, and looked at them. + +Veronica crouched sideways on her pillow in a corner of the cot, her +legs doubled up tight under her tiny body, her shoulders hunched +together, and her thin arms hanging before her straight to her lap. Her +honey coloured hair was parted and gathered into two funny plaits, that +stuck out behind her ear. Her head was tilted slightly backwards to rest +against the rail of the cot. She looked at Nicky and her look reminded +him of something, he couldn't remember what. + +"Were you ever afraid, Nicky?" she said. + +Nicky searched his memory for some image encircled by an atmosphere of +terror, and found there a white hound with red smears on his breast and +a muzzle like two saws. + +"Yes," he said, "I was once." + +A lamb--a white lamb--was what Veronica looked like. And Jerry bad +looked at him like that when he found him sitting on the mustard and +cress the day Boris killed him. + +"Afraid--what of?" + +"I don't know that it was 'of' exactly." + +"Would you be afraid of a ghost, now, if you saw one?" + +"I expect I jolly well should, if I _really_ saw one." + +"Being afraid of ghosts doesn't count, does it?" + +"No, of course it doesn't. You aren't afraid as long as I'm here, are +you?" + +"No." + +"I shall stay, then, till you go to sleep." + +Night after night he heard her calling to him, "Nicky, I'm frightened." +Nobody but Veronica and Nicky were ever in bed on that floor before +midnight. Night after night he got up and came to her and stayed beside +her till she went to sleep. + +Once he said, "If it was Michael he could tell you stories." + +"I don't _want_ Michael. I want you." + +In the day-time she went about looking for him. "Where's Nicky?" she +said. "I want him." + +"Nicky's in the schoolroom. You can't have him." + +"But--I _want_ him." + +"Can't be helped. You must do without him." + +"Will he be very long?" + +"Yes, ever so long. Run away like a good little girl and play with +Don-Don." + +She knew that they told her to play with Don-Don, because she was a +little girl. If only she could grow big quick and be the same age +as Nicky. + +Instead of running away and playing with Don-Don, Ronny went away by +herself into the apple-tree house, to wait for Nicky. + +The apple-tree house stood on the grass-plot at the far end of the +kitchen garden. The apple-tree had had no apples on it for years. It was +so old that it leaned over at a slant; it stretched out two great boughs +like twisted arms, and was propped up by a wooden post under each +armpit. The breast of its trunk rested on a cross-beam. The posts and +the cross-beam were the doorway of the house, and the branches were its +roof and walls. Anthony had given it to Veronica to live in, and +Veronica had given it to Nicky. It was Nicky's and Ronny's house. The +others were only visitors who were not expected to stay. There was room +enough for them both to stand up inside the doorway, to sit down in the +middle, and to lie flat at the far end. + +"What more," said Nicky, "do you want?" + +He thought that everybody would be sure to laugh at him when he played +with Bonny in the apple-tree house. + +"I don't care a ram if they do," he said. But nobody ever did, not even +Mr. Parsons. + +Only Frances, when she passed by that way and saw Nicky and Bonny +sitting cramped and close under their roof-tree, smiled unwillingly. But +her smile had in it no sort of mockery at all. Nicky wondered why. + +"Is it," said Dorothy one morning, "that Ronny doesn't look as if she +was Uncle Bartie's daughter, or that Uncle Bartie looks as if he wasn't +Ronny's father?" + +However suddenly and wantonly an idea struck Dorothy, she brought it out +as if it had been the result of long and mature consideration. + +"Or is it," said Vera, "that I don't look as if I were Ronny's mother?" + +Her eyes had opened all their length to take in Dorothy. + +"No. I think it is that Uncle Bartie looks--" + +Frances rushed in. "It doesn't matter, my dear, what you think." + +"It will some day," said Dorothy. + +It was perhaps the best thing she could have said, as showing that she +was more interested in the effect she would produce some day than in the +sensation she had created there and then. + +"May I go round to Rosalind's after lessons?" + +"You may." + +"And may I stay to lunch if they ask me?" + +"You may stay as long as they care to have you. Stay to tea, stay to +dinner, if you like." + +Dorothy knew by the behaviour of her mother's face that she had scored +somewhere, somehow. She also knew that she was in disgrace and yet not +in disgrace; which, if you came to think of it, was a funny thing. + +About this time Frances began to notice a symptom in herself. She was +apt to resent it when Vera discussed her children with her. One late +afternoon she and Anthony were alone with Vera. Captain Cameron had not +come round that day, and Bartie had gone into town to consult either his +solicitor or a specialist. He was always consulting one or the other. + +"You're wrong, you two," said Vera. "You think Michael's tender and +Nicky's hard and unimpressionable. Michael's hard. You won't have to +bother about Michael's feelings." + +"Michael's feelings," said Frances, "are probably what I shall have to +bother about more than anything." + +"You needn't. For one thing, they'll be so unlike your feelings that you +won't know whether they're feelings at all. You won't even know whether +he's having them or not. Nicky's the one you'll have to look out for. +He'll go all the howlers." + +"I don't think that Nicky'll be very susceptible. He hasn't shown any +great signs so far." + +"Hasn't he! Nicky's susceptibility is something awful." + +"My dear Vera, you say yourself you don't care about children and that +you don't understand them." + +"No more I do," said Vera. "But I understand men." + +"Do you understand Veronica?" + +"Of course I don't. I said men. Veronica's a girl. Besides, I'm +Veronica's mother." + +"Nicky," said Anthony, "is not much more than nine." + +"You keep on thinking of him as a child--a child--nothing but a child. +Wait till Nicky has children of his own. Then you'll know." + +"They would be rather darlings, Nicky's children," Frances said. + +"So would Veronica's." + +"Ver-onica?" + +You needn't be frightened. Nicky's affection for Ronny is purely +paternal." + +"I'm not frightened," said Frances. But she left the room. She did not +care for the turn the talk had taken. Besides, she wanted Vera to see +that she was not afraid to leave her alone with Anthony. + +"I'm glad Frances has gone," said Vera, "because I want to talk to you. +You'd never have known each other if it hadn't been for me. She couldn't +have married you. It was I who saw you both through." + +He assented. + +"And you said if there was ever anything you could do for me--You +haven't by any chance forgotten?" + +"I have not." + +"Well, if anything should happen to me--" + +"But, my dear girl, what _should_ happen to you?" + +"Things _do_ happen, Anthony." + +"Yes, but how about Bartie?" + +"That's it. Supposing we separated." + +"Good Heavens, you're not contemplating _that_, are you?" + +"I'm not contemplating anything. But Bartie isn't very easy to live +with, is he?" + +"No, he's not. He never was. All the same--" + +Bartie was impossible. Between the diseases he had and thought he hadn't +and the diseases he hadn't and thought he had, he made life miserable +for himself and other people. He was a jealous egoist; he had the morbid +coldness of the neurotic, and Vera was passionate. She ought never to +have married him. All the same--" + +"All the same I shall stick to Bartie as long as it's possible. And as +long as it's possible Bartie'll stick to me. But, if anything happens I +want you to promise that you'll take Ronny." + +"You must get Frances to promise." + +"She'll do anything you ask her to, Anthony." + +When Frances came into the room again Vera was crying. + +And so Frances promised. + + "'London Bridge is broken down + (_Ride over My Lady Leigh_!) + + * * * * * + + "'Build it up with stones so strong-- + + * * * * * + + "'Build it up with gold so fine'"-- + +It was twenty to eight and Ronny had not so much as begun to say Good +night. She was singing her sons to spin out the time. + + "'London Bridge--'" + +"That'll do, Ronny, it's time you were in bed." + +There was no need for her to linger and draw out her caresses, no need +to be afraid of going to bed alone. Frances, at Vera's request, had had +her cot moved up into the night nursery. + + + +VIII + +Anthony had begun to wonder where on earth he should send Morrie out to +this time, when the Boer War came and solved his problem. + +Maurice, joyous and adventurous again, sent himself to South Africa, to +enlist in the Imperial Light Horse. + +Ferdie Cameron went out also with the Second Gordon Highlanders, +solving, perhaps, another problem. + +"It's no use trying to be sorry, Mummy," Dorothy said. + +Frances knew what Anthony was thinking, and Anthony knew it was what +Frances thought herself: Supposing this time Morrie didn't come back? +Then that problem would be solved for ever. Frances hated problems when +they worried Anthony. Anthony detested problems when they +bothered Frances. + +And the children knew what they were thinking. Dorothy went on. + +"It's all rot pretending that we want him to come back." + +"It was jolly decent of him to enlist," said Nicky. + +Dorothy admitted that it was jolly decent. "But," she said, "what else +could he do? His only chance was to go away and do something so jolly +plucky that _we_'re ashamed of ourselves, and never to come back again +to spoil it. You don't want him to spoil it, Mummy ducky, do you?" + +Anthony and Frances tried, conscientiously and patriotically, to +realize the Boer War. They said it was terrible to have it hanging over +them, morning, noon and night. But it didn't really hang over them. It +hung over a country that, except once when it had conveniently swallowed +up Morrie, they had never thought about and could not care for, a +landscape that they could not see. The war was not even part of that +landscape; it refused to move over it in any traceable course. It simply +hung, or lay as one photographic film might lie upon another. It was not +their fault. They tried to see it. They bought the special editions of +the evening papers; they read the military dispatches and the stories of +the war correspondents from beginning to end; they stared blankly at the +printed columns that recorded the disasters of Nicholson's Nek, and +Colenso and Spion Kop. But the forms were grey and insubstantial; it was +all fiat and grey like the pictures in the illustrated papers; the very +blood of it ran grey. + +It wasn't real. For Frances the brown walls of the house, the open wings +of its white shutters, the green garden and tree of Heaven were real; so +were Jack Straw's Castle and Harrow on the Hill; morning and noon and +night were real, and getting up and dressing and going to bed; most real +of all the sight and sound and touch of her husband and her children. + +Only now and then the vision grew solid and stood firm. Frances carried +about with her distinct images of Maurice, to which she could attach the +rest. Thus she had an image of Long Tom, an immense slender muzzle, +tilted up over a high ridge, nosing out Maurice. + +Maurice was shut up in Ladysmith. + +"Don't worry, Mummy. That'll keep him out of mischief. Daddy said he +ought to be shut up somewhere." + +"He's starving, Dorothy. He won't have anything to eat." + +"Or drink, ducky." + +"Oh, you're cruel! Don't be cruel!" + +"I'm not cruel. If I didn't care so awfully for you, Mummy, I shouldn't +mind whether he came back or didn't. _You_'re cruel. You ought to think +of Grannie and Auntie Louie and Auntie Emmy and Auntie Edie." + +"At the moment," said Frances, "I am thinking of Uncle Morrie." + +She was thinking of him, not as he actually was, but as he had been, as +a big boy like Michael, as a little boy like John, two years younger +than she; a little boy by turns spoiled and thwarted, who contrived, +nevertheless, to get most things that he happened to want by crying for +them, though everybody else went without. And in the grown-up Morrie's +place, under the shells of Ladysmith, she saw Nicky. + +For Nicky had declared his intention of going into the Army. + +"And I'm thinking of Morrie," Dorothy said. "I don't want him to miss +it." + +Frances and Anthony had hung out flags for Mafeking; Dorothy and Nicky, +mounted on bicycles, had been careering through the High Street with +flags flying from their handlebars. Michael was a Pro-Boer and flew no +flags. All these things irritated Maurice. + +He had come back again. He had missed it, as he had missed all the +chances that were ever given him. A slight wound kept him in hospital +throughout the greater part of the siege, and he had missed the sortie +of his squadron and the taking of the guns for which Ferdie Cameron got +his promotion and his D.S.O. He had come back in the middle of the war +with nothing but a bullet wound in his left leg to prove that he had +taken part in it. + +The part he had taken had not sobered Maurice. It had only depressed +him. And depression after prolonged, brutal abstinence broke down the +sheer strength by which sometimes he stretched a period of sobriety +beyond its natural limits. + +For there were two kinds of drinking: great drinking that came seldom +and was the only thing that counted, and ordinary drinking that, though +it went on most of the time, brought no satisfaction and didn't count at +all. And there were two states of drunkenness to correspond: one intense +and vivid, without memory, transcending all other states; and one that +was no more remarkable than any other. Before the war Morrie's great +drinking came seldom, by fits and bursts and splendid unlasting +uprushes; after the war the two states tended to approach till they +merged in one continual sickly soaking. And while other important and +outstanding things, and things that he really wanted to remember, +disappeared in the poisonous flood let loose in Morrie's memory, he +never for one moment lost sight of the fact that it was he and not +Anthony, his brother-in-law, who had enlisted and was wounded. + +He was furious with his mother and sisters for not realizing the war. He +was furious with Frances and Anthony. Not realizing the war meant not +realizing what he had been through. He swore by some queer God of his +that he would make them realize it. The least they could do for him was +to listen to what he had to say. + +"You people here don't know what war is. You think it's all glory and +pluck, and dashing out and blowing up the enemy's guns, and the British +flag flying, and wounded pipers piping all the time and not caring a +damn. Nobody caring a damn. + +"And it isn't. It's dirt and funk and stinks and more funk all the time. +It's lying out all night on the beastly veldt, and going to sleep and +getting frozen, and waking up and finding you've got warm again because +your neighbour's inside's been fired out on the top of you. You get +wounded when the stretcher-bearers aren't anywhere about, and you crawl +over to the next poor devil and lie back to back with him to keep warm. +And just when you've dropped off to sleep you wake up shivering, because +he's died of a wound he didn't know he'd got. + +"You'll find a chap lying on his back all nice and comfy, and when you +start to pick him up you can't lift him because his head's glued to the +ground. You try a bit, gently, and the flesh gives way like rotten +fruit, and the bone like a cup you've broken and stuck together without +any seccotine, and you heave up a body with half a head on it. And all +the brains are in the other half, the one that's glued down. That's war. + +"Huh!" He threw out his breath with a jerk of contempt. It seemed to him +that neither Frances nor Anthony was listening to him. They were not +looking at him. They didn't want to listen; they didn't want to look at +him. He couldn't touch them; he couldn't evoke one single clear image in +their minds; there was no horror he could name that would sting them to +vision, to realization. They had not been there. + +Dorothy and Michael and Nicky were listening. The three kids had +imagination; they could take it in. They stared as if he had brought +those horrors into the room. But even they missed the reality of it. +They saw everything he meant them to see, except him. It was as if they +were in the conspiracy to keep him out of it. + +He glared at Frances and Anthony. What was the good of telling them, of +trying to make them realize it? If they'd only given some sign, made +some noise or some gesture, or looked at him, he might have spared them. +But the stiff, averted faces of Frances and Anthony annoyed him. + +"And if you're a poor wretched Tommy like me, you'll have to sweat in a +brutal sun, hauling up cases of fizz from the railway up country to +Headquarters, with a thirst on you that frizzles your throat. You see +the stuff shining and spluttering, and you go mad. You could kill the +man if you were to see him drink it, when you know there's nothing for +_you_ but a bucket of green water with typhoid germs swimming about in +it. That's war. + +"You think you're lucky if you're wounded and get bumped down in a +bullock wagon thirty miles to the base hospital. But the best thing you +can do then is to pop off. For if you get better they make you hospital +orderly. And the hospital orderly has to clean up all the muck of the +butcher's shop from morning to night. When you're so sick you can't +stand you get your supper, dry bread and bully beef. The bully beef +reminds you of things, and the bread--well, the bread's all nice and +white on the top. But when you turn it over on the other side--it's red. +That's war." + +Frances looked at him. He thought: "At last she's turned; at last I've +touched her; she can realize that." + +"Morrie dear, it must have been awful," she said. "It's _too_ awful. I +don't mind your telling me and Anthony about it; but I'd rather you did +it when the children aren't in the room." + +"Is that all you think about? The children? The children. You don't care +a tinker's cuss about the war. You don't care a damn what happens to me +or anybody else. What does it matter who's wounded or who's killed, as +long as it isn't one of your own kids? + +"I'm simply trying to tell you what war _is_. It's dirt and stink and +funk. That's all it is. And there's precious little glory in it, Nicky." + +"If the Boers won there would be glory," Michael said. + +"Not even if the Boers won," said Maurice. + +"Certainly not if the Boers won," said Anthony. + +"You'll say next there'd be no glory if there was war between England +and Ireland and the Irish won. And yet there would be glory." + +"Would there? Go and read history and don't talk rot." + +"I have read it," said Michael. + +Frances thought: "He doesn't know what he's talking about. Why should +he? He's barely thirteen. I can't think where he gets these ideas from. +But he'll grow out of them." + +It was not Maurice that she saw in Maurice's war-pictures. But he had +made them realize what war was; and they vowed that as long as they +lived not one of their sons should have anything to do with it. + + * * * * * + +In the spring of nineteen-one Anthony sent Maurice out to California. +The Boer War was ended. + +Another year, and the vision of war passed from Frances as if it had +never been. + + + +IX + +Michael was unhappy. + +The almond trees flowered in front of the white houses in the strange +white streets. + +White squares, white terraces, white crescents; at the turn of the roads +the startling beauty of the trees covered with pink blossoms, hot +against the hot white walls. + +After the pink blossoms, green leaves and a strange white heat +everywhere. You went, from pavements burning white, down long avenues +grey-white under the shadows of the limes. + +A great Promenade going down like a long green tunnel, from the big +white Hotel at the top to the High Street at the bottom of the basin +where the very dregs of the heat sank and thickened. + +Promenade forbidden for no earthly reason that Michael could see, except +that it was beautiful. Hotel where his father gave him dinner on his +last day of blessed life, telling him to choose what he liked best, as +the condemned criminal chooses his last meal on the day they hang him. + +Cleeve Hill and Battledown and Birdlip, and the long rampart of +Leckhampton, a thin, curling bristle of small trees on the edge of it; +forms that made an everlasting pattern on his mind; forms that haunted +him at night and tempted and tormented him all day. Memory which it +would have been better for him if he had not had, of the raking open +country over the top, of broad white light and luminous blue shadows, of +white roads switchbacking through the sheep pastures; fields of bright +yellow mustard in flower on the lower hills; then, rectangular fir +plantations and copses of slender beech trees in the hollows. Somewhere, +far-off, the Severn, faint and still, like a river in a dream. + +Memory of the round white town in the round pit of the valley, shining, +smoking through the thick air and the white orchard blossoms; memory +saturated by a smell that is like no other smell on earth, the delicate +smell of the Midland limestone country, the smell of clean white dust, +and of grass drying in the sun and of mustard flowers. + +Michael was in Cheltenham. + +It was a matter of many unhappinesses, not one unhappiness. A sudden +intolerable unhappiness, the flash and stab of the beauty of the +almond-flowers, seen in passing and never seized, beauty which it would +have been better for him if he had not seen; the knowledge, which he +ought never to have had, that this beauty had to die, was killed because +he had not seized it, when, if he could but have held it for one minute, +it would have been immortal. A vague, light unhappiness that came +sometimes, could not for the life of him think why, from the sight of +his own body stripped, and from the feeling of his own muscles. There +was sadness for him in his very strength. A long, aching unhappiness +that came with his memory of the open country over the tops of the +hills, which, in their incredible stupidity and cruelty, they had let +him see. A quick, lacerating unhappiness when he thought of his mother, +and of the garden on the Heath, and the high ridge of the Spaniards' +Road, and London below it, immense and beautiful. + +The unhappiness of never being by himself. + +He was afraid of the herd. It was with him night and day. He was afraid +of the thoughts, the emotions that seized it, swaying, moving the +multitude of undeveloped souls as if they had been one monstrous, +dominating soul. He was afraid of their voices, when they chanted, sang +and shouted together. He loathed their slang even when he used it. He +disliked the collective, male odour of the herd, the brushing against +him of bodies inflamed with running, the steam of their speed rising +through their hot sweaters; and the smell of dust and ink and +india-rubber and resinous wood in the warm class-rooms. + +Michael was at school. + +The thing he had dreaded, that had hung over him, threatening him for +years before it happened, had happened. Nothing could have prevented it; +their names had been down for Cheltenham long ago; first his, then +Nicky's. Cheltenham, because Bartie and Vera lived there, and because it +had a college for girls, and Dorothy, who wanted to go to Roedean, had +been sent to Cheltenham, because of Bartie and Vera and for no other +reason. First Dorothy; then, he, Michael; then, the next term, Nicky. +And Nicky had been sent (a whole year before his time) because of +Michael, in the hope that Michael would settle down better if he had his +brother with him. It didn't seem reasonable. + +Not that either Dorothy or Nicky minded when they got there. All that +Nicky minded was not being at Hampstead. Being at Cheltenham he did not +mind at all. He rather liked it, since Major Cameron had come to stay +just outside it--on purpose to annoy Bartie--and took them out riding. +Even Michael did not mind Cheltenham more than any other place his +people might have chosen. He was not unreasonable. All he asked was to +be let alone, and to have room to breathe and get ahead in. As it was, +he had either to go with the school mass, or waste energy in resisting +its poisonous impact. + +He had chosen resistance. + + + TUDOR HOUSE. + CHELTENHAM, + _Sunday_. + +DEAREST MOTHER: + +I've put Sunday on this letter, though it's really Friday, because I'm +supposed to be writing it on Sunday when the other fellows are writing. +That's the beastly thing about this place, you're expected to do +everything when the other fellows are doing it, whether you want to or +not, as if the very fact that they're doing it too didn't make you +hate it. + +I'm writing now because I simply must. If I waited till Sunday I +mightn't want to, and anyhow I shouldn't remember a single thing I meant +to say. Even now Johnson minor's digging his skinny elbows into one side +of me, and Hartley major's biting the feathers off his pen and spitting +them out again on the other. But they're only supposed to be doing Latin +verse, so it doesn't matter so much. What I mean is it's as if their +beastly minds kept on leaking into yours till you're all mixed up with +them. That's why I asked Daddy to take me away next term. You see--it's +more serious than he thinks--it is, really. You've no idea what it's +like. You've got to swot every blessed thing the other fellows swot +even if you can't do it, and whether it's going to be any good to you or +not. Why, you're expected to sleep when they're sleeping, even if the +chap next you snores. Daddy _might_ remember that it's Nicky who likes +mathematics, not me. It's all very well for Nicky when he wants to go +into the Army all the time. There are things _I_ want to do. I want to +write and I'm going to write. Daddy can't keep me off it. And I don't +believe he'd want to if he understood. There's nothing else in the world +I'll ever be any good at. + +And there are things I want to know. I want to know Greek and Latin and +French and German and Italian and Spanish, and Old French and Russian +and Chinese and Japanese, oh, and Provençal, and every blessed language +that has or has had a literature. I can learn languages quite fast. Do +you suppose I've got a chance of knowing one of them--really +knowing--even if I had the time? Not much. And that's where being here's +so rotten. They waste your time as if it was theirs, not yours. They've +simply no notion of the value of it. They seem to think time doesn't +matter because you're young. Fancy taking three months over a Greek play +you can read in three hours. That'll give you some idea. + +It all comes of being in a beastly form and having to go with the other +fellows. Say they're thirty fellows in your form, and twenty-nine stick; +you've got to stick with them, if it's terms and terms. They can't do it +any other way. It's _because_ I'm young, Mummy, that I mind so awfully. +Supposing I died in ten years' time, or even fifteen? It simply makes me +hate everybody. + +Love to Daddy and Don. + + Your loving MICK. + +P.S.-I don't mean that Hartley major isn't good at Latin verse. He is. +He can lick me into fits when he's bitten _all_ the feathers off. + + TUDOR HOUSE. + CHELTENHAM, + _Tuesday_. + +DARLING MUMMY: + +Daddy _doesn't_ understand. You only think he does because you like him. +It's all rot what he says about esprit de corps, the putridest rot, +though I know he doesn't mean it. + +And he's wrong about gym, and drill and games and all that. I don't mind +gym, and I don't mind drill, and I like games. I'm fairly good at most +of them--except footer. All the fellows say I'm fairly good--otherwise I +don't suppose they'd stick me for a minute. I don't even mind Chapel. +You see, when it's only your body doing what the other chaps do, it +doesn't seem to matter. If esprit de corps _was_ esprit de corps it +would be all right. But it's esprit d'esprit. And it's absolutely +sickening the things they can do to your mind. I can't stand another +term of it. + + Always your loving + MICK. +P.S.-How do you know I shan't be dead in ten or +fifteen years' time? It's enough to make me. + +P.P.S.-It's all very well for Daddy to talk--_he_ doesn't want to learn +Chinese. + + TUDOR HOUSE. + CHELTENHAM, + _Thursday_. + +DEAR FATHER: + +All right. Have it your own way. Only I shall kill myself. You needn't +tell Mother that--though it won't matter so much as she'll very likely +think. And perhaps then you won't try and stop Nicky going into the Army +as you've stopped me. + +I don't care a "ram", as Nicky would say, whether you bury me or cremate +me; only you might give my Theocritus to old Parsons, and my revolver +to Nicky if it doesn't burst. He'd like it. + + MICHAEL. + +P.S.--If Parsons would rather have my _Æschylus_ he can, or both. + + TUDOR HOUSE. + CHELTENHAM, + _Sunday_. + +DARLING MUMMY: + +It's your turn for a letter. Do you think Daddy'd let me turn the +hen-house into a workshop next holidays, as there aren't any hens? And +would he give me a proper lathe for turning steel and brass and stuff +for my next birthday I'm afraid it'll cost an awful lot; but he could +take it out of my other birthdays, I don't mind how many so long as I +can have the lathe this one. + +This place isn't half bad once you get used to it. I like the fellows, +and all the masters are really jolly decent, though I wish we had old +Parsons here instead of the one we have to do Greek for. He's an awful +chap to make you swot. + +I don't know what you mean about Mick being seedy. He's as fit as fit. +You should see him when he's stripped. But he hates the place like +poison half the time. He can't stand being with a lot of fellows. He's a +rum chap because they all like him no end, the masters and the fellows, +though they think he's funny, all except Hartley major, but he's such a +measly little blighter that he doesn't count. + +We had a ripping time last Saturday. Bartie went up to town, and Major +Cameron took Dorothy and Ronny and Vera and me and Mick to Birdlip in +his dog-cart, only Mick and me had to bike because there wasn't room +enough. However we grabbed the chains behind and the dog-cart pulled us +up the hills like anything, and we could talk to Dorothy and Ronny +without having to yell at each other. He did us jolly well at tea +afterwards. + +Dorothy rode my bike stridelegs coming back, so that I could sit in the +dog-cart. She said she'd get a jolly wigging if she was seen. We shan't +know till Monday. + +You know, Mummy, that kid Ronny's having a rotten time, what with Bartie +being such a beast and Vera chumming up with Ferdie and going off to +country houses where he is. I really think she'd better come to us for +the holidays. Then I could teach her to ride. Bartie won't let her learn +here, though Ferdie'd gone and bought a pony for her. That was to spite +Ferdie. He's worse than ever, if you can imagine that, and he's got +three more things the matter with him. + +I must stop now. + +Love to Dad and Don and Nanna. Next year I'm to go into physics and +stinks--that's chemistry. + +Your loving NICKY. + + THE LEAS. PARABOLA ROAD. + CHELTENHAM, + _Sunday_. + +DEAREST MUMMY: + +I'm awfully sorry you don't like my last term's school report. I know it +wasn't what it ought to have been. I have to hold myself in so as to +keep in the same class with Rosalind when we're moved up after +Midsummer. But as she's promised me faithfully she'll let herself rip +next term, you'll see it'll be all right at Xmas. We'll both be in I A +the Midsummer after, and we can go in for our matic, together. I wish +you'd arrange with Mrs. Jervis for both of us to be at Newnham at the +same time. Tell her Rosalind's an awful slacker if I'm not there to keep +her up to the mark. No--don't tell her that. Tell her _I'm_ a slacker if +she isn't there. + +I was amused by your saying it was decent of Bartie to have us so often. +He only does it because things are getting so tight between him and +Vera that he's glad of anything that relaxes the strain a bit. Even us. +He's snappier than ever with Ronny. I can't think how the poor kid +stands it. + +You know that ripping white serge coat and skirt you sent me? Well, the +skirt's not nearly long enough. It doesn't matter a bit though, because +I can keep it for hockey. It's nice having a mother who _can_ choose +clothes. You should see the last blouse Mrs. Jervis got for Rosalind. +She's burst out of _all_ the seams already. You could have heard +her doing it. + +Much love to you and Daddy and Don-Don. I can't send any to Mr. Parsons +now my hair's up. But you might tell him I'm going in strong for +Sociology and Economics.-- + + Your loving + DOROTHY. + +P.S.--Vera asked me if I thought you'd take her and Ronny in at +Midsummer. I said of course you would--like a shot. + + + LANSDOWN LODGE. + CHELTENHAM, + _Friday._ + +MY DEAREST FRANCES: + +I hope you got my two wires in time. You needn't come down, either of +you. And you needn't worry about Mick. Ferdie went round and talked to +him like a fa--I mean a big brother, and the revolver (bless his heart!) +is at present reposing at the bottom of my glove-box. + +All the same we both think you'd better take him away at Midsummer. He +says he can stick it till then, but not a day longer. Poor Mick! He has +the most mysterious troubles. + +I daresay it's the Cheltenham climate as much as anything. It doesn't +suit me or Bonny either, and it's simply killing Ferdie by inches. I +suppose that's why Bartie makes us stay here--in the hope-- + +Oh! my dear, I'm worried out of my life about him. He's never got over +that fever he had in South Africa. He's looking ghastly. + +And the awful thing is that I can't do a thing for him. Not a thing. +Unless-- + +You haven't forgotten the promise you made me two years ago, have you? + +Dorothy seemed to think you could put Bonny and me up--again!--at +Midsummer. Can you? And if poor Ferdie wants to come and see us, you +won't turn him off your door-mat, will you? + + Your lovingest + "VERA." + +Frances said, "Poor Vera! She even makes poor Mick an excuse for seeing +Ferdie." + + + +X + +Three more years passed and Frances had fulfilled her promise. She had +taken Veronica. + +The situation had become definite. Bartie had delivered his ultimatum. +Either Vera must give up Major Cameron, signing a written pledge in the +presence of three witnesses, Frances, Anthony and Bartie's solicitor, +that she would neither see him nor write to him, nor hold any sort or +manner of communication with him, direct or indirect, or he would obtain +a judicial separation. It was to be clearly understood by both of them +that he would not, in any circumstances, divorce her. Bartie knew that a +divorce was what they wanted, what they had been playing for, and he was +not going to make things easy for them; he was going to make things hard +and bitter and shameful He had based his ultimatum on the calculation +that Vera would not have the courage of her emotions; that even her +passion would surrender when she found that it had no longer the +protection of her husband's house and name. Besides Vera was expensive, +and Cameron was a spendthrift on an insufficient income; he could not +possibly afford her. If Bartie's suspicions were correct, the thing had +been going on for the last twelve years, and if in twelve years' time +they had not forced his hand that was because they had counted the cost, +and decided that, as Frances had put it, the "game was not worth the +scandal." + +For when suspicion became unendurable he had consulted Anthony who +assured him that Frances, who ought to know, was convinced that there +was nothing in it except incompatibility, for which Bartie was +superlatively responsible. + +Anthony's manner did not encourage confidence, and he gathered that his +own more sinister interpretation would be dismissed with contemptuous +incredulity. Anthony was under his wife's thumb and Frances had been +completely bamboozled by her dearest friend. Still, when once their eyes +were opened, he reckoned on the support of Anthony and Frances. It was +inconceivable, that, faced with a public scandal, his brother and his +sister-in-law would side with Vera. + +It was a game where Bartie apparently held all the cards. And his trump +card was Veronica. + +He was not going to keep Veronica without Vera. That had been tacitly +understood between them long ago. If Vera went to Cameron she could not +take Veronica with her without openly confirming Bartie's worst +suspicion. + +And yet all these things, so inconceivable to Bartie, happened. When it +came to the stabbing point the courage of Vera's emotions was such that +she defied her husband and his ultimatum, and went to Cameron. By that +time Ferdie was so ill that she would have been ashamed of herself if +she had not gone. And though Anthony's house was not open to the unhappy +lovers, Frances and Anthony had taken Veronica. + +Grannie and Auntie Louie and Auntie Emmeline and Auntie Edie came over +to West End House when they heard that it had been decided. It was +time, they said, that somebody should protest, that somebody should +advise Frances for her own good and for the good of her children. + +They had always detested and distrusted Vera Harrison; they had always +known what would happen. The wonder was it had not happened before. But +why Frances should make it easy for her, why Frances should shoulder +Vera Harrison's responsibilities, and burden herself with that child, +and why Anthony should give his consent to such a proceeding, was more +than they could imagine. + +Once Frances had stood up for the three Aunties, against Grannie; now +Grannie and the three Aunties were united against Frances. + +"Frances, you're a foolish woman." + +"My folly is my own affair and Anthony's." + +"You'll have to pay for it some day." + +"You might have thought of your own children first." + +"I did. I thought, How would I like _them_ to be forsaken like poor +Ronny?" + +"You should have thought of the boys. Michael's growing up; so is +Nicky." + +"Nicky is fifteen; Ronny is eleven, if you call that growing up." + +"That's all very well, but when Nicky is twenty-one and Ronny is +seventeen what are you going to do?" + +"I'm not going to turn Ronny out of doors for fear Nicky should fall in +love with her, if that's what you mean." + +"It _is_ what I mean, now you've mentioned it." + +"He's less likely to fall in love with her if I bring them up as +brother and sister." + +"You might think of Anthony. Bartholomew's wife leaves him for another +man, and you aid and abet her by taking her child, relieving her of her +one responsibility." + +"Bartie's wife leaves him, and we help Bartie by taking care of his +child--who is _our niece_, not yours." + +"My dear Frances, that attitude isn't going to deceive anybody. If you +don't think of Anthony and your children, you might think of us. We +don't want to be mixed up in this perfectly horrible affair." + +"How are you mixed up in it?" + +"Well, after all, Frances, we are the family. We are your sisters and +your mother and your children's grand-mother and aunts." + +"Then," said Frances with decision, "you must try to bear it. You must +take the rough with the smooth, as Anthony and I do." + +And as soon as she had said it she was sorry. It struck her for the +first time that her sisters were getting old. It was no use for Auntie +Louie, more red and more rigid than ever, to defy the imminence of her +forty-ninth birthday. Auntie Emmy's gestures, her mouthings and +excitement, only drew attention to the fact that she was forty-seven. +And Edie, why, even poor little Auntie Edie was forty-five. Grannie, dry +and wiry, hardly looked older than Auntie Edie. + +They left her, going stiffly, in offence. And again the unbearable +pathos of them smote her. The poor Aunties. She was a brute to hurt +them. She still thought of them as Auntie Louie, Auntie Emmy, Auntie +Edie. It seemed kinder; for thus she bestowed upon them a colour and +vitality that, but for her and for her children, they would not have +had. They were helpless, tiresome, utterly inefficient. In all their +lives they had never done anything vigorous or memorable. They were +doomed to go out before her children; when they were gone they would be +gone altogether. Neither Auntie Louie, nor Auntie Emmy, nor Auntie Edie +would leave any mark or sign of herself. But her children gave them +titles by which they would be remembered after they were gone. It was as +if she had bestowed on them a little of her own enduring life. + +It was absurd and pathetic that they should think that they were the +Family. + +But however sorry she was for them she could not allow them to dictate +to her in matters that concerned her and Anthony alone. If they were so +worried, about the scandal, why hadn't they the sense to see that the +only way to meet it was to give it the lie by taking Ronny, by behaving +as if Ronny were unquestionably Bartie's daughter and their niece? They +were bound to do it, if not for Vera's sake, for the dear little girl's +sake. And that was what Vera had been thinking of; that was why she had +trusted them. + +But her three sisters had always disliked Vera. They disliked her +because, while they went unmarried, Vera, not content with the one man +who was her just and legal portion, had taken another man whom she had +no right to. And Auntie Emmeline had been in love with Ferdie. + +Still, there was a certain dreadful truth in their reproaches; and it +stung. Frances said to herselv that she had not been wise. She had done +a risky thing in taking Ronny. It was not fair to her children, to +Michael and Nicholas and John. She was afraid. She had been afraid when +Vera had talked to her about Nicky and Veronica; and when she had seen +Veronica and Nicky playing together in the apple-tree house; and when +she had heard Ronny's voice outside the schoolroom door crying, "Where's +Nicky? I want him. Will he be very long?" + +Supposing Veronica should go on wanting Nicky, and supposing Nicky-- + +Frances was so worried that, when Dorothy came striding across the lawn +to ask her what the matter was, and what on earth Grannie and the +Aunties had been gassing about all that time, she told her. + +Dorothy was nineteen. And Dorothy at nineteen, tall and upright, was +Anthony's daughter. Her face and her whole body had changed; they were +Anthony's face and body made feminine. Her little straight nose had now +a short high bridge; her brown eyes were keen and alert; she had his +hawk's look. She put her arm in Frances's, protecting her, and they +walked up and down the terrace path, discussing it. In the distance +Grannie and the Aunties could be seen climbing the slope of the Heath to +Judges' Walk. They were not, Dorothy protested, pathetic; they were +simply beastly. She hated them for worrying her mother. + +"They think I oughtn't to have taken Ronny. They think Nicky'll want to +marry her." + +"But Ronny's a kid--" + +"When she's not a kid." + +"He won't, Mummy ducky, he won't. She'll be a kid for ages. Nicky'll +have married somebody else before she's got her hair up." + +"Then Ronny'll fall in love with _him_, and get her little heart +broken." + +"She won't, Mummy, she won't. They only talk like that because they +think Ferdie's Ronny's father." + +"Dorothy!" + +Frances, in horror, released herself from that protecting arm. The +horror came, not from the fact, but from her daughter's knowledge of it. + +"Poor Mummy, didn't you know? That's why Bartie hates her." + +"It isn't true." + +"What's the good of that as long as Bartie thinks it is?" said Dorothy. + + "London Bridge is broken down + (_Ride over my Lady Leigh_!)" + +Veronica was in the drawing-room, singing "London Bridge." + +Michael, in all the beauty of his adolescence, lay stretched out on the +sofa, watching her. Her small, exquisite, childish face between the +plaits of honey-coloured hair, her small, childish face thrilled him +with a singular delight and sadness. She was so young and so small, and +at the same time so perfect that Michael could think of her as looking +like that for ever, not growing up into a tiresome, bouncing, fluffy +flapper like Rosalind Jervis. + +Aunt Louie and Aunt Emmeline said that Rosalind was in love with him. +Michael thought that was beastly of them and he hoped it wasn't true. + + "'Build it up with gold so fine'"-- + +Veronica was happy; for she knew herself to be a cause of happiness. +Like Frances once, she was profoundly aware of her own happiness, and +for the same reason. It was, if you came to think of it, incredible. It +had been given to her, suddenly, when she was not looking for it, after +she had got used to unhappiness. + +As long as she could remember Veronica had been aware of herself. Aware +of herself, chiefly, not as a cause of happiness, but as a cause of +embarrassment and uncertainty and trouble to three people, her father, +her mother and Ferdie, just as they were causes of embarrassment and +trouble and uncertainty to her. They lived in a sort of violent mystery +that she, incomprehensibly, was mixed up with. As long as she could +remember, her delicate, childish soul had quivered with the vibration of +their incomprehensible and tiresome passions. You could never tell what +any of them really wanted, though among them they managed to create an +atmosphere of most devastating want. Only one thing she knew +definitely--that they didn't want _her_. + +She was altogether out of it except as a meaningless counter in their +incomprehensible, grown-up game. Her father didn't want her; her mother +didn't want her very much; and though now and then Ferdie (who wasn't +any relation at all) behaved as if he wanted her, _his_ wanting only +made the other two want her less than ever. + +There had been no peace or quietness or security in her little life of +eleven years. Their places (and they had had so many of them!) had never +had any proper place for her. She seemed to have spent most of her time +in being turned out of one room because her father had come into it, and +out of another because her mother wanted to be alone in it with Ferdie. +And nobody, except Ferdie sometimes, when they let him, ever wanted to +be alone in any room with her. She was so tired of the rooms where she +was obliged to be always alone with herself or with the servants, though +the servants were always kind. + +Now, in Uncle Anthony's house, there was always peace and quietness and +an immense security. She knew that, having taken her, they wouldn't +give her up. + +She was utterly happy. + +And the house, with its long, wainscoted rooms, its whiteness and +darkness, with its gay, clean, shining chintzes, the delicate, faded +rose stuffs, the deep blue and purple and green stuffs, and the blue and +white of the old china, and its furniture of curious woods, the golden, +the golden-brown, the black and the wine-coloured, bought by Anthony in +many countries, the round concave mirrors, the pictures and the old +bronzes, all the things that he had gathered together and laid up as +treasure for his Sons; and the garden on the promontory, with its +buttressed walls and its green lawn, its flower borders, and its tree of +Heaven, saturated with memories, became for her, as they had become for +Frances, the sanctuary, crowded with visible and tangible symbols, of +the Happiness she adored. + +"Sing it again, Ronny." + +She sang it again. + + "'London Bridge is broken down'"-- + +It was funny of Michael to like the silly, childish song; but if he +wanted it he should have it. Veronica would have given any of them +anything they wanted. There was nothing that she had ever wanted that +they had not given to her. + +She had wanted to be strong, to be able to run and ride, to play tennis +and cricket and hockey, and Nicky had shown her how. She had wanted +books of her own, and Auntie Frances, and Uncle Anthony and Dorothy and +Michael had given her books, and Nicky had made her a bookcase. Her room +(it was all her own) was full of treasures. She had wanted to learn to +sing and play properly, and Uncle Anthony had given her masters. She had +wanted people to love her music, and they loved it. She had wanted a +big, grown-up sister like Dorothy, and they had given her Dorothy; and +she had wanted a little brother of her own age, and they had given her +John. John had a look of Nicky. His golden white hair was light brown +now; his fine, wide mouth had Nicky's impudence, even when, like +Frances, he kept it shut to smile her unwilling, twitching, mocking +smile. She had wanted a father and mother like Frances and Anthony; and +they had given her themselves. + +And she had wanted to live in the same house with Nicky always. + +So if Michael wanted her to sing "London Bridge" to him twenty times +over, she would sing it, provided Nicky didn't ask her to do anything +else at the same time. For she wanted to do most for Nicky, always. + +And yet she was aware of something else that was not happiness. It was +not a thing you could name or understand, or seize, or see; you were +simply aware of it, as you were aware of ghosts in your room at night. +Like the ghosts, it was not always there; but when it was there +you knew. + +It felt sometimes as if Auntie Frances was afraid of her; as if she, +Veronica, was a ghost. + +And Veronica said to herself, "She is afraid I am not good. She thinks +I'll worry her. But I shan't." + +That was before the holidays. Now that they had come and Nicky was back, +"it" seemed to her something to do with Nicky; and Veronica said to +herself, "She is afraid I'll get in his way and worry him, because he's +older. But I shan't." + +As if she had not been taught and trained not to get in older people's +ways and worry them. And as if she wasn't growing older every +minute herself! + + "'Build it up with gold so fine-- + (_Ride over my Lady Leigh_!) + + * * * * * + + "'Build it up with stones so strong'"-- + +She had her back to the door and to the mirror that reflected it, yet +she knew that Nicky had come in. + +"That's the song you used to sing at bed-time when you were frightened," +he said. + +She was sitting now in the old hen-house that was Nicky's workshop, +watching him as he turned square bars of brass into round bars with his +lathe. She had plates of steel to polish, and pieces of wood to rub +smooth with glass-paper. There were sheets of brass and copper, and bars +and lumps of steel, and great poles and planks of timber reared up round +the walls of the workshop. The metal filings fell from Nicky's lathe +into sawdust that smelt deliciously. + +The workshop was nicer than the old apple-tree house, because there were +always lots of things to do in it for Nicky. + +"Nicky," she said suddenly, "do you believe in ghosts?" + +"Well--" Nicky caught his bar as it fell from the lathe and examined it +critically. + +"You remember when I was afraid of ghosts, and you used to come and sit +with me till I went to sleep?" + +"Rather." + +"Well--there _are_ ghosts. I saw one last night. It came into the room +just after I got into bed." + +"You _can_ see them," Nicky said. "Ferdie's seen heaps. It runs in his +family. He told me." + +"He never told _me_." + +"Rather not. He was afraid you'd be frightened." + +"Well, I wasn't frightened. Not the least little bit." + +"I shall tell him that. He wanted most awfully to know whether you saw +them too." + +"_Me_? But Nicky--it was Ferdie I saw. He stood by the door and looked +at me. Like he does, you know." + +The next morning Frances had a letter of two lines from Veronica's +mother: + + "Ferdie died last evening at half past eight. + + "He wants you to keep Ronny. + + "VERA." + +It was not till years later that Veronica knew that "He wanted most +awfully to know whether you saw them too" meant "He wanted most awfully +to know whether you really were his daughter." + + + + + +PART II + +THE VORTEX + + + +XI + +Three years passed. It was the autumn of nineteen-ten. Anthony's house +was empty for the time being of all its children except Dorothea. + +Michael was in the beginning of his last year at Cambridge. Nicholas was +in his second year. He had taken up mathematics and theoretical +mechanics. In the long vacation, when the others went into the country, +he stayed behind to work in the engineering sheds of the Morss Motor +Company. John was at Cheltenham. Veronica was in Dresden. + +Dorothea had left Newnham a year ago, having taken a first-class in +Economics. + +As Anthony came home early one evening in October, he found a group of +six strange women in the lane, waiting outside his garden door in +attitudes of conspiracy. + +Four of them, older women, stood together in a close ring. The two +others, young girls, hung about near, but a little apart from the ring, +as if they desired not to identify themselves with any state of mind +outside their own. By their low sibilant voices, the daring sidelong +sortie of their bright eyes, their gestures, furtive and irrepressible, +you gathered that there was unanimity on one point. All six considered +themselves to have been discovered. + +At Anthony's approach they moved away, with slow, casual steps, passed +through the posts at the bottom of the lane and plunged down the steep +path, as if under the impression that the nature of the ground covered +their retreat. They bobbed up again, one after the other, when the lane +was clear. + +The first to appear was a tall, handsome, bad-tempered-looking girl. She +spoke first. + +"It's a damned shame of them to keep us waiting like this." + +She propped herself up against Anthony's wall and smouldered there in +her dark, sullen beauty. + +"We were here at six sharp." + +"When they know we were told not to let on where we meet." + +"We're led into a trap," said a grey-haired woman. + +"I say, who is Dorothea Harrison?" + +"She's the girl who roped Rosalind in. She's all right." + +"Yes, but are her people all right?" + +"Rosalind knows them." + +The grey-haired woman spoke again. + +"Well, if you think this lane is a good place for a secret meeting, I +don't. Are you aware that the yard of `Jack Straw's Castle' is behind +that wall? What's to prevent them bringing up five or six coppers and +planting them there? Why, they've only got to post one 'tee at the top +of the lane, and another at the bottom, and we're done. Trapped. I call +it rotten." + +"It's all right. Here they are." + +Dorothea Harrison and Rosalind Jervis came down the lane at a leisured +stride, their long coats buttoned up to their chins and their hands in +their pockets. Their I gestures were devoid of secrecy or any guile. +Each had a joyous air of being in command, of being able to hold up the +whole adventure at her will, or let it rip. + +Rosalind Jervis was no longer a bouncing, fluffy flapper. In three years +she had shot up into the stature of command. She slouched, stooping a +little from the shoulders, and carried her pink face thrust forward, as +if leaning from a platform to address an audience. From this salience +her small chin retreated delicately into her pink throat. + +"Is Miss Maud Blackadder here?" she said, marshalling her six. + +The handsome girl detached herself slowly from Anthony's wall. + +"What's the point," she said, "of keeping us hanging about like this--" + +"Till _all_ our faces are known to the police--" + +"There's a johnnie gone in there who can swear to _me_. Why didn't you +two turn up before?" said the handsome girl. + +"Because," said Dorothea, "that johnnie was my father. He was pounding +on in front of us all up East Heath Road. If we'd got here sooner I +should have had to introduce you." + +She looked at the six benevolently, indulgently. They might have been +children whose behaviour amused her. It was as if she had said, "I +avoided that introduction, not because it would have been dangerous and +indiscreet, but because it would have spoiled your fun for you." + +She led the way into the garden and the house and through the hall into +the schoolroom. There they found eleven young girls who had come much +too soon, and mistaking the arrangements, had rung the bell and allowed +themselves to be shown in. + +The schoolroom had been transformed into a sort of meeting hall. The big +oblong table had been drawn across one end of it. Behind it were chairs +for the speakers, before it were three rows of chairs where the eleven +young girls sat scattered, expectant. + +The six stood in the free space in front of the table and looked at +Rosalind with significance. + +"This," said Rosalind, "is our hostess, Miss Dorothea Harrison. Dorothy, +I think you've met Mrs. Eden, our Treasurer. This is our secretary, Miss +Valentina Gilchrist; Miss Ethel Farmer; Miss Winifred Burstall--" + +Dorothy greeted in turn Mrs. Eden, a pretty, gentle woman with a face of +dreaming tragedy (it was she who had defended Rosalind outside the +gate); Miss Valentina Gilchrist, a middle-aged woman who displayed a +large grey pompadour above a rosy face with turned-back features which, +when she was not excited, had an incredulous quizzical expression (Miss +Gilchrist was the one who had said they had been led into a trap); Miss +Ethel Farmer, fair, attenuated, scholastic, wearing pince-nez with an +air of not seeing you; and Miss Winifred Burstall, weather-beaten, young +at fifty, wearing pince-nez with an air of seeing straight through you +to the other side. + +Rosalind went on. "Miss Maud Blackadder--" + +Miss Blackadder's curt bow accused Rosalind of wasting time in +meaningless formalities. + +"Miss--" Rosalind was at a loss. + +The other girl, the youngest of the eight, came forward, holding out a +slender, sallow-white hand. She was the one who had hung with Miss +Blackadder in the background. + +"Desmond," she said. "Phyllis Desmond." + +She shrugged her pretty shoulders and smiled slightly, as much as to +say, "She forgets what she ought to remember, but it doesn't matter." + +Phyllis Desmond was beautiful. But for the moment her beauty was asleep, +stilled into hardness. Dorothy saw a long, slender, sallow-white face, +between sleek bands of black hair; black eyes, dulled as if by a subtle +film, like breath on a black looking-glass; a beautiful slender mouth, +pressed tight, holding back the secret of its sensual charm. + +Dorothy thought she had seen her before, but she couldn't remember +where. + +Rosalind Jervis looked at her watch with a businesslike air; paper and +pencils were produced; coats were thrown on the little school-desks and +benches in the corner where Dorothy and her brothers had sat at their +lessons with Mr. Parsons some twelve years ago; and the eight gathered +about the big table, Rosalind taking the presidential chair (which had +once been Mr. Parsons' chair) in the centre between Miss Gilchrist and +Miss Blackadder. + +Miss Burstall and Miss Farmer looked at each other and Miss Burstall +spoke. + +"We understood that this was to be an informal meeting. Before we begin +business I should like to ask one question. I should like to know what +we are and what we are here for?" + +"We, Mrs. Eden, Miss Valentina Gilchrist, Miss Maud Blackadder and +myself," said Rosalind in the tone of one dealing reasonably with an +unreasonable person, "are the Committee of the North Hampstead Branch of +the Women's Franchise Union. Miss Gilchrist is our secretary, I am the +President and Miss Blackadder is--er--the Committee." + +"By whom elected? This," said Miss Burstall, "is most irregular." + +Rosalind went on: "We are here to appoint a vice-president, to elect +members of the Committee and enlist subscribers to the Union. These +things will take time." + +"_We_ were punctual," said Miss Farmer. + +Rosalind did not even look at her. The moment had come to address the +meeting. + +"I take it that we are all agreed as to the main issue, that we have not +come here to convert each other, that we all want Women's Franchise, +that we all mean to have it, that we are all prepared to work for it, +and, if necessary, to fight for it, to oppose the Government that +withholds it by every means in our power--" + +"By every constitutional means," Miss Burstall amended, and was told by +Miss Gilchrist that, if she desired proceedings to be regular, she must +not interrupt the Chairwoman. + +"--To oppose the Government that refuses us the vote, whatever +Government it may be, regardless of party, by _every means in +our power_." + +Rosalind's sentences were punctuated by a rhythmic sound of tapping. +Miss Maud Blackadder, twisted sideways on the chair she had pushed +farther and farther back from the table, so as to bring herself +completely out of line with the other seven, from time to time, +rhythmically, twitching with impatience, struck her own leg with her own +walking-stick. + +Rosalind perorated. "If we differ, we differ, not as to our end, but +solely as to the means we, personally and individually, are prepared to +employ." She looked round. "Agreed." + +"Not agreed," said Dorothy and Miss Burstall and Miss Farmer all at +once. + +"I will now call on Miss Maud Blackadder to speak. She will explain to +those of you who are strangers" (she glanced comprehensively at the +eleven young girls) "the present program of the Union." + +"I protest," said Miss Burstall. "There has been confusion." + +"There really _has_, Rosalind," said Dorothy. "You _must_ get it +straight. You can't start all at sixes and sevens. I protest too." + +"We all three protest," said Miss Farmer, frowning and blinking in an +agony of protest. + +"Silence, if you please, for the Chairwoman," said Miss Gilchrist. + +"May we not say one word?" + +"You may," said Rosalind, "in your turn. I now call on Miss Blackadder +to speak." + +At the sound of her own name Miss Blackadder jumped to her feet. The +walking-stick fell to the floor with a light clatter and crash, +preluding her storm. She jerked out her words at a headlong pace, as if +to make up for the time the others had wasted in futilities. + +"I am not going to say much, I am not going to take up your time. Too +much time has been lost already. I am not a speaker, I am not a writer, +I am not an intellectual woman, and if you ask me what I am and what I +am here for, and what I am doing in the Union, and what the Union is +doing with me, and what possible use I, an untrained girl, can be to you +clever women" (she looked tempestuously at Miss Burstall and Miss Farmer +who did not flinch), "I will tell you. I am a fighter. I am here to +enlist volunteers. I am the recruiting sergeant for this district. That +is the use my leaders, who should be _your_ leaders, are making +of _me_." + +Her head was thrown back, her body swayed, rocked from side to side with +the violent rhythm of her speech. + +"If you ask me why they have chosen _me_ I will tell you. It's because I +know what I want and because I know how to get what I want. + +"I know what I want. Oh, yes, you think that's nothing; you all think +you know what you want. But do you? _Do_ you?" + +"Of course we do!" + +"We want the vote!" + +"Nothing but the vote!" + +"_Nothing but?_ Are you quite sure of that? Can you even say you want it +till you know whether there are things you want more?" + +"What are you driving at?" + +"You'll soon see what I'm driving at. I drive straight. And I ride +straight. And I don't funk my fences. + +"Well--say you all want the vote. Do you know how much you want it? Do +you know how much you want to pay for it? Do you know what you're +prepared to give up for it? Because, if you don't know _that_, you don't +know how much you want it." + +"We want it as much as you do, I imagine." + +"You want it as much as I do? Good. _Then_ you're going to pay the price +whatever the price is. _Then_ you're ready to give up everything else, +your homes and your families and your friends and your incomes. Until +you're enfranchised you are not going to own any _man_ as father, or +brother or husband" (her voice rang with a deeper and stronger +vibration) "or lover, or friend. And the man who does not agree with +you, the man who refuses you the vote, the man who opposes your efforts +to get the vote, the man who, whether he agrees with you or not, _will +not help you to get it_, you count as your enemy. That is wanting the +vote. That is wanting it as much as I do. + +"You women--are you prepared to go against your men? To give up your +men?" + +There were cries of "Rather!" from two of the eleven young girls who had +come too soon. + +Miss Burstall shook her head and murmured, "Hopeless confusion of +thought. If _this_ is what it's going to be like, Heaven help us!" + +"You really _are_ getting a bit mixed," said Dorothy. + +"We protest--" + +"Protest then; protest as much as you like. Then we shall know where we +are; then we shall get things straight; then we can begin. You all want +the vote. Some of you don't know how much, but at least you know you +want it. Nobody's confused about that. Do you know how you're going to +get it? Tell me that." + +Lest they should spoil it all by telling her Miss Blackadder increased +her vehement pace. "You don't because you can't and _I_ will tell you. +You won't get it by talking about it or by writing about it, or by +sitting down and thinking about it, you'll get it by coming in with me, +coming in with the Women's Franchise Union, and fighting for it. +Fighting women, not talkers--not writers--not thinkers are what we +want!" She sat down, heaving a little with the ground-swell of her +storm, amid applause in which only Miss Burstall and Miss Farmer did not +join. She was now looking extraordinarily handsome. + +Rosalind bent over and whispered something in her ear. She rose to her +feet again, flushed, smiling at them, triumphant. + +"Our Chairwoman has reminded me that I came here to tell you what the +program of our Union is. And I can tell you in six words. It's +Hell-for-leather, and it's Neck-or-nothing!" + +"Now," said Rosalind sweetly, bowing towards Miss Burstall, "it's your +turn. We should like to know what you have to say." + +Miss Burstall did not rise and in the end Dorothea spoke. + +"My friend, Miss Rosalind Jervis, assumed that we were all agreed, not +only as to our aims, but as to our policy. She has not yet discriminated +between constitutional and unconstitutional means. When we protested, +she quashed our protest. We took exception to the phrase 'every means in +our power,' because that would commit us to all sorts of +unconstitutional things. It is in my power to squirt water into the back +of the Prime Minister's neck, or to land a bomb in the small of his +back, or in the centre of the platform at his next public meeting. We +were left to conclude that the only differences between us would concern +our choice of the squirt or the bomb. As some of us here might equally +object to using the bomb or the squirt, I submit that either our protest +should have been allowed or our agreement should not have been taken for +granted at the start. + +"Again, Miss Maud Blackadder, in her sporting speech, her heroic speech, +has not cleared the question. She has appealed to us to come in, without +counting the cost; but she has said nothing to convince us that when our +account at our bank is overdrawn, and we have declared war on all our +male friends and relations, and have left our comfortable homes, and are +all camping out on the open Heath--I repeat, she has said nothing to +convince us that the price we shall have paid is going to get us the +thing we want. + +"She says that fighters are wanted, and not talkers and writers and +thinkers. Are we not then to fight with our tongues and with our brains? +Is she leaving us anything but our bare fists? She has told us that she +rides straight and that she doesn't funk her fences; but she has not +told us what sort of country she is going to ride over, nor where the +fences are, not what Hell-for-leather and Neck-or-nothing means. + +"We want meaning; we want clearness and precision. We have not been +given it yet. + +"I would let all this pass if Miss Blackadder were not your +colour-sergeant. Is it fair to call for volunteers, for raw recruits, +and not tell them precisely and clearly what services will be required +of them? How many" (Dorothy glanced at the eleven) "realize that the +leaders of your Union, Mrs. Palmerston-Swete, and Mrs. Blathwaite, and +Miss Angela Blathwaite, demand from its members blind, unquestioning +obedience?" + +Maud Blackadder jumped up. + +"I protest. I, too, have the right to protest. Miss Harrison calls me to +order. She tells me to be clear and precise. Will she be good enough to +be clear and precise herself? Will she say whether she is with us or +against us? If she is not with us she is against us. Let her explain her +position." + +She sat down; and Rosalind rose. + +"Miss Harrison," she said, "will explain her position to the Committee +later. This is an open meeting till seven. It is now five minutes to. +Will any of you here"--she held the eleven with her eyes--"who were not +present at the meeting in the Town Hall last Monday, hold up your hands. +No hands. Then you must all be aware of the object and the policy and +the rules of the Women's Franchise Union. Its members pledge themselves +to help, as far as they can, the object of the Union; to support the +decisions of their leaders; to abstain from public and private criticism +of those decisions and of any words or actions of their leaders; and to +obey orders--not blindly or unquestioningly, but within the terms of +their undertakings. + +"Those of you who wish to join us will please write your names and +addresses on the slips of white paper, stating what kind of work you are +willing to do and the amount of your subscription, if you subscribe, and +hand your slips to the Secretary at the door, as you go out." + +Miss Burstall and Miss Farmer went out. Miss Blackadder +counted--"One--two--" + +Eight of the eleven young girls signed and handed in the white slips at +the door, and went out. + +"Three--four--" + +Miss Blackadder reckoned that Dorothea Harrison's speech had cost her +five recruits. Her own fighting speech had carried the eleven in a +compact body to her side: Dorothea's speech had divided and scattered +them again. + +Miss Blackadder hurled her personality at the heads of audiences in the +certainty that it would hit them hard. That was what she was there for. +She knew that the Women's Franchise union relied on her to wring from +herself the utmost spectacular effect. And she did it every time. She +never once missed fire. And Dorothea Harrison had come down on the top +of her triumph and destroyed the effect of all her fire. She had +corrupted five recruits. And, supposing there was a secret program, she +had betrayed the women of the Union to fourteen outsiders, by giving it +away. Treachery or no treachery, Dorothea Harrison would have to pay +for it. + + * * * * * + +Everybody had gone except the members of the Committee and Phyllis +Desmond who waited for her friend, Maud Blackadder. + +Dorothy remembered Phyllis Desmond now; she was that art-student girl +that Vera knew. She had seen her at Vera's house. + +They had drawn round the table again. Miss Blackadder and Miss Gilchrist +conferred in whispers. + +"Before we go," said Rosalind, "I propose that we ask Miss Dorothea +Harrison to be our Vice-President." + +Miss Gilchrist nodded to Miss Blackadder who rose. It was her moment. + +"And _I_ propose," she said, "that before we invite Miss Harrison to be +anything we ask her to define her position--clearly and precisely." + +She made a sign, and the Secretary was on her feet. + +"And first we must ask Miss Harrison to explain _how_ she became +possessed of the secret policy of the Union which has never been +discussed at any open meeting and is unknown to members of the General +Committee." + +"Then," said Dorothy, "there _is_ a secret policy?" + +"You seem to know it. We have the right to ask _how_ you know? Unless +you invented it." + +Dorothy faced them. It was inconceivable that it should have happened, +that she should be standing there, in the old schoolroom of her father's +house, while two strange women worried her. She knew that her back was +to the wall and that the Blackadder girl had been on the watch for the +last half-hour to get her knife into her. (Odd, for she had admired the +Blackadder girl and her fighting gestures.) It was inconceivable that +she should have to answer to that absurd committee for her honour. It +was inconceivable that Rosalind, her friend, should not help her. + +Yet it had happened. With all her platform eloquence Rosalind couldn't, +for the life of her, get out one heroic, defending word. From the moment +when the Gilchrist woman had pounced, Rosalind had simply sat and +stared, like a rabbit, like a fish, her mouth open for the word that +would not come. Rosalind was afraid to stand up for her. It was +dreadful, and it was funny to see Rosalind looking like that, and to +realize the extent of her weakness and her obstinacy. + +Yet Rosalind had not changed. She was still the school-girl slacker who +could never do a stroke of work until somebody had pushed her into it, +who could never leave off working until stopped by the same hand that +had set her going. Her power to go, and to let herself rip, and the +weakness that made her depend on Dorothy to start her were the qualities +that attracted Dorothy to Rosalind from the beginning. But now she was +the tool of the fighting Suffrage Women. Or if she wasn't a tool, she +was a machine; her brain was a rapid, docile, mechanical apparatus for +turning out bad imitations of Mrs. Palmerston-Swete and the two +Blathwaites. Her air of casual command, half-swagger, half-slouch, her +stoop and the thrusting forward of her face, were copied sedulously from +an admired model. + +Dorothy found her pitiable. She was hypnotized by the Blathwaites who +worked her and would throw her away when she was of no more use. She +hadn't the strength to resist the pull and the grip and the drive of +other people. She couldn't even hold out against Valentina Gilchrist and +Maud Blackadder. Rosalind would always be caught and spun round by any +movement that was strong enough. She was foredoomed to the Vortex. + +That was Dorothy's fault. It was she who had pushed and pulled the +slacker, in spite of her almost whining protest, to the edge of the +Vortex; and it was Rosalind, not Dorothy, who had been caught and sucked +down into the swirl. She whirled in it now, and would go on whirling, +under the impression that her movements made it move. + +The Vortex fascinated Dorothy even while she resisted it. She liked the +feeling of her own power to resist, to keep her head, to beat up against +the rush of the whirlwind, to wheel round and round outside it, and +swerve away before the thing got her. + +For Dorothy was afraid of the Feminist Vortex, as her brother Michael +had been afraid of the little vortex of school. She was afraid of the +herded women. She disliked the excited faces, and the high voices +skirling their battle-cries, and the silly business of committees, and +the platform slang. She was sick and shy before the tremor and the surge +of collective feeling; she loathed the gestures and the movements of the +collective soul, the swaying and heaving and rushing forward of the many +as one. She would not be carried away by it; she would keep the +clearness and hardness of her soul. It was her soul they wanted, these +women of the Union, the Blathwaites and the Palmerston-Swetes, and +Rosalind, and the Blackadder girl and the Gilchrist woman; they ran out +after her like a hungry pack yelping for her soul; and she was not going +to throw it to them. She would fight for freedom, but not in their way +and not at their bidding. + +She was her brother Michael, refusing to go to the party; refusing to +run with the school herd, holding out for his private soul against other +people who kept him from remembering. Only Michael did not hold out. He +ran away. She would stay, on the edge of the vortex, fascinated by its +danger, and resisting. + +But as she looked at them, at Rosalind with her open mouth, at the +Blackadder girl who was scowling horribly, and at Valentina Gilchrist, +sceptical and quizzical, she laughed. The three had been trying to rush +her, and because they couldn't rush her they were questioning her +honour. She had asked them plainly for a plain meaning, and their idea +of apt repartee was to pretend to question her honour. + +Perhaps they really did question it. She didn't care. She loathed their +excited, silly, hurrying suspicion; but she didn't care. It was she who +had drawn them and led them on to this display of incomparable idiocy. +Like her brother Nicholas she found that adversity was extremely funny; +and she laughed. + +She was no longer Michael, she was Nicky, not caring, delighting in her +power to fool them. + +"You think," she said, "I'd no business to find out?" + +"Your knowledge would certainly have been mysterious," said the +Secretary; "unless at least two confidences had been betrayed. Supposing +there had been any secret policy." + +"Well, you see, I don't know it; and I didn't invent it; and I didn't +find it out--precisely. Your secret policy is the logical conclusion of +your present policy. I deduced it; that's all. Anybody could have done +the same. Does that satisfy you? (They won't love me any better for +making them look fools!)" + +"Thank you," said Miss Gilchrist. "We only wanted to be sure." + +The dinner-bell rang as Dorothy was defining her position. + +"I'll work for you; I'll speak for you; I'll write for you; I'll fight +for you. I'll make hay of every Government meeting, if I can get in +without lying and sneaking for it. I'll go to prison for you, if I can +choose my own crime. But I won't give up my liberty of speech and +thought and action. I won't pledge myself to obey your orders. I won't +pledge myself not to criticize policy I disapprove of. I won't come on +your Committee, and I won't join your Union. Is that clear and +precise enough?" + +Somebody clapped and somebody said, "Hear, Hear!" And somebody said, "Go +it, Dorothy!" + +It was Anthony and Frances and Captain Drayton, who paused outside the +door on their way to the dining-room, and listened, basely. + + * * * * * + +They were all going now. Dorothy stood at the door, holding it open for +them, glad that it was all over. + +Only Phyllis Desmond, the art-student, lingered. Dorothy reminded her +that they had met at her aunt Vera Harrison's house. + +The art-student smiled. "I wondered when you were going to remember." + +"I did, but they all called you Desmond. That's what put me out." + +"Everybody calls me Desmond. You had a brother or something with you, +hadn't you?" + +"I might have had two. Which? Michael's got green eyes and yellow hair. +Nicky's got blue eyes and black hair." + +"It was Nicky--nice name--then." + +Desmond's beauty stirred in its sleep. The film of air was lifted from +her black eyes. + +"I'm dining with Mrs. Harrison to-night," she said. + +"You'll be late then." + +"It doesn't matter. Lawrence Stephen's never there till after eight. She +won't dine without him." + +Dorothy stiffened. She did not like that furtive betrayal of Vera and +Lawrence Stephen. + +"I wish you'd come and see me at my rooms in Chelsea. And bring your +brother. Not the green and yellow one. The blue and black one." + +Dorothy took the card on which Desmond had scribbled an address. But she +did not mean to go and see her. She wasn't sure that she liked Desmond. + + * * * * * + +Rosalind stayed on to dine with Dorothy's family. She was no longer +living with her own family, for Mrs. Jervis was hostile to Women's +Franchise. She had rooms off the Strand, not far from the headquarters +of the Union. + +Frances looked a little careworn. She had been sent for to Grannie's +house to see what could be done with Aunt Emmeline, and had found, as +usual, that nothing could be done with her. In the last three years the +second Miss Fleming had become less and less enthusiastic, and more and +more emphatic, till she ceased from enthusiasm altogether and carried +emphasis beyond the bounds of sanity. She had become, as Frances put it, +extremely tiresome. + +It was not accurate to say, as Mrs. Fleming did, that you never knew +when Emmeline would start a nervous crisis; for as a matter of fact you +could time her to a minute. It was her habit to wait till her family was +absorbed in some urgent affair that diverted attention from her case, +and then to break out alarmingly. Dorothy was generally sent for to +bring her round; but to-day it was Dorothy who had important things on +hand. Aunt Emmeline had scented the Suffrage meeting from afar, and had +made arrangements beforehand for a supreme crisis that would take all +the shine out of Dorothy's affair. + +When Frances said that Aunt Emmy had been tiresome again, Dorothy knew +what she meant. For Aunt Emmy's idea was that her sisters persecuted +her; that Edie was jealous of her and hated her; that Louie had always +trampled on her and kept her under; that Frances had used her influence +with Grannie to spoil all her chances one after another. It was all +Frances's fault that Vera Harrison had come between her and Major +Cameron; Frances had encouraged Vera in her infamous intrigue; and +between them they had wrecked two lives. And they had killed +Major Cameron. + +Since Ferdie's death Emmeline Fleming had lived most of the time in a +sort of dream in which it seemed to her that these things had +really happened. + +This afternoon she had been more than usually tiresome. She had simply +raved. + +"You should have brought her round to the meeting," said Dorothy, "and +let her rave there. I'd back Aunt Emmeline against Maud Blackadder. I +wish, Rosalind, you'd leave off making faces and kicking my shins. You +needn't worry any more, Mummy ducky. I'm going to rope them all into +the Suffrage Movement. Aunt Edie can distribute literature, Aunt Louie +can interrupt like anything, and Aunt Emmeline can shout and sing." + +"I think, Dorothy," said Rosalind with weak bitterness, "that you might +have stuck by me." + +The two were walking down East Heath Road to the tram-lines where the +motor buses started for Charing Cross. + +"It was you who dragged me into it, and the least you could do was to +stick. Why didn't you keep quiet instead of forcing our hands?" + +"I couldn't keep quiet. I'll go with you straight or I won't go with you +at all." + +"You know what's the matter with you? It's your family. You'll never be +any good to us, you'll never be any good to yourself till you've chucked +them and got away. For years--ever since you've been born--you've simply +been stewing there in the family juice until you're soaked with it. You +oughtn't to be living at home. You ought to be on your own--like me." + +"You're talking rot, Rosalind. If my people were like yours I'd have to +chuck them, I suppose; but they're not. They're angels." + +"That's why they're so dangerous. They couldn't influence you if they +weren't angels." + +"They don't influence me the least little bit. I'd like to see them try. +They're much too clever. They know I'd be off like a shot if they did. +Why, they let me do every mortal thing I please--turn the schoolroom +into a meeting hall for your friends to play the devil in. That +Blackadder girl was yelling the house down, yet they didn't say +anything. And your people aren't as bad as you make out, you know. You +couldn't live on your own if your father didn't give you an allowance. I +like Mrs. Jervis." + +"Because she likes you." + +"Well, that's a reason. It isn't the reason why I like my own mother, +because she doesn't like me so very much. That's why she lets me do what +I like. She doesn't care enough to stop me. She only really cares for +Dad and John and Nicky and Michael." + +Rosalind looked fierce and stubborn. + +"That's what's the matter with all of you," she said. + +"What is?" + +"Caring like that. It's all sex. Sex instinct, sex feeling. Maud's +right. It's what we're up against all the time." + +Dorothy said to herself, "That's what's the matter with Rosalind, if she +only knew it." + +Rosalind loved Michael and Michael detested her, and Nicky didn't like +her very much. She always looked fierce and stubborn when she heard +Michael's name. + +Rosalind went on. "When it comes to sex you don't revolt. You sit down." + +"I do revolt. I'm revolting now. I go much farther than you do. I think +the marriage laws are rotten; I think divorce ought to be for +incompatibility. I think love isn't love and can't last unless it's +free. I think marriage ought to be abolished--not yet, perhaps, but when +we've become civilized. It will be. It's bound to be. As it is, I think +every woman has a right to have a baby if she wants one. If Emmeline +had had a baby, she wouldn't be devastating us now." + +"That's what you think, but it isn't what you feel. It's all thinking +with you, Dorothy. The revolt goes on in your brain. You'll never do +anything. It isn't that you haven't the courage to go against your men. +You haven't the will. You don't want to." + +"Why should I? What do they do? Father and Michael and Nicky don't +interfere with me any more than Mother does." + +"You know I'm not thinking of them. They don't really matter." + +"Who are you thinking of then? Frank Drayton? You needn't!" + +It was mean of Rosalind to hit below the belt like that, when she knew +that _she_ was safe. Michael had never been brought against her and +never would be. It was disgusting of her to imply that Dorothy's state +of mind was palpable, when her own (though sufficiently advertised by +her behaviour) had received from Michael's sister the consecration of +silence as a secret, tragic thing. + +They had reached the tram-lines. + +At the sight of the Charing Cross `bus Rosalind assumed an air of +rollicking, adventurous travel. + +"My hat! What an evening! I shall have a ripping ride down. Don't say +there's no room on the top. Cheer up, Dorothy!" + +Which showed that Rosalind Jervis was a free woman, suggested that life +had richer thrills than marrying Dorothy's brother Michael, and fixed +the detested imputation securely on her friend. + +Dorothy watched her as she swung herself on to the footboard and up the +stair of the motor bus. There was room on the top. Rosalind, in fact, +had the top all to herself. + + * * * * * + +As Dorothy crossed the Heath again in the twilight she saw something +white on the terrace of her father's house. Her mother was waiting +for her. + +She thought at first that Aunt Emmeline had gone off her head and that +she had been sent for to keep her quiet. She gloried in their dependence +on her. But no, that wasn't likely. Her mother was just watching for her +as she used to watch for her and the boys when they were little and had +been sent across the Heath to Grannie's house with a message. + +And at the sight and memory of her mother Dorothy felt a childish, sick +dissatisfaction with herself and with her day, and an absurd longing for +the tranquillity and safety of the home whose chief drawback lately had +been that it was too tranquil and too safe. She could almost have told +her mother how they had all gone for her, and how Rosalind had turned +out rotten, and how beastly it had all been. Almost, but not quite. +Dorothy had grown up, and she was there to protect and not to be +protected. However agreeable it might have been to confide in her +mother, it wouldn't have done. + +Frances met her at the garden door. She had been crying. + +"Nicky's come home," she said. + +"Nicky?" + +"He's been sent down." + +"Whatever for?" + +"Darling, I can't possibly tell you." + +But in the end she did. + + + +XII + +Up till now Frances had taken a quiet interest in Women's Suffrage. It +had got itself into the papers and thus become part of the affairs of +the nation. The names of Mrs. Palmerston-Swete and Mrs. Blathwaite and +Angela Blathwaite had got into the papers, where Frances hoped and +prayed that the name of Dorothea Harrison might not follow them. The +spectacle of a frantic Government at grips with the Women's Franchise +Union had not yet received the head-lines accorded to the reports of +divorce and breach of promise cases and fires in paraffin shops; still, +it was beginning to figure, and if Frances's _Times_ ignored it, there +were other papers that Dorothy brought home. + +But for Frances the affairs of the nation sank into insignificance +beside Nicky's Cambridge affair. + +There could be no doubt that Nicky's affair was serious. You could not, +Anthony said, get over the letters, the Master's letter and the +Professor's letter and Michael's. They had arrived one hour after Nicky, +Nicky so changed from his former candour that he refused to give any +account of himself beyond the simple statement that he had been sent +down. They'd know, he had said, soon enough why. + +And soon enough they did know. + +To be sure no details could be disentangled from the discreet +ambiguities of the Master and the Professor. But Michael's letter was +more explicit. Nicky had been sent down because old "Booster" had got +it into his head that Nicky had been making love to "Booster's" wife +when she didn't want to be made love to, and nothing could get it out of +"Booster's" head. + +Michael was bound to stand up for his brother, and it was clear to +Anthony that so grave a charge could hardly have been brought without +some reason. The tone of the letters, especially the Professor's, was +extraordinarily restrained. That was what made the thing stand out in +its sheer awfulness. The Professor, although, according to Michael, he +conceived himself to be profoundly injured, wrote sorrowfully, in +consideration of Nicky's youth. + +There was one redeeming circumstance, the Master and the Professor both +laid stress on it: Anthony's son had not attempted to deny it. + +"There must," Frances said wildly, "be some terrible mistake." + +But Nicky cut the ground from under the theory of the terrible mistake +by continuing in his refusal to deny it. + +"What sort of woman," said Anthony, "is the Professor's wife?" + +"Oh, awfully decent," said Nicky. + +"You had no encouragement, then, no provocation?" + +"She's awfully fascinating," said Nicky. + +Then Frances had another thought. It seemed to her that Nicky was +evading. + +"Are you sure you're not screening somebody else?" + +"Screening somebody else? Do you mean some other fellow?" + +"Yes. I'm not asking you to give the name, Nicky." + +"I swear I'm not. Why should I be? I can't think why you're all making +such a fuss about it. I don't mean poor old 'Booster.' He's got some +cause, if you like." + +"But what was it you did--really did, Nicky?" + +"You've read the letters, Mother." + +Nicky's adolescence seemed to die and pass from him there and then; and +she saw a stubborn, hard virility that frightened and repelled her, +forcing her to believe that it might have really happened. + +To Frances the awfulness of it was beyond belief. And the pathos of her +belief in Nicky was unbearable to Anthony. There were the letters. + +"I think, dear," Anthony said, "you'd better leave us." + +"Mayn't I stay?" It was as if she thought that by staying she could +bring Nicky's youth back to life again. + +"No," said Anthony. + +She went, and Nicky opened the door for her. His hard, tight man's face +looked at her as if it had been she who had sinned and he who suffered, +intolerably, for her sin. The click of the door as he shut it +stabbed her. + +"It's a damnable business, father. We'd better not talk about it." + +But Anthony would talk about it. And when he had done talking all that +Nicky had to say was: "You know as well as I do that these +things happen." + + * * * * * + +For Nicky had thought it out very carefully beforehand in the train. +What else could he say? He couldn't tell them that "Booster's" poor +little wife had lost her head and made hysterical love to him, and had +been so frightened at what she had done that she had made him promise on +his word of honour that, whatever happened, he wouldn't give her away to +anybody, not even to his own people. + +He supposed that either Peggy had given herself away, or that poor old +"Booster" had found her out. He supposed that, having found her out, +there was no other line that "Booster" could have taken. Anyhow, there +was no other line that _he_ could take; because, in the world where +these things happened, being found out would be fifty times worse for +Peggy than it would be for him. + +He tried to recall the scene in the back drawing-room where she had +asked him so often to have tea with her alone. The most vivid part was +the end of it, after he had given his promise. Peggy had broken down and +put her head on his shoulder and cried like anything. And it was at that +moment that Nicky thought of "Booster," and how awful and yet how funny +it would be if he walked into the room and saw him there. He had tried +hard not to think what "Booster's" face would look like; he had tried +hard not to laugh as long as Peggy's head was on his shoulder, for fear +of hurting her feelings; but when she took it off he did give one +half-strangled snort; for it really was the rummest thing that had ever +happened to him. + +He didn't know, and he couldn't possibly have guessed, that as soon as +the door had shut on him Peggy's passion had turned to rage and utter +detestation of Nicky (for she had heard the snort); and that she had +gone straight to her husband's study and put her head on _his_ shoulder, +and cried, and told him a lie; and that it was Peggy's lie and not the +Professor's imagination that had caused him to be sent down. And even if +Peggy had not been Lord Somebody's daughter and related to all sorts of +influential people she would still have been capable of turning every +male head in the University. For she was a small, gentle woman with +enchanting manners and the most beautiful and pathetic eyes, and she had +not yet been found out. Therefore it was more likely that an +undergraduate with a face like Nicky's should lose his head than that a +woman with a face like Peggy's should, for no conceivable reason, tell a +lie. So that, even if Nicky's word of honour had not been previously +pledged to his accuser, it would have had no chance against any +statement that she chose to make. And even if he had known that she had +lied, he couldn't very well have given it against poor pretty Peggy who +had lost her head and got frightened. + +As Nicky packed up his clothes and his books he said, "I don't care if I +am sent down. It would have been fifty times worse for her than it +is for me." + +He had no idea how bad it was, nor how much worse it was going to be. +For it ended in his going that night from his father's house to the +house in St. John's Wood where Vera and Mr. Lawrence Stephen lived. + +And it was there that he met Desmond. + + * * * * * + +Nicky congratulated himself on having pulled it off so well. At the +same time he was a little surprised at the ease with which he had taken +his father and mother in. He might have understood it if he had known +that Vera had been before him, and that she had warned them long ago +that this was precisely the sort of thing they would have to look out +for. And as no opinion ever uttered on the subject of their children was +likely to be forgotten by Frances and Anthony, when this particular +disaster came they were more prepared for it than they would have +believed possible. + +But there were two members of his family whom Nicky had failed +altogether to convince, Michael and Dorothy. Michael luckily, Nicky said +to himself, was not on the spot, and his letter had no weight against +the letters of the Master and the Professor, and on this also Nicky had +calculated. He reckoned without Dorothy, judging it hardly likely that +she would be allowed to know anything about it. Nobody, not even +Frances, was yet aware of Dorothy's importance. + +And Dorothy, because of her importance, blamed herself for all that +happened afterwards. If she had not had that damned Suffrage meeting, +Rosalind would not have stayed to dinner; if Rosalind had not stayed to +dinner she would not have gone with her to the tram-lines; if she had +not gone with her to the tram-lines she would have been at home to stop +Nicky from going to St. John's Wood. As it was, Nicky had reached the +main road at the top of the lane just as Dorothy was entering it from +the bottom. + +At first Frances did not want Dorothy to see her father. He was most +horribly upset and must not be disturbed. But Dorothy insisted. Her +father had the letters, and she must see the letters. + +"I may understand them better than you or Daddy," she said. "You see, +Mummy, I know these Cambridge people. They're awful asses, some +of them." + +And though her mother doubted whether attendance at the Professor's +lectures would give Dorothy much insight into the affair, she had her +way. Anthony was too weak to resist her. He pushed the letters towards +her without a word. He would rather she had been left out of it. And yet +somehow the sight of her, coming in, so robust and undismayed and +competent, gave him a sort of comfort. + +Dorothy did not agree with Michael. There was more in it than the +Professor's imagination. The Professor, she said, hadn't got any +imagination; you could tell from the way he lectured. But she did not +believe one word of the charge against her brother. Something had +happened and Nicky was screening somebody. + +"I'll bet you anything you like," said Dorothy, "it's 'Booster's' wife. +She's made him give his word." + +Dorothy was sure that "Booster's" wife was a bad lot. + +"Nicky said she was awfully decent." + +"He'd _have_ to. He couldn't do it by halves." + +"They couldn't have sent him down, unless they'd sifted the thing to the +bottom." + +"I daresay they've sifted all they could, the silly asses." + +She could have killed them for making her father suffer. The sight of +his drawn face hurt her abominably. She had never seen him like that. +She wasn't half so sorry for her mother who was sustained by a secret, +ineradicable faith in Nicky. Why couldn't he have faith in Nicky too? +Was it because he was a man and knew that these things happened? + +"Daddy--being sent down isn't such an awful calamity. It isn't going to +blast his career or anything. It's always touch and go. _I_ might have +been sent down any day. I should have been if they'd known about me half +what they don't know about Nicky. Why can't you take it as a rag? You +bet _he_ does." + +Anthony removed himself from her protecting hand. He got up and went to +bed. + +But he did not sleep there. Neither he nor Frances slept. And he came +down in the morning looking worse than ever. + +Dorothy thought, "It must be awful to have children if it makes you feel +like that." She thought, "It's a lucky thing they're not likely to cut +up the same way about me." She thought again, "It must be awful to have +children." She thought of the old discussions in her room at Newnham, +about the woman's right to the child, and free union, and easy divorce, +and the abolition of the family. Her own violent and revolutionary +speeches (for which she liked to think she might have been sent down) +sounded faint and far-off and irrelevant. She did not really want to +abolish Frances and Anthony. And yet, if they had been abolished, as +part of the deplorable institution of parentage, it would have been +better for them; for then they would not be suffering as they did. + +It must be awful to have children. But perhaps they knew that it was +worth it. + +And as her thoughts travelled that way they were overtaken all of a +sudden by an idea. She did not stop to ask herself what business her +idea had in that neighbourhood. She went down first thing after +breakfast and sent off two wires; one to Captain Drayton at Croft House, +Eltham; one to the same person at the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich. + +"Can I see you? It's about Nicky. + +"DOROTHY HARRISON." + +Wires to show that she was impersonal and businesslike, and that her +business was urgent. "Can I see you?" to show that he was not being +invited to see _her_. "It's about Nicky" to justify the whole +proceeding. "Dorothy Harrison" because "Dorothy" by itself was too much. + + * * * * * + +As soon as she had sent off her wires Dorothy felt a sense of happiness +and well-being. She had no grounds for happiness; far otherwise; her +great friendship with Rosalind Jervis was disintegrating bit by bit +owing to Rosalind's behaviour; the fiery Suffrage meeting had turned +into dust and ashes; her darling Nicky was in a nasty scrape; her father +and mother were utterly miserable; yet she was happy. + +Half-way home her mind began to ask questions of its own accord. + +"Supposing you had to choose between the Suffrage and Frank Drayton?" + +"But I haven't got to." + +"You might have. You know you might any minute. You know he hates it. +And supposing--" + +But Dorothy refused to give any answer. + +His wire came within the next half hour. + +"Coming three sharp. FRANK." + +Her sense of well-being increased almost to exaltation. + + * * * * * + +He arrived with punctuality at three o'clock. (He was in the gunners and +had a job at Woolwich.) She found him standing on the hearth-rug in the +drawing-room. He had blown his nose when he heard her coming, and +that meant that he was nervous. She caught him stuffing his +pocket-handkerchief (a piece of damning evidence) into his +breast-pocket. + +With her knowledge of his nervousness her exaltation ceased as if it had +not been. At the sight of him it was as if the sentence hidden somewhere +in her mind--"You'll have to choose. You know you'll have to"--escaping +thought and language, had expressed itself in one suffocating pang. +Unless Nicky's affair staved off the dreadful moment. + +"Were you frightfully busy?" + +"No, thank goodness." + +The luck she had had! Of course, if he had been busy he couldn't +possibly have come. + +She could look at him now without a tightening in her throat. She liked +to look at him. He was made all of one piece. She liked his square face +and short fine hair, both the colour of light-brown earth; his eyes, the +colour of light brown earth under clear water; eyes that looked small +because they were set so deep. She liked their sudden narrowing and +their deep wrinkles when he smiled. She liked his jutting chin, and the +fine, rather small mouth that jerked his face slightly crooked when he +laughed. She liked that slender crookedness that made it a face +remarkable and unique among faces. She liked his brains. She liked all +that she had ever seen or heard of him. + +Vera had told them that once, at an up-country station in India, he had +stopped a mutiny in a native battery by laughing in the men's faces. +Somebody that Ferdie knew had been with him and saw it happen. The men +broke into his office where he was sitting, vulnerably, in his +shirt-sleeves. They had brought knives with them, beastly native things, +and they had their hands on the handles, ready. They screamed and +gesticulated with excitement. And Frank Drayton leaned back in his +office chair and looked at them, and burst out laughing, because, he +said, they made such funny faces. When they got to fingering their +knives, he tilted back his chair and rocked with laughter. His sudden, +incredible mirth frightened them and stopped the mutiny. She could see +him, she could see his face jerked crooked with delight. + +That was the sort of thing that Nicky would have done. She loved him for +that. She loved him because he was like Nicky. + +She was not able to recall the process of the states that flowered in +that mysterious sense of well-being and exaltation. A year ago Frank +Drayton had been only "that nice man we used to meet at Cheltenham." +First of all he had been Ferdie's and Vera's friend. Then he became +Nicky's friend; the only one who took a serious interest in his +inventions and supported him when he wanted to go into the Army and +consoled him when he was frustrated. Then he had become the friend of +the family. Now he was recognized as more particularly Dorothea's +friend. + +At Cheltenham he had been home on leave; and it was not until this year +that he had got his job at Woolwich teaching gunnery, while he waited +for a bigger job in the Ordnance Department. Ferdie Cameron had always +said that Frank Drayton would be worth watching. He would be part of the +brains of the Army some day. Nicky watched him. His brains and their +familiarity with explosives and the machinery of warfare had been his +original attraction for Nicky. But it was Dorothea who watched him most. + +She plunged abruptly into Nicky's affair, giving names and lineage. "You +know all sorts of people, do you know anything about her?" + +He looked at her clearly, without smiling. Then he said "Yes. I know a +good bit about her. Is that what's wrong with Nicky?" + +"Not exactly. But he's been sent down." + +His wry smile intimated that such things might be. + +Then she told him what the Master had written and what the Professor had +written and what Michael had written, and what Nicky had said, and what +she, Dorothea thought. Drayton smiled over the Master's and the +Professor's letters, but when it came to Michael's letter he +laughed aloud. + +"It's all very well for _us_. But Daddy and Mummy are breaking their +hearts. Daddy says he's going down to Cambridge to see what really +did happen." + +Again that clear look. She gathered that he disapproved of "Booster's" +wife. He disapproved of so many things: of Women's Suffrage; of +revolutions; of women who revolted; of anybody who revolted; of Mrs. +Palmerston-Swete and Mrs. Blathwaite and Angela Blathwaite. It was +putting it too mildly to say he disapproved of Rosalind Jervis; he +detested her. He disapproved of Vera and of her going to see Vera; she +remembered that he had even disapproved, long ago, of poor Ferdie, +though he liked him. Evidently he disapproved of "Booster's" wife for +the same reason that he disapproved of Vera. That was why he didn't +say so. + +"I believe you think all the time I'm right," she said. "Would you go +down if you were he?" + +"No. I wouldn't." + +"Why not?" + +"Because he won't get anything out of them. They can't give her away any +more than Nicky can. Or than _you_ can, Dorothy." + +"You mean I've done it already--to you. I _had_ to, because of Nicky. I +can't help it if you _do_ think it was beastly of me." + +"My dear child--" + +He got up vehemently, as if his idea was to take her in his arms and +stifle her outbreak that way. But something in her eyes, cold, unready, +yet aware of him, repelled him. + +He thought: "It's too soon. She's all rigid. She isn't alive yet. +That's not what she wired for." He thought: "I wish people wouldn't send +their children to Newnham. It retards their development by ten years." + +And she thought: "No. I mustn't let him do that. For then he won't be +able to go back on me when I tell him my opinions. It would be simply +trapping him. Supposing--supposing--" + +She did not know that that instinctive renunciation was her answer to +the question. Her honour would come first. + +"Of course. Of course you had to." + +"What would you do about it if you were Daddy?" + +"I should send them all to blazes." + +"No, but _really_ do?" + +"I should do nothing. I should leave it. You'll find that before very +long there'll be letters of apology and restitution." + +"Will you come down to the office with me and tell Daddy that?" + +"Yes, if you'll come to tea with me somewhere afterwards." + +(He really couldn't be expected to do all this for nothing.) + +She sent her mother to him while she put on her hat and coat. When she +came down Frances was happy again. + +"You see, Mummy, I was right, after all." + +"You always were right, darling, all the time." + +For the life of her she couldn't help giving that little flick at her +infallible daughter. + +"She _is_ right--most of the time," said Drayton. His eyes covered and +protected her. + +Anthony was in his office, sitting before the open doors of the cabinet +where he kept his samples of rare and valuable woods. The polished slabs +were laid before him on the table in rows, as he had arranged them to +show to a customer: wine-coloured mahogany, and golden satinwood; ebony +black as jet; tulip-wood mottled like fine tortoiseshell; coromandel +wood, striped black and white like the coat of a civet cat; ghostly +basswood, shining white on dead white; woods of clouded grain, and woods +of shining grain, grain that showed like the slanting, splintered lines +of hewn stone, like moss, like the veins of flowers, the fringes of +birds' feathers, the striping and dappling of beasts; woods of exquisite +grain where the life of the tree drew its own image in its own heart; +woods whose surface was tender to the touch like a fine tissue; and +sweet-smelling sandalwood and camphor-wood and cedar. + +Anthony loved his shining, polished slabs of wood. If a man must have a +business, let it be timber. Timber was a clean and fine and noble thing. +He had brought the working of his business to such a pitch of smooth +perfection that his two elder sons, Michael and Nicholas, could catch up +with it easily and take it in their stride. + +Now he was like a sick child that has ranged all its toys in front of it +and finds no comfort in them. + +And, as he looked at them, the tulip-wood and the scented sandalwood and +camphor-wood gave him an idea. + +The Master and the Professor had both advised him to send his son +Nicholas out of England for a little while. "Let him travel for six +months and get the whole miserable business out of his head." + +Nicky, when he gave up the Army, had told him flatly that he would +rather die than spend his life sitting in a beastly office. Nicky had +put it to him that timber meant trees, and trees meant forests; why, +lots of the stuff they imported came from the Himalaya and the West +Indies and Ceylon. He had reminded him that he was always saying a +timber merchant couldn't know enough about the living tree. Why +shouldn't he go into the places where the living trees grew and learn +all about them? Why shouldn't he be a tree-expert? Since they were +specializing in rare and foreign woods, why shouldn't he specialize in +rare and foreign trees? + +And the slabs of tulip-wood and scented camphor-wood and sandalwood were +saying to Anthony, "Why not?" Neither he nor Frances had wanted Nicky to +go off to the West Indies and the Himalaya; but now, since clearly he +must go off somewhere, why not? + +Drayton and Dorothy came in just as Anthony (still profoundly +dejected) was saying to himself, "Reinstate him. Give him +responsibility--curiosity--healthy interests. Get the whole miserable +business out of his head." + +It seemed incredible, after what they had gone through, that Drayton +should be standing there, telling him that there was nothing in it, that +there never had been any miserable business, that it was all a storm in +a hysterical woman's teacup. He blew the whole dirty nightmare to +nothing with the laughter that was like Nicky's own laughter. + +Then Anthony and Drayton and Dorothy sat round the table, drafting +letters to the Master and the Professor. Anthony, at Drayton's +dictation, informed them that he regretted the step they had seen fit to +take; that he knew his own son well enough to be pretty certain that +there had been some misunderstanding; therefore, unless he received +within three days a written withdrawal of the charge against his son +Nicholas, he would be obliged to remove his son Michael from the +Master's College. + +The idea of removing Michael was Anthony's own inspiration. + +Drayton's advice was that he should give Nicky his choice between Oxford +and Germany, the big School of Forestry at Aschaffenburg. If he chose +Germany, he would be well grounded; he could specialize and travel +afterwards. + +"Now _that's_ all over," Anthony said, "you two had better come and have +tea with me somewhere." + +But there was something in their faces that made him consult his watch +and find that "Oh dear me, no! he was afraid he couldn't." He had an +appointment at five. + +When they were well out of sight he locked up his toys in his cabinet, +left the appointment at five to Mr. Vereker, and went home to tell +Frances about the letters he had written to Cambridge and the plans that +had been made for Nicky's future. + +"He'll choose Germany," Anthony said. "But that can't be helped." + +Frances agreed that they could hardly have hit upon a better plan. + +So the affair of Nicky and "Booster's" wife was as if it had never been. +And for that they thanked the blessed common sense and sanity of +Captain Drayton. + +And yet Anthony's idea was wrecked by "Booster's" wife. It had come too +late. Anthony had overlooked the fact that his son had seventeen hours' +start of him. He was unaware of the existence of Nicky's own idea; and +he had not allowed for the stiff logic of his position. + +When he drove down in his car to St. John's Wood to fetch Nicky, he +found that he had left that afternoon for Chelsea, where, Vera told him, +he had taken rooms. + +She gave him the address. It had no significance for Anthony. + +Nicky refused to be fetched back from his rooms in Chelsea. For he had +not left his father's house in a huff; he had left it in his wisdom, to +avoid the embarrassment of an incredible position. His position, as he +pointed out to his father, had not changed. He was as big a blackguard +to-day as he was yesterday; the only difference was, that to-morrow or +the next day he would be a self-supporting blackguard. + +He wouldn't listen to his father's plan. It was a beautiful plan, but it +would only mean spending more money on him. He'd be pretty good, he +thought, at looking after machinery. He was going to try for a job as a +chauffeur or foreman mechanic. He thought he knew where he could get +one; but supposing he couldn't get it, if his father cared to take him +on at the works for a bit he'd come like a shot; but he couldn't stay +there, because it wouldn't be good enough. + +He was absolutely serious, and absolutely firm in the logic of his +position. For he argued that, if he allowed himself to be taken back as +though nothing had happened, this, more than anything he could well +think of, would be giving Peggy away. + +He sent his love to his mother and Dorothy, and promised to come out and +dine with them as soon as he had got his job. + +So Anthony drove back without him. But as he drove he smiled. And +Frances smiled, too, when he told her. + +"There he is, the young monkey, and there he'll stay. It's magnificent, +but of course he's an ass." + +"If you can't be an ass at twenty," said Frances, "when can you be?" + +They said it was so like Nicky. For all he knew to the contrary his +career was ruined; but he didn't care. You couldn't make any impression +on him. They wondered if anybody ever would. + +Dorothy wondered too. + +"What sort of rooms has he got, Anthony?" said Frances. + +"Very nice rooms, at the top of the house, looking over the river." + +"Darling Nicky, I shall go and see him. What are you thinking of, +Dorothy?" + +Dorothy was thinking that Nicky's address at Chelsea was the address +that Desmond had given her yesterday. + + + +XIII + +When Frances heard that Nicholas was going about everywhere with the +painter girl they called Desmond, she wrote to Vera to come and see her. +She could never bring herself to go to the St. John's Wood house that +was so much more Mr. Lawrence Stephen's house than it was Vera's. + +The three eldest children went now and then, refusing to go back on +Vera. Frances did not like it, but she had not interfered with their +liberty so far as to forbid it positively; for she judged that +frustration might create an appetite for Mr. Stephen's society that +otherwise they might not, after all, acquire. + +Vera understood that her husband's brother and sister-in-law could +hardly be expected to condone her last aberration. Her attachment to +Ferdie Cameron had been different. It was inevitable, and in a sense +forgivable, seeing that it had been brought about by Bartie's sheer +impossibility. Besides, the knowledge of it had dawned on them so +gradually and through so many stages of extenuating tragedy, that, even +when it became an open certainty, the benefit of the long doubt +remained. And there was Veronica. There was still Veronica. Even without +Veronica Vera would have had to think of something far worse than +Lawrence Stephen before Frances would have cast her off. Frances felt +that it was not for her to sit in judgment under the shelter of her tree +of Heaven. Supposing she could only have had Anthony as Vera had had +Ferdie, could she have lived without him? For Frances nothing in the +world had any use or interest or significance but her husband and her +children; her children first, and Anthony after them. For Vera nothing +in the world counted but her lover. + +"If only I were as sure of Lawrence as you are of Anthony!" she would +say. + +Yet she lived the more intensely, if the more dangerously, through the +very risks of her exposed and forbidden love. + +Vera was without fidelity to the unreturning dead; but she made up for +it by an incorruptible adoration of the living. And she had been made +notorious chiefly through Stephen's celebrity, which was, you might say, +a pure accident. + +Thus Frances made shelter for her friend. Only Vera must be made to +understand that, though _she_ was accepted Lawrence Stephen was not. He +was the point at which toleration ceased. + +And Vera did understand. She understood that Frances and Anthony +disapproved of her last adventure considerably more on Ferdie's and +Veronica's account than on Bartie's. Even family loyalty could not +espouse Bartie's cause with any zest. For Bartie showed himself +implacable. Over and over again she had implored him to divorce her so +that Lawrence might marry her, and over and over again he had refused. +His idea was to assert himself by refusals. In that way he could still +feel that he had power over her and a sort of possession. It was he who +was scandalous. Even now neither Frances nor Anthony had a word to +say for him. + +So Vera consented to be received surreptitiously, by herself, and +without receiving Frances and Anthony in her turn. It had hurt her; but +Stephen's celebrity was a dressing to her wound. He was so distinguished +that it was unlikely that Frances, or Anthony either, would ever have +been received by him without Vera. She came, looking half cynical, half +pathetic, her beauty a little blurred, a little beaten after seventeen +years of passion and danger, saying that she wasn't going to force Larry +down their throats if they didn't like him; and she went away sustained +by her sense of his distinction and _his_ repudiations. + +And she found further support in her knowledge that, if Frances and +Anthony could resist Lawrence, their children couldn't. Michael and +Dorothy were acquiring a taste for him and for the people he knew; and +he knew almost everybody who was worth knowing. To be seen at the +parties he and Vera gave in St. John's Wood was itself distinction. Vera +had never forgotten and never would forget what Anthony and Frances had +done for her and Ferdie when they took Veronica. She wanted to make up, +to pay back, to help their children as they had helped her child; to +give the best she had, and do what they, poor darlings, couldn't +possibly have done. Nicholas was all right; but Michael's case was +lamentable. In his family and in the dull round of their acquaintance +there was not anybody who was likely to be of the least use to Michael; +not anybody that he cared to know. No wonder that he kept up his old +attitude of refusing to go to the party. Lawrence Stephen had promised +her that he would help Michael. + +And Frances was afraid. She saw her children, Michael, Nicholas and +Dorothy, swept every day a little farther from the firm, well-ordered +sanctities, a little nearer to the unclean moral vortex that to her was +the most redoubtable of all. She hid her fear, because in her wisdom she +knew that to show fear was not the way to keep her children. She hid her +strength because she knew that to show it was not the way. Her strength +was in their love of her. She had only used it once when she had stopped +Nicky from going into the Army. She had said to herself then, "I will +never do that again." It wasn't fair. It was a sort of sacrilege, a +treachery. Love was holy; it should never be used, never be bargained +with. She tried to hold the balance even between their youth and +their maturity. + +So Frances fought her fear. + +She had known that Ferdie Cameron was good, as she put it, "in spite of +everything"; but she had not seen Lawrence Stephen, and she did not know +that he had sensibilities and prejudices and scruples like her own, and +that he and Vera distinguished very carefully between the people who +would be good for Michael and Nicholas and Dorothy, and the people who +would not. She did not know that they both drew the line at Desmond. + +Vera protested that it was not her fault, it was not Lawrence's fault +that Nicky had met Desmond. She had never asked them to meet each other. +She did not deny that it was in her house they _had_ met; but she had +not introduced them. Desmond had introduced herself, on the grounds that +she knew Dorothy. Vera suspected that, from the first moment when she +had seen him there--by pure accident--she had marked him down. Very +likely she had wriggled into Dorothy's Suffrage meeting on purpose. She +was capable of anything. + +Not that Vera thought there was any need for Frances to worry. It was +most unlikely that Desmond's business with Nicky could be serious. For +one thing she was too young herself to care for anybody as young as +Nicky. For another she happened to be in the beginning, or the middle, +certainly nowhere near the end of a tremendous affair with Headley +Richards. As she was designing the dresses and the scenery for the new +play he was putting on at the Independent Theatre, Vera argued very +plausibly that the affair had only just started, and that Frances must +allow it a certain time to run. + +"I hope to goodness that the Richards man will marry her." + +"My dear, how can he? He's married already to a nice little woman that +he isn't half tired of yet. Desmond was determined to have him and she's +got him; but he's only taken her in his stride, as you may say. I don't +suppose he cares very much one way or another. But with Desmond it's a +point of honour." + +"What's a point of honour?" + +"Why, to have him. Not to be left out. Besides, she always said she +could take him from poor little Ginny Richards, and she's done it. That +was another point of honour." + +With a calmness that was horrible to Frances Vera weighed her friend +Desmond's case. To Frances it was as if she had never known Vera. Either +Vera had changed or she had never known her. She had never known women, +or men either, who discussed such performances with calmness. Vera +herself hadn't made her infidelities a point of honour. + +These were the passions and the thoughts of Lawrence Stephen's and of +Desmond's world; these were the things it took for granted. These people +lived in a moral vortex; they whirled round and round with each other; +they were powerless to resist the swirl. Not one of them had any other +care than to love and to make love after the manner of the Vortex. This +was their honour, not to be left out of it, not to be left out of the +vortex, but to be carried away, to be sucked in, and whirl round and +round with each other and the rest. + +The painter girl Desmond was horrible to Frances. + +And all the time her mind was busy with one question: "Do you think +Nicky knows?" + +"I'm perfectly sure he doesn't." + +"Perhaps--if he did--" + +"No, my dear, that's no good. If you tell him he won't believe it. +You'll have all his chivalry up in arms. And you'll be putting into his +head what may never come into it if he's left alone. And you'll be +putting it into Desmond's head." + + * * * * * + +Captain Drayton, whom Anthony consulted, said, "Leave him alone." Those +painting and writing johnnies were a rum lot. You couldn't take them +seriously. The Desmond girl might be everything that Vera Harrison said +she was. He didn't think, though, that the idea of making love to her +would enter Nicky's head if they left him alone. Nicky's head had more +important ideas in it. + +So they left him alone. + + * * * * * + +And at first Nicholas really was too busy to think much of Desmond. Too +busy with his assistant manager's job at the Morss Motor Works; too busy +with one of the little ideas to which he owed the sudden rise in his +position: the little idea of making the Morss cars go faster; too busy +with his big Idea which had nothing whatever to do with the Morss +Company and their cars. + +His big Idea was the idea of the Moving Fortress. The dream of a French +engineer, the old, abandoned dream of the _forteresse mobile_, had +become Nicky's passion. He claimed no originality for his idea. It was a +composite of the amoured train, the revolving turret, the tractor with +caterpillar wheels and the motor-car. These things had welded themselves +together gradually in Nicky's mind during his last year at Cambridge. +The table in Nicky's sitting-room at the top of the house in Chelsea was +now covered with the parts of his model of the Moving Fortress. He made +them at the Works, one by one; for the Morss Company were proud of him, +and he had leave to use their material and plant now and then for little +ideas of his own. The idea of the Moving Fortress was with him all day +in the workshops and offices and showrooms, hovering like a formless +spiritual presence among the wheeled forms. But in the evening it took +shape and sound. It arose and moved, after its fashion, as he had +conceived it, beautiful, monstrous, terrible. At night, beside the image +of the _forteresse mobile_, the image of Desmond was a thin ghost that +stood back, mournful and dumb, in the right-hand corner of the vision. + +But the image of Desmond was there. + +At first it stood for Nicky's predominant anxiety: "I wonder when +Desmond will have finished the drawings." + +The model of the Moving Fortress waited upon Desmond's caprice. + +The plans of the parts and sections had to be finished before these +could be fitted together and the permanent model of the Moving Fortress +set up. The Moving Fortress itself waited upon Desmond. + +For, though Nicky could make and build his engine, he could not draw his +plans properly; and he could not trust anybody who understood engines to +draw them. He was haunted, almost insanely, by the fear that somebody +else would hit upon the idea of the Moving Fortress; it seemed to him so +obvious that no gunner and no engineer could miss it. And the drawings +Desmond made for him, the drawings in black and white, the drawings in +grey wash, and the coloured drawings were perfect. Nicky, unskilled in +everything but the inventing and building up of engines, did not know +how perfect the drawings were, any more than he knew the value of the +extraordinary pictures that hung on the walls and stood on the easels in +her studio; but he did know that, from the moment when he took Desmond +into his adventure, he and his Idea were dependent on her. + +He didn't care. He liked Desmond. He couldn't help it if Drayton +disapproved of her and if Dorothy didn't like her. She was, he said to +himself, a ripping good sort. She might be frightfully clever; Nicky +rather thought she was; but she never let you feel it; she never talked +that revolting rot that Rosalind and Dorothy's other friends talked. She +let you think. + +It was Desmond who told him that his sister didn't like her and that +Frank Drayton disapproved of her. + +"They wouldn't," said Nicky, "if they knew you." And he turned again to +the subject of his Moving Fortress. + +For Desmond's intelligence was perfect, and her sympathy was perfect, +and her way of listening was perfect. She sat on the floor, on the +orange and blue cushions, in silence and in patience, embracing her +knees with her long, slender, sallow-white arms, while Nicky stamped up +and down her studio and talked to her, like a monomaniac, about his +Moving Fortress. It didn't bore her to listen, because she didn't have +to answer; she had only to look at him and smile, and nod her head at +him now and then as a sign of enthusiasm. She liked looking at him; she +liked his young naïveté and monomania; she liked his face and all his +gestures, and the poise and movement of his young body. + +And as she looked at him the beauty that slept in her dulled eyes and in +her sallow-white face and in her thin body awoke and became alive. It +was not dangerous yet; not ready yet to tell the secret held back in its +long, subtle, serious, and slender lines. Desmond's sensuality was woven +with so fine a web that you would have said it belonged less to her body +than to her spirit and her mind. + + * * * * * + +In nineteen-eleven, on fine days in the late spring and early summer, +when the Morss Company lent him a car, or when they sent him motoring +about the country on their business, he took Desmond with him and +Desmond's painting box and easel. And they rested on the grass borders +of the high roads and on the edges of the woods and moors, and Desmond +painted her extraordinary pictures while Nicky lay on his back beside +her with his face turned up to the sky and dreamed of flying machines. + +For he had done with his Moving Fortress. It only waited for Desmond to +finish the last drawing. + +When he had that he would show the plans and the model to Frank Drayton +before he sent them to the War Office. + +He lived for that moment of completion. + + * * * * * + +And from the autumn of nineteen-ten to the spring of nineteen-eleven +Desmond's affair with Headley Richards increased and flowered and +ripened to its fulfilment. And in the early summer she found that things +had happened as she had meant that they should happen. + +She had always meant it. She had always said, and she had always thought +that women were no good unless they had the courage of their opinions; +the only thing to be ashamed of was the cowardice that prevented them +from getting what they wanted. + +Desmond had no idea that the violence of the Vortex had sucked her in. +Being in the movement of her own free will, she thought that by simply +spinning round faster and faster she added her own energy to the whirl. +It was not Dorothy's vortex, or the vortex of the fighting Suffrage +woman. Desmond didn't care very much about the Suffrage; or about any +kind of freedom but her own kind; or about anybody's freedom but her +own. Maud Blackadder's idea of freedom struck Desmond as sheer moral and +physical insanity. Yet each, Desmond and Dorothy and Maud Blackadder and +Mrs. Blathwaite and her daughter and Mrs. Palmerston-Swete, had her own +particular swirl in the immense Vortex of the young century. If you had +youth and life in you, you were in revolt. + +Desmond's theories were Dorothy's theories too; only that while Dorothy, +as Rosalind had said, thought out her theories in her brain without +feeling them, Desmond felt them with her whole being; and with her whole +being, secret, subtle and absolutely relentless, she was bent on +carrying them out. + +And in the summer, in the new season, Headley Richards decided that he +had no further use for Desmond. The new play had run its course at the +Independent Theatre, a course so brief that Richards had been +disappointed. He put down the failure mainly to the queerness of the +dresses and the scenery she had designed for him. Desmond's new art was +too new; people weren't ready yet for that sort of thing. At the same +time he discovered that he was really very much attached to his own wife +Ginny, and when Ginny nobly offered to give him his divorce he had +replied nobly that he didn't want one. And he left Desmond to face +the music. + +Desmond's misery was acute; but it was not so hopeless as it would have +been if she could have credited Ginny Richards with any permanent power +of attraction for Headley. She knew he would come back to her. She knew +the power of her own body. She held him by the tie that was never broken +so long as it endured. He would never marry her; yet he would come back. + +But in the interval between these acts there was the music. + +And the first sound of the music, the changed intonations of her +landlady, frightened Desmond; for though she was older than Nicky she +was very young. And there were Desmond's people. You may forget that you +have people and behave as if they weren't there; but, if they are there, +sooner or later they will let you know it. An immense volume of sound +and some terrifying orchestral effects were contributed by Desmond's +people. So that the music was really very bad to bear. + +Desmond couldn't bear it. And in her fright she thought of Nicky. + +She knew that she hadn't a chance so long as he was absorbed in the +Moving Fortress. But the model was finished and set up and she was at +work on the last drawing. And no more ideas for engines were coming into +Nicky's head. The Morss Company and Nicky himself were even beginning to +wonder whether there ever would be any more. + +Then Nicky thought of Desmond. And he showed that he was thinking of her +by sitting still and not talking when he was with her. She did not fill +that emptiness and spaciousness of Nicky's head, but he couldn't get her +out of it. + + * * * * * + +When Vera noticed the silence of the two she became uneasy, and judged +that the time had come for discreet intervention. + +"Nicky," she said, "is it true that Desmond's been doing drawings for +you?" + +"Yes," said Nicky, "she's done any amount." + +"My dear boy, have you any idea of the amount you'll have to pay her?" + +"I haven't," said Nicky, "I wish I had. I hate asking her, and yet I +suppose I'll have to." + +"Of course you'll have to. _She_ won't hate it. She's got to earn her +living as much as you have." + +"Has she? You don't mean to say she's hard up?" + +He had never thought of Desmond as earning her own living, still less as +being hard up. + +"I only wish she were," said Vera, "for your sake." + +"Why on earth for my sake?" + +"Because _then_, my dear Nicky, you wouldn't have to pay so stiff a +price." + +"I don't care," said Nicky, "how stiff the price is. I shall pay it." + +And Vera replied that Desmond, in her own queer way, really was a rather +distinguished painter. "Pay her," she said. "Pay her for goodness sake +and have done with it. And if she wants to give you things don't +let her." + +"As if," said Nicky, "I should dream of letting her." + +And he went off to Chelsea to pay Desmond then and there. + +Vera thought that she had been rather clever. Nicky would dash in and do +the thing badly. He would be very proud about it, and he would revolt +from his dependence on Desmond, and he would show her--Vera hoped that +he would show her--that he did not want to be under any obligation to +her. And Desmond would be hurt and lose her temper. The hard look would +get into her face and destroy its beauty, and she would say detestable +things in a detestable voice, and a dreadful ugliness would come between +them, and the impulse of Nicky's yet unborn passion would be checked, +and the memory of that abominable half-hour would divide them for ever. + + * * * * * + +But Vera herself had grown hard and clever. She had forgotten Nicky's +tenderness, and she knew nothing at all about Desmond's fright. And, as +it happened, neither Nicky nor Desmond did any of the things she thought +they would do. + +Nicky was not impetuous. He found Desmond in her studio working on the +last drawing of the Moving Fortress, with the finished model before her. +That gave him his opening, and he approached shyly and tentatively. + +Desmond put on an air of complete absorption in her drawing; but she +smiled. A pretty smile that lifted the corners of her mouth and made it +quiver, and gave Nicky a queer and unexpected desire to kiss her. + +He went on wanting to know what his debt was--not that he could ever +really pay it. + +"Oh, you foolish Nicky," Desmond said. + +He repeated himself over and over again, and each time she had an +answer, and the answers had a cumulative effect. + +"There isn't any debt. You don't pay anything--" + +"I didn't do it for _that_, you silly boy." + +"What did I do it for? I did it for fun. You couldn't draw a thing like +that for anything else. Look at it--" + +--"Well, if you want to be horrid and calculating about it, think of the +lunches and the dinners and the theatre tickets and the flowers you've +given _me_. Oh, and the gallons and gallons of petrol. How am I ever to +pay you back again?" + +Thus she mocked him. + +"Can't you see how you're spoiling it all?" + +And then, passionately: "Oh, Nicky, please don't say it again. It +hurts." + +She turned on him her big black looking-glass eyes washed bright, each +with one tear that knew better than to fall just yet. He must see that +she was holding herself well in hand. It would be no use letting herself +go until he had forgotten his Moving Fortress. He was looking at the +beastly thing now, instead of looking at her. + +"Are you thinking of another old engine?" + +"No," said Nicky. "I'm not thinking of anything." + +"Then you don't want me to do any more drawings?" + +"No." + +"Well then--I wonder whether you'd very much mind going away?" + +"Now?" + +"No. Not now. But soon. From here. Altogether." + +"Go? Altogether? Me? Why?" + +He was utterly astonished. He thought that he had offended Desmond past +all forgiveness. + +"Because I came here to be alone. To work. And I can't work. And I want +to be alone again." + +"Am I--spoiling it?" + +"Yes. You're spoiling it damnably." + +"I'm sorry, Desmond. I didn't mean to. I thought--" But he hadn't the +heart to say what he had thought. + +She looked at him and knew that the moment was coming. + +It had come. + +She turned away from the table where the Moving Fortress stood, +threatening her with its mimic guns, and reminding Nicky of the things +she most wanted him to forget. She withdrew to her crouching place at +the other end of the studio, among the cushions. + +He followed her there with slow, thoughtful steps, steps full of +brooding purpose and of half-unconscious meaning. + +"Nicky, I'm so unhappy. I didn't know it was possible for anybody to be +so unhappy in this world." + +She began to cry quietly. + +"Desmond--what is it? What is it? Tell me. Why can't you tell me?" + + * * * * * + +She thought, "It will be all right if he kisses me once. If he holds me +in his arms once. Then I can tell him." + +For then he would know that he loved her. He was not quite sure now. She +knew that he was not quite sure. She trusted to the power of her body to +make him sure. + +Her youth neither understood his youth, nor allowed for it, nor pitied +it. + +He had kissed her. He had held her in his arms and kissed her more than +once while she cried there, hiding her face in the hollow of his arm. +She was weak and small. She was like some small, soft, helpless animal +and she was hurt. Her sobbing and panting made her ribs feel fragile +like the ribs of some small, soft, helpless animal under the pressure of +his arms. And she was frightened. + +He couldn't stand the sight of suffering. He had never yet resisted the +appeal of small, weak, helpless things in fright and pain. He could feel +Desmond's heart going thump, thump, under the blue thing he called her +pinafore. Her heart hurt him with its thumping. + +And through all his painful pity he knew that her skin was smooth and +sweet like a sallow-white rose-leaf. And Desmond knew that he knew it. +His mouth slid with an exquisite slipperiness over the long, polished +bands of her black hair; and he thought that he loved her. Desmond knew +that he thought it. + +And still she waited. She said to herself, "It's no good his thinking +it. I daren't tell him till he says it. Till he asks me to marry him." + + * * * * * + +He had said it at last. And he had asked her to marry him. And then she +had told him. + +And all that he said was, "I don't care." He said it to Desmond, and he +said it to himself. + +The funny thing was that he did not care. He was as miserable as it was +well possible to be, but he didn't really care. He was not even +surprised. It was as if the knowledge of it had been hiding in the back +of his head behind all the ideas. + +And yet he couldn't have known it all the time. Either it must have gone +away when his ideas went, or he must have been trying not to see it. + +She had slipped from his arms and stood before him, dabbing her mouth +and eyes now and then with her pocket-handkerchief, controlling herself, +crying quietly. + +She knew, what had not dawned on Nicky yet, that he didn't love her. If +he had loved her he would have cared intolerably. He didn't care about +Headley Richards because he didn't care about Desmond any more. He was +only puzzled. + +"Why did you do it?" + +"I can't think why. I must have been off my head. I didn't know what it +was like. I didn't know. I thought it would be wonderful and beautiful. +I thought he was wonderful and beautiful." + +"Poor little Desmond." + +"Oh, Nicky, do you think me a beast? Does it make you hate me?" + +"No. Of course it doesn't. The only awful thing is--" + +"What? Tell me." + +"Well--you see--" + +"You mean the baby? I know it's awful. You needn't tell me that, Nicky." + +He stared at her. + +"I mean it's so awful for _it_." + +She thought he had been thinking of himself and her. + +"Why should it be?" + +"Why? There isn't any why. It just is. I _know_ it is." + +He was thinking of Veronica. + +"You see," he said simply, "that's why this sort of thing is such a +rotten game. It's so hard on the kiddy. I suppose you didn't think of +that. You couldn't have, or else you wouldn't--" + +He paused. There was one thing he had to know. He must get it out of +her. + +"It hasn't made you feel that you don't want it?" + +"Oh--I don't know what I want--_now_. I don't know what it makes me +feel!" + +"Don't let it, Desmond. Don't let it. It'll be all right. You won't feel +like that when you've married me. Can't you see that _that's_ the +wonderful and beautiful part?" + +"_What_ is?" she said in her tired drawl. + +"_It_--the poor kiddy." + +Because he remembered Veronica he was going to marry Desmond. + + * * * * * + +Veronica's mother was the first to hear about it. Desmond told her. + +Veronica's mother was determined to stop it for the sake of everybody +concerned. + +She wrote to Nicholas and asked him to come and dine with her one +evening when Lawrence Stephen was dining somewhere else. (Lawrence +Stephen made rather a point of not going to houses where Vera was not +received; but sometimes, when the occasion was political, or otherwise +important, he had to. That was her punishment, as Bartholomew had meant +that it should be.) + +Nicky knew what he had been sent for, and to all his aunt's assaults and +manoeuvres he presented an inexpugnable front. + +"You mustn't do it; you simply mustn't." + +He intimated that his marriage was his own affair. + +"It isn't. It's the affair of everybody who cares for you." + +"Their caring isn't my affair," said Nicky. + +And then Vera began to say things about Desmond. + +"It's absurd of you," she said, "to treat her as if she was an innocent +child. She isn't a child, and she isn't innocent. She knew perfectly +well what she was about. There's nothing she doesn't know. She meant it +to happen, and she made it happen. She said she would. She meant you to +marry her, and she's making you marry her. I daresay she said she would. +She's as clever and determined as the devil. Neither you nor Headley +Richards ever had a chance against her." + +"She hasn't got a dog's chance against all you people yelping at her now +she's down. I should have thought--" + +"You mean _I_'ve no business to? That was different. I didn't take any +other woman's husband, or any other woman's lover, Nicky." + +"If you had," said Nicky, "I wouldn't have interfered." + +"I wouldn't interfere if I thought you cared _that_ for Desmond. But you +don't. You know you don't." + +"Of course I care for her." + +He said it stoutly, but he coloured all the same, and Vera knew that he +was vulnerable. + +"Oh, Nicky dear, if you'd only waited--" + +"What do you mean?" + +His young eyes interrogated her austerely; and she flinched. "I don't +know what I mean. Unless I mean that you're just a little young to +marry anybody." + +"I don't care if I am. I don't _feel_ young, I can tell you. Anyhow +Desmond's years younger." + +"Desmond is twenty-three. You're twenty. It's Veronica who's years +younger." + +"Veronica?" + +"She's sixteen. You don't imagine Desmond is as young as that, do you? +Wait till she's twenty-five and you're twenty-two." + +"It wouldn't do poor Desmond much good if I did. I could kill Headley +Richards." + +"What for?" + +"For leaving her." + +Vera smiled. "That shows how much you care. You wouldn't have felt like +killing him if he'd stuck to her. Why should you marry Headley Richards' +mistress and take on his child? It's preposterous." + +"It isn't. If the other fellow's a brute it's all the more reason why I +shouldn't be. I want to be some use in this rotten world where people +are so damnably cruel to each other. And there's that unhappy kiddy. +You've forgotten the kiddy." + +"Do you mean to say it's Desmond's child _you_'re thinking of?" + +"I can't understand any woman not thinking of it," said Nicky. + +He looked at her, and she knew that he remembered Veronica. + +Then she gave him back his own with interest, for his good. + +"If you care so much, why don't you choose a better mother for your own +children?" + +It was as if she said: "If you care so much about Veronica, why don't +you marry _her_?" + +"It's a bit too late to think of that now," said poor Nicky. + +Because he had cared so much about Veronica he was going to marry +Desmond. + + * * * * * + +"I couldn't do anything with him," Vera said afterwards. "Nothing I said +made the least impression on him." + +That however (as both Vera and Nicky were aware), was not strictly true. +But, in spite of Nicky's terrible capacity for remembering, she stuck to +it that Desmond's affair would have made no impression on him if it had +not been for that other absurd affair of the Professor's wife. And it +would have been better, Lawrence Stephen said, for Nicky to have made +love to all the married women in Cambridge than for him to marry +Phyllis Desmond. + +These reflections were forced on them by the ironic coincidence of +Nicky's engagement with his rehabilitation at the University. + +Drayton's forecast was correct; Nicky's brother Michael had not been +removed from Nicky's College eight months before letters of apology and +restitution came. But both apology and restitution came too late. + +For by that time Nicky had married Desmond. + + + +XIV + +After Nicholas, Veronica; and after Veronica, Michael. + +Anthony and Frances sat in the beautiful drawing-room of their house, +one on each side of the fireplace. They had it all to themselves, except +for the cats, Tito and Timmy, who crouched on the hearthrug at their +feet. Frances's forehead and her upper lip were marked delicately with +shallow, tender lines; Anthony's eyes had crow's-feet at their corners, +pointing to grey hairs at his temples. To each other their faces were as +they had been fifteen years ago. The flight of time was measured for +them by the generations of the cats that had succeeded Jane and Jerry. +For still in secret they refused to think of their children as grown-up. + +Dorothy was upstairs in her study writing articles for the Women's +Franchise Union. They owed it to her magnanimity that they had one child +remaining with them in the house. John was at Cheltenham; Veronica was +in Dresden. Michael was in Germany, too, at that School of Forestry at +Aschaffenburg which Anthony had meant for Nicky. They couldn't bear to +think where Nicky was. + +When Frances thought about her children now her mind went backwards. If +only they hadn't grown-up; if only they could have stayed little for +ever! In another four years even Don-Don would be grown-up--Don-Don who +was such a long time getting older that at fourteen, only two years +ago, he had been capable of sitting in her lap, a great long-legged, +flumbering puppy, while mother and son rocked dangerously together in +each other's arms, like two children, laughing together, mocking +each other. + +She was going to be wiser with Don-Don than she had been with Nicky. She +would be wiser with Michael when he came back from Germany. She would +keep them both out of the Vortex, the horrible Vortex that Lawrence +Stephen and Vera had let Nicky in for, the Vortex that seized on youth +and forced it into a corrupt maturity. After Desmond's affair Anthony +and Frances felt that to them the social circle inhabited by Vera and +Lawrence Stephen would never be anything but a dirty hell. + +As for Veronica, the longer she stayed in Germany the better. + +Yet Frances knew that they had not sent Veronica to Dresden to prevent +her mother from getting hold of her. When she remembered the fear she +had had of the apple-tree house, she said to herself that Desmond was a +judgment on her for sending little Veronica away. + +And yet it was the kindest thing they could have done for her. Veronica +was happy in Dresden, living with a German family and studying music and +the language. She had no idea that music and the language were mere +blinds, and that she had been sent to the German family to keep her out +of Nicky's way. + +They would have them all back again at Christmas. Frances counted the +days. From to-night, the seventh of June, to December the twentieth was +not much more than six months. + +To-night, the seventh of June, was Nicky's wedding-night. But they did +not know that. Nicky had kept the knowledge from them, in his mercy, to +save them the agony of deciding whether they would recognize the +marriage or not. And as neither Frances nor Anthony had ever faced +squarely the prospect of disaster to their children, they had turned +their backs on Nicky's marriage and supported each other in the hope +that at the last minute something would happen to prevent it. + + * * * * * + +The ten o'clock post, and two letters from Germany. Not from Michael, +not from Veronica. One from Frau Schäfer, the mother of the German +family. It was all in German, and neither Anthony nor Frances could make +out more than a word here and there. "Das süsse, liebe Mädchen" meant +Veronica. But certain phrases: "traurige Nachrichten" ... "furchtbare +Schwächheit" ... "... eine entsetzliche Blutleere ..." terrified them, +and they sent for Dorothy to translate. + +Dorothy was a good German scholar, but somehow she was not very fluent. +She scowled over the letter. + +"What does it mean?" said Frances. "Hæmorhage?" + +"No. No. Anæmia. Severe anæmia. Heart and stomach trouble." + +"But 'traurige Nachrichten' is 'bad news.' They're breaking it to us +that she's dying." + +(It was unbearable to think of Nicky marrying Ronny; but it was more +unbearable to think of Ronny dying.) + +"They don't say they're sending _us_ bad news; they say they think +Ronny must have had some. To account for her illness. Because they say +she's been so happy with them." + +"But what bad news could she have had?" + +"Perhaps she knows about Nicky." + +"But nobody's told her, unless Vera has." + +"She hasn't. I know she hasn't. She didn't want her to know." + +"Well, then--" + +"Mummy, you don't _have_ to tell Ronny things. She always knows them." + +"How on earth could she know a thing like that?" + +"She might. She sort of sees things--like Ferdie. She may have seen him +with Desmond. You can't tell." + +"Do they say what the doctor thinks?" + +"Yes. He thinks it's worry and Heimweh--homesickness. They want us to +send for her and take her back. Not let her have another term." + +Though Frances loved Veronica she was afraid of her coming back. For she +was more than ever convinced that something would happen and that Nicky +would not marry Desmond. + + * * * * * + +The other letter was even more difficult to translate or to understand +when translated. + +The authorities at Aschaffenburg requested Herr Harrison to remove his +son Michael from the School of Forestry. Michael after his first few +weeks had done no good at the school. In view of the expense to Herr +Harrison involved in his fees and maintenance, they could not honestly +advise his entering upon another term. It would only be a deplorable +throwing away of money on a useless scheme. His son Michael had no +thoroughness, no practical ability, and no grasp whatever of theoretic +detail. From Herr Harrison's point of view this was the more regrettable +inasmuch as the young man had colossal decision and persistence and +energy of his own. He was an indefatigable dreamer. Very likely--when +his dreams had crystallized--a poet. But the idea Herr Harrison had had +that his son Michael would make a man of business, or an expert in +Forestry, was altogether fantastic and absurd. And from the desperate +involutions of the final sentence Dorothy disentangled the clear fact +that Michael's personal charm, combined with his hostility to +discipline, his complete indifference to the aims of the authorities, +and his utter lack of any sense of responsibility, made him a dangerous +influence in any school. + +That was the end of Anthony's plans for Michael. + +The next morning Nicky wired from some village in Sussex: "Married +yesterday.--NICKY." + +After that nothing seemed to matter. With Nicky gone from them they were +glad to have Michael back again. Frances said they might be thankful for +one thing--that there wasn't any German Peggy or any German Desmond in +Michael's problem. + +And since both Michael and Veronica were to be removed at once, the +simplest arrangement was that he should return to Dresden and bring her +back with him. + +Frances had never been afraid for Michael. + +Michael knew that he had made havoc of his father's plans. He couldn't +help that. His affair was far too desperate. And any other man but his +father would have foreseen that the havoc was inevitable and would have +made no plans. He knew he had been turned into the tree-travelling +scheme that had been meant for Nicky, because, though Nicky had slipped +out of it, his father simply couldn't bear to give up his idea. And no +wonder, when the dear old thing had so few of them. + +He had been honest with his father about it; every bit as honest as +Nicky had been. He had wanted to travel if he could go to China and +Japan, just as Nicky had wanted to travel if he could go to places like +the West Indies and the Himalaya. And he didn't mind trying to get the +trees in when he was there. He was even prepared to accept Germany and +the School for Forestry if Germany was the only way to China and Japan. +But he had told his father not to mind if nothing came of it at the end +of all the travelling. And his father had said he would take the risk. +He preferred taking the risk to giving up his idea. + +And Michael had been honest with himself. He had told himself that he +too must take some risks, and the chances were that a year or two in +Germany wouldn't really hurt him. Things never did hurt you as much as +you thought they would. He had thought that Cambridge would do all sorts +of things to him, and Cambridge had not done anything to him at all. As +for Oxford, it had given him nearly all the solitude and liberty he +wanted, and more companionship than he was ever likely to want. At +twenty-two Michael was no longer afraid of dying before he had finished +his best work. In spite of both Universities he had done more or less +what he had meant to do before he went to Germany. His work had not yet +stood the test of time, but to make up for that he himself, in his +uneasy passion for perfection, like Time, destroyed almost as much as he +created. Still, after some pitiless eliminations, enough of his verse +remained for one fine, thin book. + +It would be published if Lawrence Stephen approved of the selection. + +So, Michael argued, even if he died to-morrow there was no reason why he +should not go to Germany to-day. + +He was too young to know that he acquiesced so calmly because his soul +was for a moment appeased by accomplishment. + +He was too young to know that his soul had a delicate, profound and +hidden life of its own, and that in secret it approached the crisis of +transition. It was passing over from youth to maturity, like a +sleep-walker, unconscious, enchanted, seeing its way without seeing it, +safe only from the dangers of the passage if nobody touched it, and if +it went alone. + +Michael had no idea of what Germany could and would do to his soul. + +Otherwise he might have listened to what Paris had to say by way of +warning. + +For his father had given him a fortnight in Paris on his way to Germany, +as the reward of acquiescence. That (from Herr Harrison's point of view) +was a disastrous blunder. How could the dear old Pater be expected to +know that Paris is, spiritually speaking, no sort of way even to South +Germany? He should have gone to Brussels, if he was ever, spiritually +speaking, to get there at all. + +And neither Anthony nor Frances knew that Lawrence Stephen had plans for +Michael. + +Michael went to Paris with his unpublished poems in his pocket and a +letter of introduction from Stephen to Jules Réveillaud. He left it with +revolution in his soul and the published poems of Réveillaud and his +followers in his suit-case, straining and distending it so that it burst +open of its own accord at the frontier. + +Lawrence Stephen had said to him: "Before you write another line read +Réveillaud and show him what you've written." + +Jules Réveillaud was ten years older than Michael, and he recognized the +symptoms of the crisis. He could see what was happening and what had +happened and would happen in Michael's soul. He said: "One third of each +of your poems is good. And there are a few--the three last--which are +all good." + +"Those," said Michael, "are only experiments." + +"Precisely. They are experiments that have succeeded. That is why they +are good. Art is always experiment, or it is nothing. Do not publish +these poems yet. Wait and see what happens. Make more experiments. And +whatever you do, do not go to Germany. That School of Forestry would be +very bad for you. Why not," said Réveillaud, "stay where you are?" + +Michael would have liked to stay for ever where he was, in Paris with +Jules Réveillaud, in the Rue Servandoni. And because his conscience +kept on telling him that he would be a coward and a blackguard if he +stayed in Paris, he wrenched himself away. + +In the train, going into Germany, he read Réveillaud's "Poèmes" and the +"Poèmes" of the young men who followed him. He had read in Paris +Réveillaud's "Critique de la Poésie Anglaise Contemporaine." And as he +read his poems, he saw that, though he, Michael Harrison, had split with +"la poésie anglaise contemporaine," he was not, as he had supposed, +alone. His idea of being by himself of finding new forms, doing new +things by himself to the disgust and annoyance of other people, in a +world where only one person, Lawrence Stephen, understood or cared for +what he did, it was pure illusion. These young Frenchmen, with Jules +Réveillaud at their head, were doing the same thing, making the same +experiment, believing in the experiment, caring for nothing but the +experiment, and carrying it farther than he had dreamed of carrying it. +They were not so far ahead of him in time; Réveillaud himself had only +two years' start; but they were all going the same way, and he saw that +he must either go with them or collapse in the soft heap of rottenness, +"la poésie anglaise contemporaine." + +He had made his own experiments in what he called "live verse" before he +left England, after he had said he would go to Germany, even after the +final arrangements had been made. His father had given him a month to +"turn round in," as he put it. And Michael had turned completely round. + +He had not shown his experiments to Stephen. He didn't know what to +think of them himself. But he could see, when once Réveillaud had +pointed it out to him, that they were the stuff that counted. + +In the train going into Germany he thought of certain things that +Réveillaud had said: "Nous avons trempé la poésie dans la peinture et la +musique. Il faut la délivrer par la sculpture. Chaque ligne, chaque +vers, chaque poème taillé en bloc, sans couleur, sans decor, sans +rime."... "La sainte pauvresse du style dépouillé."... "Il faut de la +dureté, toujours de la dureté." + +He thought of Réveillaud's criticism, and his sudden startled spurt of +admiration: "Mais! Vous l'avez trouvée, la beauté de la ligne droite." + +And Réveillaud's question: "Vraiment? Vous n'avez jamais lu un seul vers +de mes poèmes? Alors, c'est étonnant." And then: "C'est que la réalité +est plus forte que nous." + +The revolting irony of it! After stumbling and fumbling for years by +himself, like an idiot, trying to get it, the clear hard Reality; trying +not to collapse into the soft heap of contemporary rottenness; and, +suddenly, to get it without knowing that he had got it, so that, but for +Réveillaud, he might easily have died in his ignorance; and then, in the +incredible moment of realization, to have to let go, to turn his back on +Paris, where he wanted to live, and on Réveillaud whom he wanted to +know, and to be packed in a damnable train, like a parcel, and sent off +to Germany, a country which he did not even wish to see. + +He wondered if he could have done it if he had not loved his father? He +wondered if his father would ever understand that it was the hardest +thing he had ever yet done or could do? + +But the trees would be beautiful. He would rather like seeing the trees. + +Trees-- + +He wondered whether he would ever care about a tree again. + +Trees-- + +He wondered whether he would ever see a tree again, ever smell tree-sap, +or hear the wind sounding in the ash-trees like a river and in the firs +like a sea. + +Trees-- + +He wondered whether any tree would ever come to life for him again. + +He looked on at the tree-felling. He saw slaughtered trees, trees that +tottered, trees that staggered in each other's branches. He heard the +scream and the shriek of wounded boughs, the creaking and crashing of +the trunk, and the long hiss of branches falling, trailing through +branches to the ground. He smelt the raw juice of broken leaves and the +sharp tree dust in the saw pits. The trees died horrible deaths, in the +forests under the axes of the woodmen, and in the schools under the +tongues of the Professors, and in Michael's soul. The German Government +was determined that he should know all about trees. Its officials, the +Professors and instructors, were sorry if he didn't like it, but they +were ordered by their Government and paid by their Government to impart +this information; they had contracted with Herr Harrison to impart it to +his son Michael for so long as he could endure it, and they imparted it +with all their might. + +Michael rather liked the Germans of Aschaffenburg. Instead of despising +him because he would never make a timber-merchant or a tree expert, they +admired and respected him because he was a poet. The family he lived +with, Herr Henschel and Frau Henschel, and his fellow-boarders, Carl and +Otto Kraus, and young Ludwig Henschel, and Hedwig and Löttchen admired +and respected him because he was a poet. When he walked with Ludwig in +the great forests Michael chanted his poems, both in English and in +German, till Ludwig's soul was full of yearning and a delicious sorrow, +so that Ludwig actually shed tears in the forest. He said that if he had +not done so he would have burst. Ludwig's emotions had nothing whatever +to do with the forest or with Michael's poems, but he thought they had. + +Michael knew that his only chance of getting out of Germany was to show +an unsurpassable incompetence. He showed it. He flourished his +incompetence in the faces of all the officials, until some superofficial +wrote a letter to his father that gave him his liberty. + +The Henschels were sorry when he left. The students, Otto and Carl and +Ludwig, implored him not to forget them. Hedwig and Löttchen cried. + + * * * * * + +Michael was not pleased when he found that he was to go home by Dresden +to bring Veronica back. He wanted to be alone on the journey. He wanted +to stop in Paris and see Jules Réveillaud. He was afraid that Ronny had +grown into a tiresome flapper and that he would have to talk to her. + +And he found that Ronny had skipped the tiresome stage and had grown up. +Only her school clothes and her girlish door-knocker plait tied up with +broad black ribbon reminded him that she was not yet seventeen. + +Ronny was tired. She did not want to talk. When he had tucked her up +with railway rugs in her corner of the carriage she sat still with her +hands in her muff. + +"I shall not disturb your thoughts, Michael," she said. + +She knew what he had been thinking. Her clear eyes gazed at him out of +her dead white face with an awful look of spiritual maturity. + +"What can have happened to her?" he wondered. + +But she did not disturb his thoughts. + +Up till then Michael's thoughts had not done him any good. They had been +bitter thoughts of the months he had been compelled to waste in Bavaria +when every minute had an incomparable value; worrying, irritating +thoughts of the scenes he would have to have with his father, who must +be made to understand, once for all, that in future he meant to have +every minute of his own life for his own work. He wondered how on earth +he was to make his people see that his work justified his giving every +minute to it. He had asked Réveillaud to give him a letter that he could +show to his father. He was angry with his father beforehand, he was so +certain that he wouldn't see. + +He had other thoughts now. Thoughts of an almond tree flowering in a +white town; of pink blossoms, fragile, without leaves, casting a thin +shadow on white stones; the smell of almond flowers and the sting of +white dust in an east wind; a drift of white dust against the wall. + +Thoughts of pine-trees falling in the forest, glad to fall. He thought: +The pine forest makes itself a sea for the land wind, and the young pine +tree is mad for the open sea. She gives her slender trunk with passion +to the ax; for she thinks that she will be stripped naked, and that she +will be planted in the ship's hold, and that she will carry the great +main-sail. She thinks that she will rock and strain in the grip of the +sea-wind, and that she will be whitened with the salt and the foam +of the sea. + +She does not know that she will be sawn into planks and made into a +coffin for the wife of the sexton and grave-digger of Aschaffenburg. + +Thoughts of Veronica in her incredible maturity, and of her eyes, +shining in her dead white face, far back through deep crystal, and of +the sense he got of her soul poised, steady and still, with wings +vibrating. + +He wondered where it would come down. + +He thought: "Of course, Veronica's soul will come down like a wild +pigeon into the ash-tree in our garden, and she will think that our +ash-tree is a tree of Heaven." + + * * * * * + +Presently he roused himself to talk to her. + +"How is your singing getting on, Ronny?" + +"My singing voice has gone." + +"It'll come back again." + +"Not unless-" + +But he couldn't make her tell him what would bring it back. + + * * * * * + +When Michael came to his father and mother to have it out with them his +face had a hard, stubborn look. He was ready to fight them. He was so +certain that he would have to fight. He had shown them Jules +Réveillaud's letter. + +He said, "Look here, we've got to get it straight. It isn't any use +going on like this. I'm afraid I wasn't very honest about Germany." + +"Weren't you?" said Anthony. "Let me see, I think you said you'd take it +on your way to China and Japan." + +"Did I? I tried to be straight about it. I thought I was giving it a +fair chance. But that was before I'd seen Réveillaud." + +"Well," said Anthony, "now that you have seen him, what is it exactly +that you want to do?" + +Michael told him. + +"You can make it easy for me. Or you can make it hard. But you can't +stop me." + +"What makes you think I want to stop you?" + +"Well--you want me to go into the business, though I told you years ago +there was only one thing I should ever be any good at. And I see your +point. I can't earn my living at it. That's where I'm had. Still, I +think Lawrence Stephen will give me work, and I can rub along somehow." + +"Without my help, you mean?" + +"Well, yes. Why _should_ you help me? You've wasted tons of money on me +as it is. Nicky's earning his own living, and he's got a wife, too. +Why not me?" + +"Because you can't do it, Michael." + +"I can. I don't mind roughing it. I could live on a hundred a year--or +less, if I don't marry." + +"Well, I don't mean you to try. You needn't bother about what you can +live on and what you can't live on. It was all settled last night. Your +mother and I talked it over. We don't want you to go into the business. +We don't want you to take work from Mr. Stephen. We want you to be +absolutely free to do your own work, under the best possible conditions, +whether it pays or not. Nothing in the world matters to us but your +happiness. You're to have a hundred and fifty a year when you're living +at home and two hundred and fifty when you're living abroad. I suppose +you'll want to go abroad sometimes. I can't give you a bigger allowance, +because I have to help Nicky--" + +Michael covered his face with his hands. + +"Oh--don't, Daddy. You do make me feel a rotten beast." + +"We should feel rottener beasts," said Frances, "if we stood in your +way." + +"Then," said Michael (he was still incredulous), "you do care?" + +"Of course we care," said Anthony. + +"I don't mean for me--for _it_?" + +"My dear Mick," said Frances, "we care for It almost as much as we care +for you. We're sorry about Germany though. Germany was one of your +father's bad jokes." + +"Germany--a joke?" + +"Did you take it seriously? Oh, you silly Michael!" + +"But," said Michael, "how about Daddy's idea? He loved it." + +"I loved it," said Anthony, "but I've given it up." + +They knew that this was defeat, for Michael was top-dog. And it was also +victory. + +They had lost Nicholas, or thought they had lost Nicholas, by opposing +him. But Michael and Michael's affection they would have always. + +Besides, Anthony hadn't given up his idea. He had only transferred +it--to his youngest son, John. + + + +XV + +It was five weeks since Nicholas's wedding-day and Desmond had +quarrelled with him three times. + +First, because he had taken a flat in Aubrey Walk, with a studio inside +it, instead of a house in Campden Hill Square with a studio outside it +in the garden. + +Then, because he had refused to go into his father's business. + +Last of all, because of Captain Drayton and the Moving Fortress. + +Nicky had said that his father, who was paying his rent, couldn't afford +the house with the studio in the garden; and Desmond said Nicky's father +could afford it perfectly well if he liked. He said he had refused to go +into his father's business for reasons which didn't concern her. Desmond +pointed out that the consequences of his refusal were likely to concern +her very much indeed. As for Captain Drayton and the Moving Fortress, +nobody but a supreme idiot would have done what Nicky did. + +But Nicky absolutely refused to discuss what he had done. Nobody but a +cad and a rotter would have done anything else. + +In the matter of the Moving Fortress what had happened was this. + +The last of the drawings was not finished until Desmond had settled down +in the flat in Aubrey Walk. You couldn't hurry Desmond. Nicky hadn't +even waited to sign his name in the margins before he had packed the +plans in his dispatch box and taken them to the works, and thence, +hidden under a pile of Morss estimates, to Eltham. He couldn't rest till +he had shown them to Frank Drayton. He could hardly wait till they had +dined, and till Drayton, who thought he was on the track of a new and +horrible explosive, had told him as much as he could about it. + +Nicky gave his whole mind to Drayton's new explosive in the hope that, +when his turn came, Drayton would do as much for him. + +"You know," he said at last, "the old idea of the _forteresse mobile_? + +"Yes." + +He couldn't tell whether Drayton was going to be interested or not. He +rather thought he wasn't. + +"It hasn't come to anything, _has_ it?" + +Drayton smiled and his eyes glittered. He knew what that excited gleam +in Drayton's eyes meant. + +"No," he said. "Not yet." + +And Nicky had an awful premonition of his doom. + +"Well," he said, "I believe there's something in it." + +"So do I, Nicky." + +Drayton went on. "I believe there's so much in it that--Look here, I +don't know what put it into your head, and I'm not asking, but that +idea's a dead secret. For God's sake don't talk about it. You mustn't +breathe it, or it'll get into the air. And if it does my five years' +work goes for nothing. Besides we don't want Germany to collar it." + +And then: "Don't look so scared, old chap. I was going to tell you +about it when I'd got the plans drawn." + +He told him about it then and there. + +"Low on the ground like a racing-car--" + +"Yes," said Nicky. + +"Revolving turret for the guns--no higher than _that_--" + +"Yes," said Nicky. + +"Sort of armoured train. Only it mustn't run on rails. It's got to go +everywhere, through anything, over anything, if it goes at all. It must +turn in its own length. It must wade and burrow and climb, Nicky. It +must have caterpillar wheels--" + +"By Jove, of course it must," said Nicky, as if the idea had struck him +for the first time. + +"What have you got there?" said Drayton finally as Nicky rose and picked +up his dispatch-box. "Anything interesting? + +"No," said Nicky. "Mostly estimates." + +For a long time afterwards he loathed the fields between Eltham and +Kidbrooke, and the Mid-Kent line, and Charing Cross Station. He felt as +a man feels when the woman he loves goes from him to another man. His +idea had gone from him to Drayton. + +And that, he said to himself, was just like his luck, just like the +jolly sells that happened to him when he was a kid. + +To be sure, there was such a thing as sharing. He had only to produce +his plans and his finished model, and he and Drayton would go partners +in the Moving Fortress. There was no reason why he shouldn't do it. +Drayton had not even drawn his plans yet; he hadn't thought out the +mechanical details. + +He thought, "I could go back now and tell him." + +But he did not go back. He knew that he would never tell him. If Drayton +asked him to help him with the details he would work them out all over +again with him; but he would never show his own finished plans or his +own model. + +He didn't know whether it had been hard or easy for him to give up the +Moving Fortress. He did it instinctively. There was--unless he had +chosen to be a blackguard--nothing else for him to do. + +Besides, the Moving Fortress wasn't his idea. Drayton had had it first. +Anybody might have had it. He hadn't spoken of it first; but that was +nothing. The point was that he had had it first, and Nicky wasn't going +to take it from him. + +It meant more to Drayton, who was in the Service, than it could possibly +mean to him. He hadn't even got a profession. + +As he walked back through the fields to the station, he said to himself +that he didn't really care. It was only one more jolly sell. He didn't +like giving up his Moving Fortress; but it wouldn't end him. There was +something in him that would go on. + +He would make another engine. + +He didn't care. There was something in him that would go on. + +"I can't see," Desmond had said, "why Captain Drayton should be allowed +to walk off with your idea." + +"He's worked five years on it." + +"He hasn't worked it _out_ yet, and you have. Can't you see "--her face +was dark and hard with anger--"there's money in it?" + +"If there is, all the more reason why I shouldn't bag it." + +"And where do I come in?" + +"Not just here, I'm afraid. It isn't your business." + +"Not my business? When I did the drawings? You couldn't possibly have +done them yourself." + +At that point Nicky refused to discuss the matter farther. + +And still Desmond brooded on her grievance. And still at intervals +Desmond brought it up again. + +"There's stacks of money in your father's business--" + +"There's stacks of money in that Moving Fortress--" + +"You are a fool, Nicky, to throw it all away." + +He never answered her. He said to himself that Desmond was hysterical +and had a morbid fancy. + + * * * * * + +But it didn't end there. + +He had taken the drawings and the box that had the model of the Moving +Fortress in it and buried them in the locker under the big north window +in Desmond's studio. + +And there, three weeks later, Desmond found them. And she packed the +model of the Moving Fortress and marked it "Urgent with Care," and sent +it to the War Office with a letter. She packed the drawings in a +portfolio--having signed her own and Nicky's name on the margins--and +sent them to Captain Drayton with a letter. She said she had no doubt +she was doing an immoral thing; but she did it in fairness to Captain +Drayton, for she was sure he would not like Nicky to make so great a +sacrifice. Nicky, she said, was wrapped up in his Moving Fortress. It +was his sweetheart, his baby. "He will never forgive me," she said, "as +long as he lives. But I simply had to let you know. It means so much +to him." + +For she thought, "Because Nicky's a fool, I needn't be one." + +Drayton came over the same evening after he had got the letter. He +shouted with laughter. + +"Nicky," he said, "you filthy rotter, why on earth didn't you tell +me?... It _was_ Nickyish of you.... What if I did think of it first? I +should have had to come to you for the details. It would have been jolly +to have worked it out together.... Not a bit of it! Your wife's +absolutely right. Good thing, after all, you married her. + +"By the way, she says there's a model. I want to see that model. Have +you got it here?" + +Nicky went up into the studio to look for it. He couldn't find it in the +locker where he'd left it. "Wherever is the damned thing?" he said. + +"The damned thing," said Desmond, "is where you should have sent it +first of all--at the War Office. You're clever, Nicky, but you aren't +quite clever enough." + +"I'm afraid," he said, "_you've_ been a bit too clever, this time." + +Drayton agreed with him. It was, he said, about the worst thing that +could possibly have happened. + +"She shouldn't have done that, Nicky. What on earth could have made her +do it?" + +"Don't ask me," said Nicky, "what makes her do things." + +"It looks," Drayton meditated, "as if she didn't trust me. I'm afraid +she's dished us. God knows whether we can ever get it back!" + +Desmond had a fit of hysterics when she realized how clever she had +been. + + * * * * * + +Desmond's baby was born late in November of that year, and it died when +it was two weeks old. It was as if she had not wanted it enough to give +it life for long outside her body. + +For though Desmond had been determined to have a child, and had declared +that she had a perfect right to have one if she chose, she did not care +for it when it came. And when it died Nicky was sorrier than Desmond. + +He had not wanted to be a father to Headley Richards' child. And yet it +was the baby and nothing but the baby that had let him in for marrying +Desmond. So that, when it died, he felt that somehow things had tricked +and sold him. As they had turned out he need not have married Desmond +after all. + +She herself had pointed out the extreme futility of his behaviour, lest +he should miss the peculiar irony of it. For when her fright and the +cause of her fright were gone Desmond resented Nicky's having married +her. She didn't really want anybody to marry her, and nobody but Nicky +would have dreamed of doing it. + +She lay weak and pathetic in her bed for about a fortnight; and for a +little while after she was content to lie stretched out among her +cushions on the studio floor, while Nicky waited on her. But, when she +got well and came downstairs for good, Nicky saw that Desmond's weakness +and pathos had come with the baby and had gone with it. The real Desmond +was not weak, she was not pathetic. She was strong and hard and clever +with a brutal cleverness. She didn't care how much he saw. He could see +to the bottom of her nature, if he liked, and feel how hard it was. She +had no more interest in deceiving him. + +She had no more interest in him at all. + +She was interested in her painting again. She worked in long fits, after +long intervals of idleness. She worked with a hard, passionless +efficiency. Nicky thought her paintings were hideous and repulsive; but +he did not say so. He was not aware of the extent to which Desmond +imitated her master, Alfred Orde-Jones. He knew nothing about painting +and he had got used to the things. He had got used to Desmond, slouching +about the flat, in her sloping, slovenly grace, dressed in her queer +square jacket and straight short skirt, showing her long delicate +ankles, and her slender feet in their grey stockings and black slippers. + +He was used to Desmond when she was lazy; when she sat hunched up on her +cushions and smoked one cigarette after another without a word, and +watched him sullenly. Her long, slippered feet, thrust out, pointed at +him, watching. Her long face watched him between the sleek bands of hair +and the big black bosses plaited over her ears. + +The beauty of Desmond's face had gone to sleep again, stilled into +hardness by the passing of her passion. A sort of ugliness was awake +there, and it watched him. + +In putting weakness and pathos away from her Desmond had parted with +two-thirds of her power. Yet the third part still served to hold him, +used with knowledge and a cold and competent economy. He resented it, +resisted it over and over again; and over and over again it conquered +resentment and resistance. It had something to do with her subtle, +sloping lines, with her blackness and her sallow whiteness, with the +delicate scent and the smoothness of her skin under the sliding hand. He +couldn't touch her without still feeling a sort of pity, a sort of +affection. + +But she could take and give caresses while she removed her soul from him +in stubborn rancour. + +He couldn't understand that. It amazed him every time. He thought it +horrible. For Nicky's memory was faithful. It still kept the impression +of the Desmond he had married, the tender, frightened, helpless Desmond +he had thought he loved. The Desmond he remembered reminded him +of Veronica. + +And Desmond said to herself, "He's impossible. You can't make any +impression on him. I might as well be married to a Moving Fortress." + + * * * * * + +Months passed. The War Office had not yet given up Nicky's model of the +Moving Fortress. In the first month it was not aware of any letter or of +any parcel or of any Mr. Nicholas Harrison. In the second month +inquiries would be made and the results communicated to Captain Drayton. +In the third month the War Office knew nothing of the matter referred to +by Captain Drayton. + +Drayton hadn't a hope. "We can't get it back, Nicky," he said. + +"I can," said Nicky, "I can get it back out of my head." + +All through the winter of nineteen-eleven and the spring of +nineteen-twelve they worked at it together. They owned that they were +thus getting better results than either of them could have got alone. +There were impossibilities about Nicky's model that a gunner would have +seen at once, and there were faults in Drayton's plans that an engineer +would not have made. Nicky couldn't draw the plans and Drayton couldn't +build the models. They said it was fifty times better fun to work at +it together. + +Nicky was happy. + + * * * * * + +Desmond watched them sombrely. She and Alfred Orde-Jones, the painter, +laughed at them behind their backs. She said "How funny they are! Frank +wouldn't hurt a fly and Nicky wouldn't say 'Bo!' to a goose if he +thought it would frighten the goose, and yet they're only happy when +they're inventing some horrible machine that'll kill thousands of people +who never did them any harm." He said, "That's because they haven't any +imagination." + +Nicky got up early and went to bed late to work at the Moving Fortress. +The time between had to be given to the Works. The Company had paid him +fairly well for all his patents in the hope of getting more of his +ideas, and when they found that no ideas were forthcoming they took it +out of him in labour. He was too busy and too happy to notice what +Desmond was doing. + +One day Vera said to him, "Nicky, do you know that Desmond is going +about a good deal with Alfred Orde-Jones?" + +"Is she? Is there any reason why she shouldn't?" + +"Not unless you call Orde-Jones a reason." + +"You mean I've got to stop it? How can I?" + +"You can't. Nothing can stop Desmond." + +"What do you think I ought to do about it?" + +"Nothing. She goes about with scores of people. It doesn't follow that +there's anything in it." + +"Oh, Lord, I should hope not! That beastly bounder. What _could_ there +be in it?" + +"He's a clever painter, Nicky. So's Desmond. There's that in it." + +"I've hardly a right to object to that, have I? It's not as if I were a +clever painter myself." + +But as he walked home between the white-walled gardens of St. John's +Wood, and through Regent's Park and Baker Street, and down the north +side of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, he worried the thing +to shreds. + +There couldn't be anything in it. + +He could see Alfred Orde-Jones--the raking swagger of the tall lean body +in the loose trousers, the slouch hat and the flowing tie. He could see +his flowing black hair and his haggard, eccentric face with its seven +fantastic accents, the black eyebrows, the black moustache, the high, +close-clipped side whiskers, the two forks of the black beard. + +There couldn't be anything in it. + +Orde-Jones's mouth was full of rotten teeth. + +And yet he never came home rather later than usual without saying to +himself, "Supposing I was to find him there with her?" + +He left off coming home late so that he shouldn't have to ask himself +that question. + +He wondered what--if it really did happen--he would do. He wondered what +other men did. It never occurred to him that at twenty-two he was young +to be considering this problem. + +He rehearsed scenes that were only less fantastic than Orde-Jones's face +and figure, or that owed their element of fantasy to Orde-Jones's face +and figure. He saw himself assaulting Orde-Jones with violence, dragging +him out of Desmond's studio, and throwing him downstairs. He wondered +what shapes that body and those legs and arms would take when they got +to the bottom. Perhaps they wouldn't get to the bottom all at once. He +would hang on to the banisters. He saw himself simply opening the door +of the studio and ordering Orde-Jones to walk out of it. Really, there +would be nothing else for him to do but to walk out, and he would look +an awful ass doing it. He saw himself standing in the room and looking +at them, and saying, "I've no intention of interrupting you." Perhaps +Desmond would answer, "You're not interrupting us. We've finished all +we had to say." And _he_ would walk out and leave them there. +Not caring. + +He wondered if _he_ would look an awful ass doing it. + +In the end, when it came, he hadn't to do any of these things. It +happened very quietly and simply, early on a Sunday evening after he had +got back from Eltham. He had dined with Drayton and his people on +Saturday, and stayed, for once, over-night, risking it. + +Desmond was sitting on a cushion, on the floor, with her thin legs in +their grey stockings slanting out in front of her. She propped her chin +on her hands. Her thin, long face, between the great black ear-bosses, +looked at him thoughtfully, without rancour. + +"Nicky," she said, "Alfred Orde-Jones slept with me last night." + +And he said, simply and quietly, "Very well, Desmond; then I shall leave +you. You can keep the flat, and I or my father will make you an +allowance. I shan't divorce you, but I won't live with you." + +"Why won't you divorce me?" she said. + +"Because I don't want to drag you through the dirt." + +She laughed quietly. "Dear Nicky," she said, "how sweet and like you. +But don't let's have any more chivalrous idiocy. I don't want it. I +never did." (She had forgotten that she had wanted it very badly once. +But Nicky did not remind her of that time. No matter. She didn't want it +now). "Let's look at the thing sensibly, without any rotten sentiment. +We've had some good times together, and we've had some bad times. I'll +admit that when you married me you saved me from a very bad time. +That's no reason why we should go on giving each other worse times +indefinitely. You seem to think I don't want you to divorce me. What +else do you imagine Alfred came for last night? Why we've been trying +for it for the last three months. + +"Of course, if you'll let _me_ divorce _you_ for desertion, it would be +very nice of you. That," said Desmond, "is what decent people do." + +He went out and telephoned to his father. Then he left her and went back +to his father's house. + +Desmond asked the servant to remember particularly that it was the +fifteenth of June and that the master was going away and would not come +back again. + + * * * * * + +As Nicky walked up the hill and across the Heath, he wondered why it had +happened, and why, now that it had happened, he cared so little. He +could have understood it if he hadn't cared at all for Desmond. But he +had cared in a sort of way. If she had cared at all for him he thought +they might have made something of it, something enduring, perhaps, if +they had had children of their own. + +He still couldn't think why it had happened. But he knew that, even if +he had loved Desmond with passion, it wouldn't have been the end of him. +The part of him that didn't care, that hadn't cared much when he lost +his Moving Fortress, was the part that Desmond never would have +cared for. + +He didn't know whether it was outside him and beyond him, bigger and +stronger than he was, or whether it was deep inside, the most real part +of him. Whatever happened or didn't happen it would go on. + +How could he have ended _here_, with poor little Desmond? There was +something ahead of him, something that he felt to be tremendous and +holy. He had always known it waited for him. He was going out to meet +it; and because of it he didn't care. + +And after a year of Desmond he was glad to go back to his father's +house; even though he knew that the thing that waited for him was +not there. + +Frances and Anthony were happy again. After all, Heaven had manipulated +their happiness with exquisite art and wisdom, letting Michael and +Nicholas go from them for a little while that they might have them again +more completely, and teaching them the art and wisdom that would +keep them. + +Some day the children would marry; even Nicky might marry again. They +would prepare now, by small daily self-denials, for the big renunciation +that must come. + +Yet in secret they thought that Michael would never marry; that Nicky, +made prudent by disaster, wasn't really likely to marry again. John +would marry; and they would be happy in John's happiness and in +John's children. + +And Nicky had not been home before he offered to his parents the +spectacle of an outrageous gaiety. You would have said that life to +Nicholas was an amusing game where you might win or lose, but either way +it didn't matter. It was a rag, a sell. Even the preceedings, the +involved and ridiculous proceedings of his divorce, amused him. + +It was undeniably funny that he should be supposed to have deserted +Desmond. + +Frances wondered, again, whether Nicky really had any feelings, and +whether things really made any impression on him. + + + +XVI + +It was a quarter past five on a fine morning, early in July. On the +stroke of the quarter Captain Frank Drayton's motor-car, after exceeding +the speed limit along the forlorn highway of the Caledonian Road, drew +up outside the main entrance of Holloway Gaol. Captain Frank Drayton was +alone in his motor-car. + +He had the street all to himself till twenty past five, when he was +joined by another motorist, also conspicuously alone in his car. Drayton +tried hard to look as if the other man were not there. + +The other man tried even harder to look as if he were not there himself. +He was the first to be aware of the absurdity of their competitive +pretences. He looked at his watch and spoke. + +"I hope they'll be punctual with those doors. I was up at four o'clock." + +"I," said Drayton, "was up at three." + +"I'm waiting for my wife," said the other man. + +"I am _not_," said Drayton, and felt that he had scored. + +The other man's smile allowed him the point he made. + +"Yes, but my wife happens to be Lady Victoria Threlfall." + +The other man laughed as if he had made by far the better joke. + +Drayton recognized Mr. Augustin Threlfall, that Cabinet Minister made +notorious by his encounters with the Women's Franchise Union. Last year +Miss Maud Blackadder had stalked him in the Green Park and lamed him by +a blow from her hunting-crop. This year his wife, Lady Victoria +Threlfall, had headed the June raid on the House of Commons. + +And here he was at twenty minutes past five in the morning waiting to +take her out of prison. + +And here was Drayton, waiting for Dorothea, who was not his wife yet. + +"Anyhow," said the Cabinet Minister, "we've done them out of their +Procession." + +"What Procession?" + +All that Drayton knew about it was that, late last night, a friend he +had in the Home Office had telephoned to him that the hour of Miss +Dorothea Harrison's release would be five-thirty, not six-thirty as the +papers had it. + +"The Procession," said the Cabinet Minister, "that was to have met 'em +at six-thirty. A Car of Victory for Mrs. Blathwaite, and a bodyguard of +thirteen young women on thirteen white horses. The girl who smashed my +knee-cap is to be Joan of Arc and ride at the head of 'em. In armour. +Fact. There's to be a banquet for 'em at the Imperial at nine. We can't +stop _that_. And they'll process down the Embankment and down Pall Mall +and Piccadilly at eleven; but they won't process here. We've let 'em out +an hour too soon." + +A policeman came from the prison-yard. He blew a whistle. Four taxi-cabs +crept round the corner furtively, driven by visibly hilarious +chauffeurs. + +"The triumphant procession from Holloway," said the Cabinet Minister, +"is you and me, sir, and those taxi-cabs." + +On the other side of the gates a woman laughed. The released prisoners +were coming down the prison-yard. + +The Cabinet Minister cranked up his engine with an unctuous glee. He was +boyishly happy because he and the Home Secretary had done them out of +the Car of Victory and the thirteen white horses. + +The prison-gates opened. The Cabinet Minister and Drayton raised their +caps. + +The leaders, Mrs. Blathwaite and Angela Blathwaite and Mrs. +Palmerston-Swete came first. Then Lady Victoria Threlfall. Then +Dorothea. Then sixteen other women. + +Drayton did not look at them. He did not see what happened when the +Cabinet Minister met his wife. He did not see the sixteen other women. +He saw nothing but Dorothea walking by herself. + +She had no hat on. Her clothes were as the great raid had left them, a +month ago. Her serge coat was torn at the breast pocket, the +three-cornered flap hung, showing the white lining. Another +three-cornered flap hung from her right knee. She carried her small, +hawk-like head alert and high. Her face had the incomparable bloom of +youth. Her eyes shone. They and her face showed no memory of the +prison-cell, the plank-bed, and the prison walls; they showed no sense +of Drayton's decency in coming to meet her, no sense of anything at all +but of the queerness, the greatness and the glory of the world--of him, +perhaps, as a part of it. She stepped into the car as if they had met by +appointment for a run into the country. "I shan't hurt your car. I'm +quite clean, though you mightn't think it. The cells were all right +this time." + +He disapproved of her, yet he adored her. + +"Dorothy," he said, "do you want to go to that banquet?" + +"No, but I've got to. I must go through with it. I swore I'd do the +thing completely or not at all." + +"It isn't till nine. We've three whole hours before we need start." + +"What are you going to do with me?" + +"I'm going to take you home first. Then I suppose I shall have to drive +you down to that beastly banquet." + +"That won't take three and a half hours. It's a heavenly morning. Can't +we do something with it?" + +"What would you like to do?" + +"I'd like to stop at the nearest coffee-stall. I'm hungry. Then--Are you +frightfully sleepy?" + +"Me? Oh, Lord, no." + +"Then let's go off somewhere into the country." They went. + + * * * * * + +They pulled up in a green lane near Totteridge to finish the buns they +had brought with them from the coffee-stall. + +"Did you ever smell anything like this lane? Did you ever eat anything +like these buns? Did you ever drink anything like that divine coffee? If +epicures had any imagination they'd go out and obstruct policemen and +get put in prison for the sake of the sensations they'd have +afterwards." + +"That reminds me," he said, "that I want to talk to you. No--but +seriously." + +"I don't mind how seriously you talk if I may go on eating." + +"That's what I brought the buns for. So that I mayn't be interrupted. +First of all I want to tell you that you haven't taken me in. Other +people may be impressed with this Holloway business, but not me. I'm not +moved, or touched, or even interested." + +"Still," she murmured, "you did get up at three o'clock in the morning." + +"If you think I got up at three o'clock in the morning to show my +sympathy, you're mistaken." + +"Sympathy? I don't need your sympathy. It was worth it, Frank. There +isn't anything on earth like coming out of prison. Unless it is +going in." + +"That won't work, Dorothy, when I know why you went in. It wasn't to +prove your principles. Your principles were against that sort of thing. +It wasn't to get votes for women. You know as well as I do that you'll +never get them that way. It wasn't to annoy Mr. Asquith. You knew Mr. +Asquith wouldn't care a hang. It was to annoy me." + +"I wonder," she said dreamily, "if I shall _ever_ be able to stop +eating." + +"You can't take me in. I know too much about it. You said you were going +to keep out of rows. You weren't going on that deputation because it +meant a row. You went because I asked you not to go." + +"I did; and I should go again tomorrow for the same reason." + +"But it isn't a reason. It's not as if I'd asked you to go against your +conscience. Your conscience hadn't anything to do with it." + +"Oh, hadn't it! I went because you'd no right to ask me not to." + +"If I'd had the right you'd have gone just the same." + +"What do you mean by the right?" + +"You know perfectly well what I mean." + +"Of course I do. You mean, and you meant that if I'd married you you'd +have had the right, not just to ask me not to, but to prevent me. That +was what I was out against. I'd be out against it tomorrow and the next +day, and for as long as you keep up that attitude." + +"And yet--you said you loved me." + +"So I did. So I do. But I'm out against that too." + +"Good Lord, against what?" + +"Against your exploiting my love for your purposes." + +"My poor dear child, what do you suppose I wanted?" + +She had reached the uttermost limit of absurdity, and in that moment she +became to him helpless and pathetic. + +"I knew there was going to be the most infernal row and I wanted to keep +you out of it. Look here, you'd have thought me a rotter if I hadn't, +wouldn't you? + +"Of course you would. And there's another thing. You weren't straight +about it. You never told me you were going." + +"I never told you I wasn't." + +"I don't care, Dorothy; you weren't straight. You ought to have told +me." + +"How could I tell you when I knew you'd only go trying to stop me and +getting yourself arrested." + +"Not me. They wouldn't have touched me." + +"How was I to know that? If they had I should have dished you. And I'd +have stayed away rather than do that. I didn't tell Michael or Nicky or +Father for the same reason." + +"You'd have stayed at home rather than have dished me? Do you really +mean that?" + +"Of course I mean it. And I meant it. It's you," she said, "who don't +care." + +"How do you make that out?" + +He really wanted to know. He really wanted, if it were possible, to +understand her. + +"I make it out this way. Here have I been through the adventure and the +experience of my life. I was in the thick of the big raid; I was four +weeks shut up in a prison cell; and you don't care; you're not +interested. You never said to yourself, 'Dorothy was in the big raid, I +wonder what happened to her?' or 'Dorothy's in prison, I wonder how +she's feeling?' You didn't care; you weren't interested. + +"If it had happened to you, I couldn't have thought of anything else, I +couldn't have got it out of my head. I should have been wondering all +the time what you were feeling; I couldn't have rested till I knew. It +would have been as if I was in prison myself. And now, when I've come +out, all you think of is how you can rag and score off me." + +She was sitting beside him on the green bank of the lane. Her hands were +clasped round her knees. One knickerbockered knee protruded through the +three-cornered rent in her skirt; she stared across the road, a long, +straight stare that took no heed of what she saw, the grey road, and +the green bank on the other side, topped by its hedge of trees. + +Her voice sounded quiet in the quiet lane; it had no accent of self-pity +or reproach. It was as if she were making statements that had no +emotional significance whatever. + +She did not mean to hurt him, yet every word cut where he was sorest. + +"I wanted to tell you about it. I counted the days, the minutes till I +could tell you; but you wouldn't listen. You don't want to hear." + +"I won't listen if it's about women's suffrage. And I don't want to hear +if it's anything awful about you." + +"It is about me, but it isn't awful. + +"That's what I want to tell you. + +"But, first of all--about the raid. I didn't mean to be in it at all, as +it happens. I meant to go with the deputation because you told me not +to. You're right about that. But I meant to turn back as soon as the +police stopped us, because I hate rows with the police, and because I +don't believe in them, and because I told Angela Blathwaite I wasn't +going in with her crowd any way. You see, she called me a coward before +a lot of people and said I funked it. So I did. But I should have been a +bigger coward if I'd gone against my own will, just because of what she +said. That's how she collars heaps of women. They adore her and they're +afraid of her. Sometimes they lie and tell her they're going in when +their moment comes, knowing perfectly well that they're not going in at +all. I don't adore her, and I'm not afraid of her, and I didn't lie. + +"So I went at the tail of the deputation where I could slip out when the +row began. I swear I didn't mean to be in it. I funked it far too much. +I didn't mind the police and I didn't mind the crowd. But I funked being +with the women. When I saw their faces. You world have funked it. + +"And anyhow I don't like doing things in a beastly body. Ugh! + +"And then they began moving. + +"The police tried to stop them. And the crowd tried. The crowd began +jeering at them. And still they moved. And the mounted police horses got +excited, and danced about and reared a bit, and the crowd was in a funk +then and barged into the women. That was rather awful. + +"I could have got away then if I'd chosen. There was a man close to me +all the time who kept making spaces for me and telling me to slip +through. I was just going to when a woman fell. Somewhere in the front +of the deputation where the police were getting nasty. + +"Then I had to stay. I had to go on with them. I swear I wasn't excited +or carried away in the least. Two women near me were yelling at the +police. I hated them. But I felt I'd be an utter brute if I left them +and got off safe. You see, it was an ugly crowd, and things were +beginning to be jolly dangerous, and I'd funked it badly. Only the first +minute. It went--the funk I mean--when I saw the woman go down. She fell +sort of slanting through the crowd, and it was horrible. I couldn't have +left them then any more than I could have left children in a +burning house. + +"I thought of you." + +"You thought of me?" + +"Yes. I thought of you--how you'd have hated it. But I didn't care. I +was sort of boosted up above caring. The funk had all gone and I was +absolutely happy. Not insanely happy like some of the other women, but +quietly, comfily happy. + +"After all, I didn't do anything you _need_ have minded." + +"What _did_ you do?" he said. + +"I just went on and stood still and refused to go back. I stuck my hands +in my pockets so that I shouldn't let out at a policeman or anything (I +knew you wouldn't like _that_). I may have pushed a bit now and then +with my shoulders and my elbows; I can't remember. But I didn't make one +sound. I was perfectly lady-like and perfectly dignified." + +"I suppose you _know_ you haven't got a hat on?" + +"It didn't _come_ off. I _took_ it off and threw it to the crowd when +the row began. It doesn't matter about your hair coming down if you +haven't got a hat on, but if your hair's down and your hat's bashed in +and all crooked you look a perfect idiot. + +"It wasn't a bad fight, you know, twenty-one women to I don't know how +many policemen, and the front ones got right into the doorway of St. +Stephen's. That was where they copped me. + +"But that, isn't the end of it. + +"The fight was only the first part of the adventure. The wonderful thing +was what happened afterwards. In prison. + +"I didn't think I'd really _like_ prison. That was another thing I +funked. I'd heard such awful things about it, about the dirt, you know. +And there wasn't any dirt in my cell, anyhow. And after the crowds of +women, after the meetings and the speeches, the endless talking and the +boredom, that cell was like heaven. + +"Thank God, it's always solitary confinement. The Government doesn't +know that if they want to make prison a deterrent they'll shut us up +together. You won't give the Home Secretary the tip, will you? + +"But that isn't what I wanted to tell you about. + +"It was something bigger, something tremendous. You'll not believe this +part of it, but I was absolutely happy in that cell. It was a sort of +deep-down unexcited happiness. I'm not a bit religious, but I _know_ how +the nuns feel in their cells when they've given up everything and shut +themselves up with God. The cell was like a convent cell, you know, as +narrow as that bit of shadow there is, and it had nice white-washed +walls, and a planked-bed in the corner, and a window high, high up. +There ought to have been a crucifix on the wall above the plank-bed, but +there wasn't a crucifix. There was only a shiny black Bible on +the chair. + +"Really Frank, if you're to be shut up for a month with just one book, +it had better be the Bible. Isaiah's ripping. I can remember heaps of +it: 'in the habitation of jackals, where they lay, shall be grass with +reeds and rushes. And an highway shall be there ... the redeemed shall +walk there: and the ransomed of the Lord shall return with singing into +Zion' ... 'They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they +shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; +they shall walk, and not faint.' I used to read like anything; and I +thought of things. They sort of came to me. + +"That's what I wanted to tell you about. The things that came to me were +so much bigger than the thing I went in for. I could see all along we +weren't going to get it that way. And I knew we _were_ going to get it +some other way. I don't in the least know how, but it'll be some big, +tremendous way that'll make all this fighting and fussing seem the +rottenest game. That was one of the things I used to think about." + +"Then," he said, "you've given it up? You're corning out of it?" + +She looked at him keenly. "Are those still your conditions?" + +He hesitated one second before he answered firmly. "Yes, those are still +my conditions. You still won't agree to them?" + +"I still won't agree. It's no use talking about it. You don't believe in +freedom. We're incompatible. We don't stand for the same ideals." + +"Oh, Lord, what _does_ that matter?" + +"It matters most awfully." + +"I should have thought," said Drayton, "it would have mattered more if +I'd had revolting manners or an impediment in my speech or something." + +"It wouldn't, _really_." + +"Well, you seem to have thought about a lot of things. Did you ever once +think about me, Dorothy?" + +"Yes, I did. Have you ever read the Psalms? There's a jolly one that +begins: 'Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to +war and my fingers to fight.' I used to think of you when I read that. I +thought of you a lot. + +"That's what I was coming to. It was the queerest thing of all. +Everything seemed ended when I went to prison. I knew you wouldn't care +for me after what I'd done--you must really listen to this, Frank--I +knew you couldn't and wouldn't marry me; and it somehow didn't matter. +What I'd got hold of was bigger than that. I knew that all this Women's +Suffrage business was only a part of it, a small, ridiculous part. + +"I sort of saw the redeemed of the Lord. They were men, as well as +women, Frank. And they were all free. They were all free because they +were redeemed. And the funny thing was that you were part of it. You +were mixed up in the whole queer, tremendous business. Everything was +ended. And everything was begun; so that I knew you understood even when +you didn't understand. It was really as if I'd got you tight, somehow; +and I knew you couldn't go, even when you'd gone." + +"And yet you don't see that it's a crime to force me to go." + +"I see that it would be a worse crime to force you to stay if you mean +going. + +"What time is it?" + +"A quarter to eight." + +"And I've got to go home and have a bath. Whatever you do, don't make me +late for that infernal banquet. You _are_ going to drive me there?" + +"I'm going to drive you there, but I'm not going in with you." + +"Poor darling! Did I ask you to go in?" + +He drove her back to her father's house. She came out of it burnished +and beautiful, dressed in clean white linen, with the broad red, white +and blue tricolour of the Women's Franchise Union slanting across +her breast. + +He drove her to the Banquet of the Prisoners, to the Imperial Hotel, +Kingsway. They went in silence; for their hearts ached too much for +speaking. But in Dorothy's heart, above the aching, there was that queer +exaltation that had sustained her in prison. + +He left her at the entrance of the hotel, where Michael and Nicholas +waited to receive her. + +Michael and Nicholas went in with her to the Banquet. They hated it, but +they went in. + +Veronica was with them. She too wore a white frock, with red, white and +blue ribbons. + +"Drayton's a bit of a rotter," Michael said, "not to see you through." + +"How can he when he feels like that about it?" + +"As if we didn't feel!" + + * * * * * + +Three hundred and thirty women and twenty men waited in the Banquet Hall +to receive the prisoners. + +The high galleries were festooned with the red, white and blue of the +Women's Franchise Union, and hung with flags and blazoned banners. The +silk standards and the emblems of the Women's Suffrage Leagues and +Societies, supported by their tall poles, stood ranged along three +walls. They covered the sham porphyry with gorgeous and heroic colours, +purple and blue, sky-blue and sapphire blue and royal blue, black, white +and gold, vivid green, pure gold, pure white, dead-black, orange and +scarlet and magenta. + +From the high table under the windows streamed seven dependent tables +decorated with nosegays of red, white and blue flowers. In the centre of +the high table three arm-chairs, draped with the tricolour, were set +like three thrones for the three leaders. They were flanked by nine +other chairs on the right and nine on the left for the eighteen other +prisoners. + +There was a slight rustling sound at the side door leading to the high +table. It was followed by a thicker and more prolonged sound of rustling +as the three hundred and fifty turned in their places. + +The twenty-one prisoners came in. + +A great surge of white, spotted with red and blue, heaved itself up in +the hall to meet them as the three hundred and fifty rose to their feet. + +And from the three hundred and fifty there went up a strange, a savage +and a piercing collective sound, where a clear tinkling as of glass or +thin metal, and a tearing as of silk, and a crying as of children and of +small, slender-throated animals were held together by ringing, +vibrating, overtopping tones as of violins playing in the treble. And +now a woman's voice started off on its own note and tore the delicate +tissue of this sound with a solitary scream; and now a man's voice +filled up a pause in the shrill hurrahing with a solitary boom. + +To Dorothea, in her triumphal seat at Angela Blathwaite's right hand, to +Michael and Nicholas and Veronica in their places among the crowd, that +collective sound was frightful. + +From her high place Dorothea could see Michael and Nicholas, one on each +side of Veronica, just below her. At the same table, facing them, she +saw her three aunts, Louie, Emmeline and Edith. + +It was from Emmeline that those lacerating screams arose. + + * * * * * + +The breakfast and the speeches of the prisoners were over. The crowd was +on its feet again, and the prisoners had risen in their high places. + +Out of the three hundred and seventy-one, two hundred and seventy-nine +women and seven men were singing the Marching Song of the +Militant Women. + + Shoulder to shoulder, breast to breast, + Our army moves from east to west. + Follow on! Follow on! + + With flag and sword from south and north, + The sounding, shining hosts go forth. + Follow on! Follow on! + + Do you not bear our marching feet, + From door to door, from street to street? + Follow on! Follow on! + +Dorothea was fascinated and horrified by the singing, swaying, excited +crowd. + +Her three aunts fascinated her. They were all singing at the top of +their voices. Aunt Louie stood up straight and rigid. She sang from the +back of her throat, through a mouth not quite sufficiently open; she +sang with a grim, heroic determination to sing, whatever it might cost +her and other people. + +Aunt Edie sang inaudibly, her thin shallow voice, doing its utmost, was +overpowered by the collective song. Aunt Emmeline sang shrill and loud; +her body rocked slightly to the rhythm of a fantastic march. With one +large, long hand raised she beat the measure of the music. Her head was +thrown back; and on her face there was a look of ecstasy, of a holy +rapture, exalted, half savage, not quite sane. + +Dorothea was fascinated and horrified by Aunt Emmeline. + +The singing had threatened her when it began; so that she felt again her +old terror of the collective soul. Its massed emotion threatened her. +She longed for her white-washed prison-cell, for its hardness, its +nakedness, its quiet, its visionary peace. She tried to remember. Her +soul, in its danger, tried to get back there. But the soul of the crowd +in the hail below her swelled and heaved itself towards her, drawn by +the Vortex. She felt the rushing of the whirlwind; it sucked at her +breath: the Vortex was drawing her, too; the powerful, abominable thing +almost got her. The sight of Emmeline saved her. + +She might have been singing and swaying too, carried away in the same +awful ecstasy, if she had not seen Emmeline. By looking at Emmeline she +saved her soul; it stood firm again; she was clear and hard and sane. + +She could look away from Emmeline now. She saw her brothers, Michael and +Nicholas. Michael's soul was the prey of its terror of the herd-soul. +The shrill voices, fine as whipcord and sharp as needles, tortured him. +Michael looked beautiful in his martyrdom. His fair, handsome face was +set clear and hard. His yellow hair, with its hard edges, fitted his +head like a cap of solid, polished metal. Weariness and disgust made a +sort of cloud over his light green eyes. When Nicky looked at him +Nicky's face twitched and twinkled. But he hated it almost as much as +Michael hated it. + +She thought of Michael and Nicholas. They hated it, and yet they stuck +it out. They wouldn't go back on her. She and Lady Victoria Threlfall +were to march on foot before the Car of Victory from Blackfriars Bridge +along the Embankment, through Trafalgar Square and Pall Mall and +Piccadilly to Hyde Park Corner. And Michael and Nicholas would march +beside them to hold up the poles of the standard which, after all, they +were not strong enough to carry. + +She thought of Drayton who had not stuck it out. And at the same time +she thought of the things that had come to her in her prison cell. She +had told him the most real thing that had ever happened to her, and he +had not listened. He had not cared. Michael would have listened. Michael +would have cared intensely. + +She thought, "'I am not come to bring peace, but a sword.'" The sword +was between her and her lover. + +She had given him up. She had chosen, not between him and the Vortex, +but between him and her vision which was more than either of them or +than all this. + +She looked at Rosalind and Maud Blackadder who sang violently in the +hall below her. She had chosen freedom. She had given up her lover. She +wondered whether Rosalind or the Blackadder girl could have done as +much, supposing they had had a choice? + +Then she looked at Veronica. + +Veronica was standing between Michael and Nicholas. She was slender and +beautiful and pure, like some sacrificial virgin. Presently she would be +marching in the Procession. She would carry a thin, tall pole, with a +round olive wreath on the top of it, and a white dove sitting in the +ring of the olive wreath. And she would look as if she was not in the +Procession but in another place. + +When Dorothea looked at her she was lifted up above the insane ecstasy +and the tumult of the herd-soul. Her soul and the soul of Veronica went +alone in utter freedom. + + Follow on! Follow on! + + For Faith's our spear and Hope's our sword, + And Love's our mighty battle-lord. + Follow on! Follow on! + + And Justice is our flag unfurled, + The flaming flag that sweeps the world. + Follow on! Follow on! + + And "Freedom!" is our battle-cry; + For Freedom we will fight and die. + Follow on! Follow on! + +The Procession was over a mile long. + +It stretched all along the Embankment from Blackfriar's Bridge to +Westminster. The Car of Victory, covered with the tricolour, and the +Bodyguard on thirteen white horses were drawn up beside Cleopatra's +Needle and the Sphinxes. + +Before the Car of Victory, from the western Sphinx to Northumberland +Avenue, were the long regiments of the Unions and Societies and Leagues, +of the trades and the professions and the arts, carrying their banners, +the purple and the blue, the black, white and gold, the green, the +orange and the scarlet and magenta. + +Behind the Car of Victory came the eighteen prisoners with Lady Victoria +Threlfall and Dorothea at their head, under the immense tricolour +standard that Michael and Nicholas carried for them. Behind the +prisoners, closing the Procession, was a double line of young girls +dressed in white with tricolour ribbons, each carrying a pole with the +olive wreath and dove, symbolizing, with the obviousness of extreme +innocence, the peace that follows victory. They were led by Veronica. + +She did not know that she had been chosen to lead them because of her +youth and her processional, hieratic beauty; she thought that the Union +had bestowed this honour on her because she belonged to Dorothea. + +From her place at the head of the Procession she could see the big red, +white and blue standard held high above Dorothea and Lady Victoria +Threlfall. She knew how they would look; Lady Victoria, white and tense, +would go like a saint and a martyr, in exaltation, hardly knowing where +she was, or what she did; and Dorothea would go in pride, and in disdain +for the proceedings in which her honour forced her to take part; she +would have an awful knowledge of what she was doing and of where she +was; she would drink every drop of the dreadful cup she had poured out +for herself, hating it. + +Last night Veronica had thought that she too would hate it; she thought +that she would rather die than march in the Procession. But she did not +hate it or her part in it. The thing was too beautiful and too big to +hate, and her part in it was too little. + +She was not afraid of the Procession or of the soul of the Procession. +She was not afraid of the thick crowd on the pavements, pressing closer +and closer, pushed back continually by the police. Her soul was by +itself. Like Dorothea's soul it went apart from the soul of the crowd +and the soul of the Procession; only it was not proud; it was +simply happy. + +The band had not yet begun to play; but already she heard the music +sounding in her brain; her feet felt the rhythm of the march. + +Somewhere on in front the policemen made gestures of release, and the +whole Procession began to move. It marched to an unheard music, to the +rhythm that was in Veronica's brain. + +They went through what were once streets between walls of houses, and +were now broad lanes between thick walls of people. The visible aspect +of things was slightly changed, slightly distorted. The houses stood +farther back behind the walls of people; they were hung with people; a +swarm of people clung like bees to the house walls. + +All these people were fixed where they stood or hung. In a still and +stationary world the Procession was the only thing that moved. + +She had a vague, far-off perception that the crowd was friendly. + +A mounted policeman rode at her side. When they halted at the +cross-streets he looked down at Veronica with an amused and benign +expression. She had a vague, far-off perception that the policeman was +friendly. Everything seemed to her vague and far off. + +Only now and then it struck her as odd that a revolutionary Procession +should be allowed to fill the streets of a great capital, and that a +body of the same police that arrested the insurgents should go with it +to protect them, to clear their triumphal way before them, holding up +the entire traffic of great thoroughfares that their bands and their +banners and their regiments should go through. She said to herself "What +a country! It couldn't happen in Germany; it couldn't happen in France, +or anywhere in Europe or America. It could only happen in England." + +Now they were going up St. James's Street towards Piccadilly. The band +was playing the Marseillaise. + +And with the first beat of the drum Veronica's soul came down from its +place, and took part in the Procession. As long as they played the +Marseillaise she felt that she could march with the Procession to the +ends of the world; she could march into battle to the Marseillaise; she +could fight to that music and die. + +The women behind her were singing under their breath. They sang the +words of the Women's Marseillaise. + +And Veronica, marching in front of them by herself, sang another song. +She sang the Marseillaise of Heine and of Schumann. + + "'Daun reitet mein Kaiser wohl über mein Grab, + Viel' Schwerter klirren und blitzen; + Dann steig' ich gewaffnet hervor aus mein Grab,-- + Den Kaiser, den Kaiser zu schützen!'" + +The front of the Procession lifted as it went up Tyburn Hill. + +Veronica could not see Michael and Nicholas, but she knew that they were +there. She knew it by the unusual steadiness of the standard that they +carried. Far away westwards, in the middle and front of the Procession, +the purple and the blue, the gold and white, the green, the scarlet and +orange and magenta standards rocked and staggered; they bent forwards; +they were flung backwards as the west wind took them. But the red, white +and blue standard that Michael and Nicholas carried went before her, +steady and straight and high. + +And Veronica followed, carrying her thin, tall pole with the olive +wreath on the top of it, and the white dove sitting in the ring of the +wreath. She went with the music of Schumann and Heine sounding in +her soul. + + + +XVII + +Another year passed. + +Frances was afraid for Michael now. Michael was being drawn in. Because +of his strange thoughts he was the one of all her children who had most +hidden himself from her; who would perhaps hide himself from her to +the very end. + +Nicholas had settled down. He had left the Morss Company and gone into +his father's business for a while, to see whether he could stand it. +John was going into the business too when he left Oxford. John was even +looking forward to his partnership in what he called "the Pater's old +tree-game." He said, "You wait till I get my hand well in. Won't we +make it rip!" + +John was safe. You could depend on him to keep out of trouble. He had no +genius for adventure. He would never strike out for himself any strange +or dangerous line. He had settled down at Cheltenham; he had settled +down at Oxford. + +And Dorothea had settled down. + +The Women's Franchise Union was now in the full whirl of its revolution. +Under the inspiring leadership of the Blathwaites it ran riot up and +down the country. It smashed windows; it hurled stone ginger-beer +bottles into the motor cars of Cabinet Ministers; it poured treacle into +pillar-boxes; it invaded the House of Commons by the water-way, in +barges, from which women, armed with megaphones, demanded the vote from +infamous legislators drinking tea on the Terrace; it went up in balloons +and showered down propaganda on the City; now and then, just to show +what violence it could accomplish if it liked, it burned down a house or +two in a pure and consecrated ecstasy of Feminism. It was bringing to +perfection its last great tactical manoeuvre, the massed raid followed +by the hunger-strike in prison. And it was considering seriously the +very painful but possible necessity of interfering with British +sport--say the Eton and Harrow Match at Lord's--in some drastic and +terrifying way that would bring the men of England to their senses. + +And Dorothea's soul had swung away from the sweep of the whirlwind. It +would never suck her in. She worked now in the office of the Social +Reform Union, and wrote reconstructive articles for _The New +Commonwealth_ on Economics and the Marriage Laws. + +Frances was not afraid for her daughter. She knew that the revolution +was all in Dorothea's brain. + +When she said that Michael was being drawn in she meant that he was +being drawn into the vortex of revolutionary Art. And since Frances +confused this movement with the movements of Phyllis Desmond she judged +it to be terrible. She understood from Michael that it was _the_ Vortex, +the only one that really mattered, and the only one that would ever +do anything. + +And Michael was not only in it, he was in it with Lawrence Stephen. + +Though Frances knew now that Lawrence Stephen had plans for Michael, she +did not realize that they depended much more on Michael himself than on +him. Stephen had said that if Michael was good enough he meant to help +him. If his poems amounted to anything he would publish them in his +_Review_. If any book of Michael's poems amounted to anything he would +give a whole article to that book in his _Review_. If Michael's prose +should ever amount to anything he would give him regular work on +the _Review_. + +In nineteen-thirteen Michael Harrison was the most promising of the +revolutionary young men who surrounded Lawrence Stephen, and his poems +were beginning to appear, one after another, in the _Green Review_. He +had brought out a volume of his experiments in the spring of that year; +they were better than those that Réveillaud had approved of two years +ago; and Lawrence Stephen had praised them in the _Green Review_. + +Lawrence Stephen was the only editor "out of Ireland," as he said, who +would have had the courage either to publish them or to praise them. + +And when Frances realized Michael's dependence on Lawrence Stephen she +was afraid. + +"You wouldn't be, my dear, if you knew Larry," Vera said. + +For Frances still refused to recognize the man who had taken Ferdinand +Cameron's place. + +Lawrence Stephen was one of those Nationalist Irishmen who love Ireland +with a passion that satisfies neither the lover nor the beloved. It was +a pure and holy passion, a passion so entirely of the spirit as to be +compatible with permanent bodily absence from its object. Stephen's +body had lived at ease in England (a country that he declared his spirit +hated) ever since he had been old enough to choose a habitation +for himself. + +He justified his predilection on three grounds: Ireland had been taken +from him; Ireland had been so ruined and raped by the Scotch and the +English that nothing but the soul of Ireland was left for Irishmen to +love. He could work and fight for Ireland better in London than in +Dublin. And again, the Irishman in England can make havoc in his turn; +he can harry the English, he can spite, and irritate and triumph and get +his own back in a thousand ways. Living in England he would be a thorn +in England's side. + +And all this meant that there was no place in Ireland for a man of his +talents and his temperament. His enemies called him an opportunist: but +he was a opportunist gone wrong, abandoned to an obstinate idealism, one +of those damned and solitary souls that only the north of Ireland +produces in perfection. For the Protestantism of Ulster breeds rebels +like no other rebels on earth, rebels as strong and obstinate and canny +as itself. Before he was twenty-one Stephen had revolted against the +material comfort and the spiritual tyranny of his father's house. + +He was the great-grandson of an immigrant Lancashire cotton spinner +settled in Belfast. His western Irish blood was steeled with this +mixture, and braced and embittered with the Scottish blood of Antrim +where his people married. + +Therefore, if he had chosen one career and stuck to it he would have +been formidable. But one career alone did not suffice for his +inexhaustible energies. As a fisher of opportunities he drew with too +wide a net and in too many waters. He had tried parliamentary politics +and failed because no party trusted him, least of all his own. And yet +few men were more trustworthy. He turned his back on the House of +Commons and took to journalism. As a journalistic politician he ran +Nationalism for Ireland and Socialism for England. Neither Nationalists +nor Socialists believed in him; yet few men were more worthy of belief. +In literature he had distinguished himself as a poet, a playwright, a +novelist and an essayist. He did everything so well that he was supposed +not to do anything quite well enough. Because of his politics other men +of letters suspected his artistic sincerity; yet few artists were more +sincere. His very distinction was unsatisfying. Without any of the +qualities that make even a minor statesman, he was so far contaminated +by politics as to be spoiled for the highest purposes of art; yet there +was no sense in which he had achieved popularity. + +Everywhere he went he was an alien and suspected. Do what he would, he +fell between two countries and two courses. Ireland had cast him out and +England would none of him. He hated Catholicism and Protestantism alike, +and Protestants and Catholics alike disowned him. To every Church and +every sect he was a free thinker, destitute of all religion. Yet few men +were more religious. His enemies called him a turner and a twister; yet +on any one of his lines no man ever steered a straighter course. + +A capacity for turning and twisting might have saved him. It would at +any rate have made him more intelligible. As it was, he presented to two +countries the disconcerting spectacle of a many-sided object moving with +violence in a dead straight line. He moved so fast that to a stationary +on-looker he was gone before one angle of him had been apprehended. It +was for other people to turn and twist if any one of them was to get a +complete all-round view of the amazing man. + +But taken all round he passed for a man of hard wit and suspicious +brilliance. + +And he belonged to no generation. In nineteen-thirteen he was not yet +forty, too old to count among the young men, and yet too young for men +of his own age. So that in all Ireland and all England you could not +have found a lonelier man. + +The same queer doom pursued him in the most private and sacred relations +of his life. To all intents and purposes he was married to Vera Harrison +and yet he was not married. He was neither bound nor free. + +All this had made him sorrowful and bitter. + +And to add to his sorrowfulness and bitterness he had something of the +Celt's spiritual abhorrence of the flesh; and though he loved Vera, +after his manner, there were moments when Vera's capacity for +everlasting passion left him tired and bored and cold. + +All his life _his_ passions had been at the service of ideas. All his +life he had looked for some great experience, some great satisfaction +and consummation; and he had not found it. + +In nineteen-thirteen, with half his life behind him, the opportunist was +still waiting for his supreme opportunity. + +Meanwhile his enemies said of him that he snatched. + +But he did not snatch. The eyes of his idealism were fixed too steadily +on a visionary future. He merely tried, with a bored and weary gesture, +to waylay the passing moment while he waited. He had put his political +failure behind him and said, "I will be judged as an artist or not at +all." They judged him accordingly and their judgment was wrong. + +There was not the least resemblance between Lawrence Stephen as he was +in himself and Lawrence Stephen as he appeared to the generation just +behind him. To conservatives he passed for the leader of the revolution +in contemporary art, and yet the revolution in contemporary art was +happening without him. He was not the primal energy in the movement of +the Vortex. In nineteen-thirteen his primal energies were spent, and he +was trusting to the movement of the Vortex to carry him a little farther +than he could have gone by his own impetus. He was attracted to the +young men of the Vortex because they were not of the generation that had +rejected him, and because he hoped thus to prolong indefinitely his own +youth. They were attracted to him because of his solitary distinction, +his comparative poverty, and his unpopularity. A prosperous, +well-established Stephen would have revolted them. He gave the +revolutionaries the shelter of his _Review_, the support of his name, +and the benefit of his bored and wearied criticism. They brought him in +return a certain homage founded on his admirable appreciation of their +merits and tempered by their sense of his dealings with the past they +abominated. + +"Stephen is a bigot," said young Morton Ellis; "he believes in +Swinburne." + +Stephen smiled at him in bored and weary tolerance. + +He believed in too many things for his peace of mind. He knew that the +young men distrusted him because of his beliefs, and because of his +dealings with the past; because he refused to destroy the old gods when +he made place for the new. + + * * * * * + +Young Morton Ellis lay stretched out at his ease on the couch in +Stephen's study. + +He blinked and twitched as he looked up at his host with half irritated, +half affable affection. + +The young men came and went at their ease in and out of that house in +St. John's Wood which Lawrence Stephen shared with Vera Harrison. They +were at home there. Their books stood in his bookcase; they laid their +manuscripts on his writing table and left them there; they claimed his +empty spaces for the hanging of their pictures yet unsold. + +Every Friday evening they met together in the long, low room at the top +of the house, and they talked. + +Every Friday evening Michael left his father's house to meet them there, +and to listen and to talk. + +To-night, round and about Morton Ellis, the young poet, were Austen +Mitchell, the young painter, and Paul Monier-Owen, the young sculptor, +and George Wadham, the last and youngest of Morton Ellis's disciples. + +Lawrence Stephen stood among them like an austere guest in some +rendezvous of violent youth, or like the priest of some romantic +religion that he has blasphemed yet not quite abjured. He was lean and +dark and shaven; his black hair hung forward in two masses, smooth and +straight and square; he had sorrowful, bitter eyes, and a bitter, +sorrowful mouth, the long Irish upper lip fine and hard drawn, while the +lower lip quivered incongruously, pouted and protested and recanted, was +sceptical and sensitive and tender. His short, high nose had wide yet +fastidious nostrils. + +It was at this figure that Morton Ellis continued to gaze with +affability and irritation. It was this figure that Vera's eyes followed +with anxious, restless passion, as if she felt that at any moment he +might escape her, might be off, God knew where. + +Lawrence Stephen was ill at ease in that house and in the presence of +his mistress and his friends. + +"I believe in the past," he said, "because I believe in the future. I +want continuity. Therefore I believe in Swinburne; and I believe in +Browning and in Tennyson and Wordsworth; I believe in Keats and Shelley +and in Milton. But I do not believe, any more than you do, in their +imitators. I believe in destroying their imitators. I do not believe in +destroying them." + +"You can't destroy their imitators unless you destroy them. They breed +the disgusting parasites. Their memories harbour them like a stinking +suit of old clothes. They must be scrapped and burned if we're to get +rid of the stink. Art has got to be made young and new and clean. There +isn't any disinfectant that'll do the trick. So long as old masters are +kow-towed to as masters people will go on imitating them. When a poet +ceases to be a poet and becomes a centre of corruption, he must go." + +Michael said, "How about _us_ when people imitate us? Have we got to +go?" + +Morton Ellis looked at him and blinked. "No," he said. "No. We haven't +got to go." + +"I don't see how you get out of it." + +"I get out of it by doing things that can't be imitated." + +There was a silence in which everybody thought of Mr. George Wadham. It +made Mr. Wadham so uncomfortable that he had to break it. + +"I say, how about Shakespeare?" he said. + +"Nobody, so far, _has_ imitated Shakespeare, any more than they have +_succeeded_ in imitating me." + +There was another silence while everybody thought of Morton Ellis as the +imitator of every poetic form under the sun except the forms adopted by +his contemporaries. + +"That's all very well, Ellis," said Stephen, "but you aren't the Holy +Ghost coming down out of heaven. We can trace your sources." + +"My dear Stephen, I never said I was the Holy Ghost. Nobody ever does +come down out of heaven. You _can_ trace my sources, thank God, because +they're clean. I haven't gone into every stream that swine +like--and--and--and--and--" (he named five contemporary distinctions) +"have made filthy with their paddling." + +He went on. "The very damnable question that you've raised, Harrison, is +absurd. You believe in the revolution. Well then, supposing the +revolution's coming--you needn't suppose it, because it's come. We +_are_ the revolution--the revolution means that we've made a clean sweep +of the past. In the future no artist will want to imitate anybody. No +artist will be allowed to exist unless he's prepared to be buried alive +or burned alive rather than corrupt the younger generation with the +processes and the products of his own beastly dissolution. + +"That's why violence is right. + + "'O Violenza, sorgi, balena in questo cielo + Sanguigno, stupra le albe, + irrompi come incendio nei vesperi, + fa di tutto il sereno una tempesta, + fa di tutta la vita una bataglia, + fa con tutte le anime un odio solo!' + +"There's no special holiness in violence. Violence is right because it's +necessary." + +"You mean it's necessary because it's right." + +Austen Mitchell spoke. He was a sallow youth with a broad, +flat-featured, British face, but he had achieved an appearance of great +strangeness and distinction by letting his hay-coloured hair grow long +and cultivating two beards instead of one. + +"Violence," he continued, "is not a means; it's an end! Energy must be +got for its own sake, if you want to generate more energy instead of +standing still. The difference between Pastism and Futurism is the +difference between statics and dynamics. Futurist art is simply art that +has gone on, that, has left off being static and become dynamic. It +expresses movement. Owen will tell you better than I can why it +expresses movement." + +A light darted from the corner of the room where Paul Monier-Owen had +curled himself up. His eyes flashed like the eyes of a young wild animal +roused in its lair. + +Paul Monier-Owen was dark and soft and supple. At a little distance he +had the clumsy grace and velvet innocence of a black panther, half cub, +half grown. The tips of his ears, the corners of his prominent eyes, his +eyebrows and his long nostrils tilted slightly upwards and backwards. +Under his slender, mournful nose his restless smile showed the white +teeth of a young animal. + +Above this primitive, savage base of features that responded incessantly +to any childish provocation, the intelligence of Monier-Owen watched in +his calm and beautiful forehead and in his eyes. + +He said, "It expresses movement, because it presents objects directly as +cutting across many planes. To do this you have to break up objects into +the lines and masses that compose them, and project those lines and +masses into space on any curve, at any angle, according to the planes +you mean them to cross, otherwise the movements you mean them to +express. The more planes intersected the more movement you get. By +decomposing figures you compose movements. By decomposing groups of +figures you compose groups of movement. Nothing but a cinema can +represent objects as intact and as at the same time moving; and even the +cinema only does this by a series of decompositions so minute as to +escape the eye. + +"You want to draw a battle-piece or the traffic at Hyde Park Corner. It +can't be done unless you break up your objects as Mitchell breaks them +up. You want to carve figures in the round, wrestling or dancing. It +can't be done unless you dislocate their lines and masses as I dislocate +them, so as to throw them all at once into those planes that the intact +body could only have traversed one after another in a given time. + +"By taking time into account as well as space we produce rhythm. + +"I know what you're going to say, Stephen. The Dancing Faun and the +Frieze of the Parthenon express movements. But they do nothing of the +sort. They express movements arrested at a certain point. They are +supposed to represent nature, but they do not even do that, because +arrested motion is a contradiction in terms, and because the point of +arrest is an artificial and arbitrary thing. + +"Your medium limits you. You have to choose between the intact body +which is stationary and the broken and projected bodies which are in +movement. That is why we destroy or suppress symmetry in the figure and +in design. Because symmetry is perfect balance which is immobility. If I +wanted to present perfect rest I should do it by an absolute symmetry." + +"And there's more in it than that," said Austen Mitchell. "We're out +against the damnable affectations of naturalism and humanism. If I draw +a perfect likeness of a fat, pink woman I've got a fat, pink woman and +nothing else but a fat pink woman. And a fat, pink woman is a work of +Nature, not a work of art. And I'm lying. I'm presenting as a reality +what is only an appearance. The better the likeness the bigger the lie. +But movement and rhythm are realities, not appearances. When I present +rhythm and movement I've done something. I've made reality appear." + +He went on to unfold a scheme for restoring vigour to the exhausted +language by destroying its articulations. These he declared to be purely +arbitrary, therefore fatal to the development of a spontaneous and +individual style. By breaking up the rigid ties of syntax, you do more +than create new forms of prose moving in perfect freedom, you deliver +the creative spirit itself from the abominable contact with dead ideas. +Association, fixed and eternalized by the structure of the language, is +the tyranny that keeps down the live idea. + +"We've got to restore the innocence of memory, as Gauguin restored the +innocence of the eye." + + * * * * * + +Michael noticed that the talk was not always sustained at this +constructive level. And to-night, towards twelve o'clock, it dropped and +broke in a welter of vituperation. It was, first, a frenzied assault on +the Old Masters, a storming of immortal strongholds, a tearing and +scattering of the wing feathers of archangels; then, from this high +adventure it sank to a perfunctory skirmishing among living eminences +over forty, judged, by reason of their age, to be too contemptible for +an attack in force. It rallied again to a bombing and blasting of minute +ineptitudes, the slaughter of "swine like ---- and ---- and ---- and +---- and ----"; and ended in a furious pursuit of a volatile young poet, +Edward Rivers, who had escaped by sheer levity from the tug of the +Vortex, and was setting up a small swirl of his own. + +Michael was with the revolutionaries heart and soul; he believed in +Morton Ellis and Austen Mitchell and Monier-Owen even more than he +believed in Lawrence Stephen, and almost as much as he believed in Jules +Réveillaud. They stood for all the realities and all the ideas and all +the accomplishments to which he himself was devoted. He had no sort of +qualms about the wholesale slaughter of the inefficient. + +But to-night, as he listened to these voices, he felt again his old +horror of the collective soul. The voices spoke with a terrible +unanimity. The vortex--_the_ Vortex--was like the little vortex of +school. The young men, Ellis and Mitchell and Monier-Owen belonged to a +herd like the school-herd, hunting together, crying together, saying the +same thing. Their very revolt against the Old Masters was a collective +and not an individual revolt. Their chase was hottest when their quarry +was one of the pack who had broken through and got away. They hated the +fugitive, solitary private soul. + +And yet it was only as private souls that Ellis and Mitchell and +Monier-Owen counted. Each by himself did good things; each, if he had +the courage to break loose and go by himself, might do a great thing +some day. Even George Wadham might do something if he could get away +from Ellis and the rest. Edward Rivers had had courage. + +Michael thought: "It's Rivers now. It'll be my turn next" But he had a +great longing to break loose and get away. + +He thought: "I don't know where they're all going to end. They think +they're beginning something tremendous; but I can't see what's to come +of it. And I don't see how they can go on like that for ever. I can't +see what's coming. Yet something must come. _They_ can't be the end." + +He thought: "Their movement is only a small swirl in an immense Vortex. +It may suck them all down. But it will clear the air. They will have +helped to clear it." + +He thought of himself going on, free from the whirl of the Vortex, and +of his work as enduring; standing clear and hard in the clean air. + + + + + +PART III + +VICTORY + + + +XVIII + +It was July, nineteen-fourteen, a month remarkable in the British Isles +because of the fine weather and the disturbances in the political +atmosphere due to the fine weather. + +Every other evening in that July Anthony Harrison reminded his family +that fine weather is favourable to open-air politics, and that the mere +off-chance of sunstroke is enough to bring out the striker. And when +Michael asked him contentiously what the weather had to do with Home +Rule, he answered that it had everything to do with it by increasing +parliamentary blood-pressure. + +"Wait," he said, "till we get a good thunderstorm You'll see how long +the strike'll last, and what Sir Edward Carson has to say to Mr. +Redmond then." + +Anthony kept his head. He had seen strikes before, and he knew that Home +Rule had never been a part of practical politics and never would be. + +And Michael and Dorothea laughed at him. They had their own views about +the Home Rule question and the Labor question, and they could have told +Anthony what the answers were going to be; only they said it wasn't any +good talking to Father; when he got an idea into his dear old head it +stuck there. + +Now, on Mother, if you talked to her long enough, you could make some +impression; you could get ideas into her head and you could get +them out. + +Frances, no longer preoccupied with the care of young children, had time +for the affairs of the nation. She was a more intelligent woman than the +Mrs. Anthony Harrison who, nineteen years ago, informed herself of the +affairs of the nation from a rapid skimming of the _Times_. In the last +four years the affairs of the nation had thrust themselves violently +upon her attention. She had even realized the Woman's Suffrage movement +as a vivid and vital affair, since Dorothy had taken part in the +fighting and had gone to prison. + +Frances, sitting out this July under her tree of Heaven with the +_Times_, had a sense of things about to happen if other things didn't +happen to prevent them. At any rate she had no longer any reason to +complain that nothing happened. + +It was the Home Rule crisis now. The fact that England and Ireland were +on the edge of civil war was brought home to her, not so much by the +head-lines in the papers as by the publication of her son Michael's +insurgent poem, "Ireland," in the Green Review. + +For Michael had not grown out of his queer idea. He was hardly thirteen +when he had said that civil war between England and Ireland would be +glorious if the Irish won, and he was saying it still. His poem was the +green flag that he flew in the face of his family and of his country. +Neither Frances nor Anthony would have been likely to forget the +imminence of civil war (only that they didn't really believe in it), +when from morning till night Michael talked and wrote of nothing else. +In this Michael was not carried away by collective feeling; his dream of +Ireland's freedom was a secret and solitary dream. Nobody he knew +shared it but Lawrence Stephen. The passion he brought to it made him +hot and restless and intense. Frances expressed her opinion of the Irish +crisis when she said, "I wish that Carson man would mind his own +business. This excitement is very bad for Michael." + +And she thanked Heaven that Ireland was not England, and that none of +them lived there. If there was civil war in Ireland for a week or two, +Anthony and the boys would be out of it. + +Frances was also alive to the war between Capital and Labour. There was, +indeed, something very intimate and personal to Frances in this +particular affair of the nation; for Anthony's business was being +disagreeably affected by the strike in the building trade. + +So much so that Anthony had dismissed his chauffeur and given up his +idea of turning the stable loft into a billiard-room. He had even +thought of trying to let the shooting-box and the cottage on the +Yorkshire moors which he had bought, unforeseeingly, in the spring of +last year; but Michael and Nicholas had persuaded him that this extreme +measure was unnecessary. + +And Frances, even with the strike hanging over her, was happy. For the +children, at their first sight of possible adversity, were showing what +was in them. Their behaviour made her more arrogant than ever. Michael +and Dorothea had given up their allowances and declared their complete +ability to support themselves. (They earned about fifty pounds a year +each on an average.) She had expected this from Dorothy, but not from +Michael. Nicholas was doing the chauffeur's work in his absence; and +John showed eagerness to offer up his last year at Oxford; he pressed it +on his father as his contribution to the family economies. + +Veronica brought her minute dividends (paid to her every quarter through +Ferdinand Cameron's solicitors), and laid them at Frances's and +Anthony's feet. ("As if," Anthony said, "I could have taken her poor +little money!") Veronica thought she could go out as a music teacher. + +There were moments when Frances positively enjoyed the strike. Her mind +refused to grasp the danger of the situation. She suspected Anthony of +exaggerating his losses in order to draw out Dorothy and Michael and +Nicholas and John, and wallow in their moral beauty. He, too, was +arrogant. He was convinced that, though there might be girls like +Dorothea, there were no boys like his three Sons. As for the strike in +the building trade, strikes, as Anthony insisted, had happened before, +and none of them had threatened for very long either Frances's peace of +mind or Anthony's prosperity. + +The present strike was not interfering in the least with Mrs. Anthony +Harrison's Day, the last of the season. It fell this year, on the +twenty-fifth of July. + +Long afterwards she remembered it by what happened at the end of it. + +Frances's Day--the fourth Saturday in the month--was one of those slight +changes that are profoundly significant. It stood for regeneration and a +change of heart. It marked the close of an epoch. Frances's life of +exclusive motherhood had ended; she had become, or was at any rate +trying to become, a social creature. Her Day had bored her terribly at +first, when it didn't frighten her; she was only just beginning to get +used to it; and still, at times, she had the air of not taking it +seriously. It had been forced on her. Dorothea had decided that she must +have a Day, like other people. + +She had had it since Michael's first volume of Poems had come out in the +spring of the year before, when the young men who met every Friday +evening in Lawrence Stephen's study began to meet at Michael's +father's house. + +Anthony liked to think that his house was the centre of all this +palpitating, radiant life; of young men doing all sorts of wonderful, +energetic, important, interesting things. They stirred the air about him +and kept it clean; he liked the sound of their feet and of their voices, +and of their laughter. And when the house was quiet and Anthony had +Frances to himself he liked that, too. + +But Frances thought: "If only they wouldn't come quite so often--if only +I could have my children sometimes to myself!" + +It was the last rebellion of her flesh that had borne and suckled them. + +There was this to be said for Frances's Day that it attracted and +diverted, and confined to one time and one place a whole crowd of +tiresome people, who, without it, would have spread themselves over the +whole month; also that it gave a great deal of innocent happiness to the +"Poor dears." Frances meant old Mrs. Fleming, and Louie and Emmeline and +Edith Fleming, who figured as essential parts of the social event. She +meant Mr. and Mrs. Jervis, who, in the inconceivability of their absence +on Frances's Bay, wondered more than ever why their daughter Rosalind +found them so impossible. She meant Mr. Vereker and Mr. Norris from the +office, and their wives and children, and Anthony's secretary, Miss +Lathom. If Miss Lathom were not engaged to young George Vereker, she +soon would be, to judge by the behaviour of their indiscreet and +guileless faces. + +Frances also meant her brother-in-law, Bartholomew, home from India for +good, and cherishing a new disease, more secret and more dangerous than +his cancer; she meant her brother Maurice, who was genuinely invalided, +who had come back from California for the last time and would never be +sent out anywhere again. + +Dorothea had said: "Let's kill them all off in one awful day." Frances +had said: "Yes, but we must do it decently. We must be kind to them, +poor dears!" + +Above all they must be decent to Grannie and the Aunties, and to Uncle +Morrie and Uncle Bartie. That was the only burden she had laid on her +children. It was a case of noblesse oblige; their youth constrained +them. They had received so much, and they had been let off so much; not +one of them had inherited the taint that made Maurice and Emmeline +Fleming and Bartie Harrison creatures diseased and irresponsible. They +could afford to be pitiful and merciful. + +And now that the children were grown up Frances could afford to be +pitiful and merciful herself. She could even afford to be grateful to +the poor dears. She looked on Maurice and Emmeline and Bartie as +scapegoats, bearers of the hereditary taint, whose affliction left her +children clean. She thought of them more and more in this sacred and +sacrificial character. At fifty-two Frances could be gentle over the +things that had worried and irritated her at thirty-three. Like Anthony +she was still young and strong through the youth and strength of +her children. + +And the poor dears were getting weak and old. Grannie was seventy-nine, +and Maurice, the youngest of that generation, was forty-nine, and he +looked sixty. Every year Frances was more acutely aware of their pathos, +their futility, their mortality. They would be broken and gone so soon +and so utterly, leaving no name, no sign or memorial of themselves; only +living in the memories of her children who would remain. + +And, with an awful sense of mortality surrounding them, her children had +learned that they must be kind because the old people would be gone +while they endured and remained. + +This Saturday being the last of the season, they had all come; not only +the Flemings, but the Jervises and Verekers and Norrises, and Uncle +Bartie. The fine weather alone would have brought them. + +Bartie, more morose and irritable than ever, sat under the tree of +Heaven and watched the triumphal progress of the Day. He scowled darkly +and sourly at each group in turn; at the young men in white flannels +playing tennis; at Mr. and Mr. Jervis and the Verekers and Norrises; at +the Flemings, old Mrs. Fleming, and Louie and Emmeline and Edith, and +the disgraceful Maurice, all five of them useless pensioners on his +brother's bounty; Maurice a thing of battered, sodden flesh hanging +loose on brittle bone, a rickety prop for the irreproachable summer +suit bought with Anthony's money. He scowled at the tables covered with +fine white linen, and at the costly silver and old china, at the +sandwiches and cakes and ices, and the piled-up fruits and the claret +cup and champagne cup glowing and shining in the tall glass jugs, and at +the pretty maidservants going to and fro in their accomplished service. + +Bartie wondered how on earth Anthony managed it. His wonder was a savage +joy to Bartie. + +Mr. Jervis, a heavy, pessimistic man, wondered how they managed it, and +Mr. Jervis's wonder had its own voluptuous quality. Mr. Vereker and Mr. +Norris, who held that a strike was a downright serious matter, also +wondered. But they were sustained by their immense belief in Mr. +Anthony. Mr. Anthony knew what he was doing; he always had known. A +strike might be serious while it lasted, but it didn't last. And Mr. +Nicholas was in the business now, and Mr. John was coming into it next +year, and Mr. Nicholas might be married again by that time; and the +chances were that the firm of Harrison and Harrison would last long +enough to provide for a young Vereker and a still younger Norris. + +In spite of the strike, Mr. and Mrs. Vereker and Mr. and Mrs. Norris, +like Frances and Anthony, were extraordinarily cheerful that afternoon. + +So were young George Vereker and Miss Lathom. + +"I can't think why I feel so happy," said Mrs. Vereker to Mrs. Norris. +She was looking at her son George. + +"Nor I, either," said Miss Lathom, who was trying suddenly to look at +nothing in particular. + +Miss Lathom lied and Mrs. Vereker lied; they knew perfectly well why +they were happy. Each knew that the other lied; each knew that the other +knew she knew; and neither of them could have said why she found it so +necessary to lie. + +And to Frances this happiness of Mrs. Vereker, and of young Vereker and +Miss Lathom was significant and delightful, as if she had been +personally responsible for it. + + * * * * * + +A day flashed out of her memory on a trail of blue larkspurs and of +something that she had forgotten, something that was mixed up with Mr. +and Mrs. Jervis and Rosalind. She stared at the larkspurs as if they +held the clue--Nicky's face appeared among the tall blue spires, Nicky's +darling face tied up in a scarf, brown stripes and yellow +stripes--something to do with a White Cake--it must have been somebody's +birthday. Now she had it--Mr. Jervis's cricket scarf. It was the day of +Nicky's worst earache, the day when Mr. Vereker climbed the tree of +Heaven--was it possible that Mr. Vereker had ever climbed that +tree?--the day when Michael wouldn't go to the party--Rosalind's +birthday. + +Eight candles burning for Rosalind. Why, it was nineteen years ago. +Don-Don was a baby then, and Michael and Nicky were only little boys. +And look at them now! + +She fed her arrogance by gazing on the tall, firmly knit, slender bodies +of her sons, in white flannels, playing furiously and well. + +"Dorothy is looking very handsome," Mrs. Jervis said. Yes, certainly +Dorothy was looking handsome; but Frances loved before all things the +male beauty of her sons. In Michael and Nicholas it had reached +perfection, the clean, hard perfection that would last, as Anthony's +had lasted. + +She thought of their beauty that had passed from her, dying many deaths, +each death hurting her; the tender mortal beauty of babyhood, of +childhood, of boyhood; but this invulnerable beauty of their young +manhood would be with her for a long time. John would have it. John was +only a fairer Nicholas; but as yet his beauty had not hardened; his +boyhood lingered in the fine tissues of his mouth, and in his eyelids +and the soft corners of his eyes; so that in John she could still see +what Nicky had been. + +She had adored Anthony's body, as if she had foreseen that it would give +her such sons as these; and in her children she had adored the small +bodies through whose clean, firm beauty she foresaw the beauty of their +manhood. These were the same bodies, the same faces that she had loved +in them as children; nothing was blurred or twisted or overlaid. + +Michael at six-and-twenty was beautiful and serious as she had foreseen +him. Frances knew that Michael had genius, and at other moments she was +proud of his genius; but at this particular moment, sitting beside her +friend and conscious of her jealousy, she was chiefly aware of his body. + +Michael's body was quiescent; its beauty gave her a proud, but austere +and tranquil satisfaction. It was when she looked at her second son that +something caught at her breath and held it. She saw him as the lover +and bridegroom of Veronica. Her sense of his virility was terrible to +her and delightful. + +Perhaps they were engaged already. + +And Frances was sorry for Mrs. Jervis, who had borne no sons, who had +only borne one unattractive and unsatisfactory daughter. She used to be +sorry for her because Rosalind was pink and fat and fluffy; she was +sorry for her now because Rosalind was unsatisfactory. She was sorry for +Mrs. Norris because her boy could never grow up like Michael or Nicholas +or John. She was sorry for Mrs. Vereker because George, though he looked +all right when he was by himself, became clumsy and common at once +beside Michael and Nicholas and John. George was also in white flannels; +he played furiously and well; he played too furiously and too +consciously well; he was too damp and too excited; his hair became damp +and excited as he played; his cries had a Cockney tang. + +Her arrogance nourished itself on these contrasts. + +Mrs. Jervis looked wistfully at the young men as they played. She looked +still more wistfully at Dorothy. + +"What do you do," she said, "to keep your children with you?" + +"I do nothing," Frances said. "I don't try to keep them. I've never +appealed to their feelings for my own purposes, or taken advantage of +their affection, that's all. + +"They know that if they want to walk out of the house to-morrow, and +stay out, they can. Nobody'll stop them." + +There was a challenging, reminiscent glint in Mr. Jervis's eyes, and his +wife was significantly silent. Frances knew what they were thinking. + +"Nicky," she said, "walked out; but he came back again as soon as he +was in trouble. Michael walks out and goes abroad every year; but he +comes back again. Dorothy walks out, but she's never dreamed of not +coming back again." + +"Of course, if you aren't afraid of taking risks," said Mr. Jervis. + +"I am afraid. But I've never shown it." + +"It's very strange that Dorothy hasn't married." Mrs. Jervis spoke. She +derived comfort from the thought that Dorothy was eight-and-twenty and +not married. + +"Dorothy," said Frances, "could marry to-morrow if she wanted to; but +she doesn't want." + +She was sorry for her friend, but she really could not allow her that +consolation. + +"Veronica is growing up very good-looking," said Mrs. Jervis then. + +But it was no use. Frances was aware that Veronica was grown up, and +that she was good-looking, and that Nicky loved her; but Mrs. Jervis's +shafts fell wide of all her vulnerable places. Frances was no +longer afraid. + +"Veronica," she said, "is growing up very good." It was not the word she +would have chosen, yet it was the only one she could think of as likely +to convey to Mrs. Jervis what she wanted her to know, though it left her +obtuseness without any sense of Veronica's mysterious quality. + +She herself had never tried to think of a word for it before; she was +only driven to it now because she detected in her friend's tone a +challenge and a warning. It was as if Rosalind's mother had said, +extensively and with pointed reference to the facts: "Veronica is +dangerous. Her mother has had adventures. She is grown-up and she is +good-looking, and Nicky is susceptible to that sort of thing. If you +don't look out he will be caught again. The only difference between +Phyllis Desmond and Veronica is in their skins." + +So when Frances said Veronica was good, she meant that Mrs. Jervis +should understand, once for all, that she was not in the least like her +mother or like Phyllis Desmond. + +That was enough for Mrs. Jervis. But it was not enough for Frances, who +found her mind wandering off from Rosalind's mother and looking for the +word of words that would express her own meaning to her own +satisfaction. + +Her thoughts went on deep down under the stream of conversation that +flowed through her from Mrs. Jervis on her right hand to Mrs. Vereker +and Mrs. Norris on her left. + +Veronica was good. But she was not wrapped up in other people's lives as +Frances was wrapped up. She was wrapped up, not in herself, but in some +life of her own that, as Frances made it out, had nothing in the world +to do with anybody else's. + +And yet Veronica knew what you were feeling and what you were thinking, +and what you were going to do, and what was happening to you. (She had +really known, in Dresden, what was happening to Nicky when Desmond made +him marry her.) It was as if in her the walls that divide every soul +from every other soul were made of some thin and porous stuff that let +things through. And in this life of yours, for the moments that she +shared it, she lived intensely, with uncanny delight and pain that were +her own and not her own. + +And Frances wanted some hard, tight theory that would reconcile these +extremes of penetration and detachment. + +She remembered that Ferdinand Cameron had been like that. He saw things. +He was a creature of queer, sudden sympathies and insights. She supposed +it was the Highland blood in both of them. + +Mrs. Vereker on her right expressed the hope that Mr. Bartholomew was +better. Frances said he never would be better till chemists were +forbidden to advertise and the _British Medical Journal_ and _The +Lancet_ were suppressed. Bartie would read them; and they supplied him +with all sorts of extraordinary diseases. + +She thought: Seeing things had not made poor Ferdie happy; and Veronica +in her innermost life was happy. She had been happy when she came back +from Germany, before she could have known that Nicky cared for her, +before Nicky knew it himself. + +Supposing she had known it all the time? But that, Frances said to +herself, was nonsense. If she had known as much as all that, why should +she have suffered so horribly that she had nearly died of it? +Unless--supposing--it had been his suffering that she had nearly +died of? + +Mrs. Norris on her left was saying that she was sorry to see Mr. Maurice +looking so sadly; and Frances heard herself replying that Morrie hadn't +been fit for anything since he was in South Africa. + +Between two pop-gun batteries of conversation the serious theme +sustained itself. She thought: Then, Nicky had suffered. And Veronica +was the only one who knew. She knew more about Nicky than Nicky's +mother. This thought was disagreeable to Frances. + +It was all nonsense. She didn't really believe that these things +happened. Yet, why not? Michael said they happened. Even Dorothy, who +didn't believe in God and immortality or anything, believed that. + +She gave it up; it was beyond her; it bothered her. + +"Yes. Seventy-nine her last birthday." + +Mrs. Norris had said that Mrs. Fleming was wonderful. + +Frances thought: "It's wonderful what Veronica does to them." + + * * * * * + +The sets had changed. Nicholas and a girl friend of Veronica's played +against George Vereker and Miss Lathom; John, with Mr. Jervis for his +handicap, played against Anthony and Mr. Norris. The very young Norris +fielded. All afternoon he had hoped to distinguish himself by catching +some ball in full flight as it went "out." It was a pure and high +ambition, for he knew he was so young and unimportant that only the eyes +of God and of his mother watched him. + +Michael had dropped out of it. He sat beside Dorothy under the tree of +Heaven and watched Veronica. + +"Veronica's wonderful," he said. "Did you see that?" + +Dorothy had seen. + +Veronica had kept Aunt Emmeline quiet all afternoon. She bad made Bartie +eat an ice under the impression that it would be good for him. And now +she had gone with Morrie to the table where the drinks were, and had +taken his third glass of champagne cup from him and made him drink +lemonade instead. + +"How does she do it?" said Michael. + +"I don't know. She doesn't know herself. I used to think I could manage +people, but I'm not in it with Ronny. She ought to be a wardress in a +lunatic asylum." + +"Now look at that!" + +Veronica had returned to the group formed by Grannie and the Aunties and +some strangers. The eyes of the four Fleming women had looked after her +as she went from them; they looked towards her now as if some great +need, some great longing were appeased by her return. + +Grannie made a place by her side for the young girl; she took her arm, +the young white arm, bare from the elbow in its short sleeve, and made +it lie across her knees. From time to time Grannie's yellow, withered +hand stroked the smooth, warm white arm, or held it. Emmeline and Edith +squatted on the grass at Veronica's feet; their worn faces and the worn +face of Louie looked at her. They hung on her, fascinated, curiously +tranquillized, as if they drank from her youth. + +"It's funny," Dorothy said, "when you think how they used to hate her." + +"It's horrible," said Michael. + +He got up and took Veronica away. + +He was lying at her feet now on the grass in the far corner of the lawn +under the terrace. + +"Why do you go to them?" he said. + +"Because they want me." + +"You mustn't go when they want you. You mustn't let them get hold of +you." + +"They don't get hold of me--nothing gets hold of me. I want to help +them. They say it does them good to have me with them." + +"I should think it did do them good! They feed on you, Ronny. I can see +it by the way they look at you. You'll die of them if you don't give +it up." + +"Give what up?" + +"Your game of keeping them going. That is your game, isn't it? +Everybody's saying how wonderful Grannie is. They mean she ought to have +been dead years ago. + +"They were all old, horribly old and done for, ages ago. I can remember +them. But they know that if they can get a young virgin sacrificed to +them they'll go on. You're the young virgin. You're making them go on." + +"If I could--it wouldn't hurt me. Nothing hurts you, Michael, when +you're happy. It's awful to think how they've lived without being happy, +without loving. + +"They used to hate me because I'm Vera's daughter. They don't hate me +now." + +"You don't hate what you feed on. You love it. They're vampires. They'll +suck your life out of you. I wonder you're not afraid of them. + +"I'm afraid of them. I always was afraid of them; when I was a kid and +Mother used to send me with messages to that beastly spooky house they +live in. I used to think it was poor old Grandpapa's ghost I funked. But +I know now it wasn't. It was those four terrible women. They're ghosts. +I thought you were afraid of ghosts." + +"I'm much more afraid of you, when you're cruel. Can't you see how awful +it must be for them to be ghosts? Ghosts among living people. Everybody +afraid of them--not wanting them." + +"Michael--it would be better to be dead!" + + * * * * * + +Towards the end of the afternoon Frances's Day changed its appearance +and its character. In the tennis courts Michael's friends played singles +with an incomparable fury, frankly rejecting the partners offered them +and disdaining inferior antagonists; they played, Ellis against Mitchell +and Monier-Owen against Nicholas. + +They had arrived late with Vera and Lawrence Stephen. + +It had come to that. Anthony and Frances found that they could not go on +for ever refusing the acquaintance of the man who had done so much for +Michael. Stephen's enthusiastic eulogy of Michael's Poems had made an +end of that old animosity a year ago. Practically, they had had to +choose between Bartie and Lawrence Stephen as the turning point of +honour. Michael had made them see that it was possible to overvalue +Bartie; also that it was possible to pay too high a price for a +consecrated moral attitude. In all his life the wretched Bartie had +never done a thing for any of them, whereas he, Michael, owed his rather +extraordinary success absolutely to Lawrence Stephen. If the strike made +his father bankrupt he would owe his very means of livelihood to +Lawrence Stephen. + +Besides, he liked Stephen, and it complicated things most frightfully to +go on living in the same house with people who disliked him. + +If, Michael said, they chose to dissociate themselves altogether from +their eldest son and his career, very well. They could go on ignoring +and tacitly insulting Mr. Stephen. He could understand their taking a +consistently wrong-headed line like that; but so long as they had any +regard, either for him or his career, he didn't see how they could very +well keep it up any longer. He was sorry, of course, that his career had +let them in for Stephen if they didn't like him; but there it was. + +And beyond a doubt it was there. + +"You might vindicate Bartie gloriously," Michael said, "by turning me +out of the house and disinheriting me. But would it be worth while? I'm +not asking you to condone Stephen's conduct--if you can't condone it; +I'm asking you either to acknowledge _or_ repudiate your son's debts. + +"After all, if _he_ can condone your beastly treatment of him--I +wouldn't like him if he was the swine you think him." + +And Anthony had appealed to Michael's mother. + +To his "Well, Frances, what do you think? Ought we or oughtn't we?" she +had replied: "I think we ought to stand solid behind Michael." + +It was Michael's life that counted, for it was going on into a great +future. Bartie would pass and Michael would remain. + +Their nervous advances had ended in a complete surrender to Stephen's +charm. + +Vera and Stephen seemed to think that the way to show the sincerity and +sweetness of their reconciliation was to turn up as often as possible on +Frances's Day. They arrived always at the same hour, a little late; they +came by the road and the front door, so that when Bartie saw them +coming he could retreat through the garden door and the lane. The +Flemings and the Jervises retreated with him; and presently, when it had +had a good look at the celebrities, the rest of the party followed. + +This Saturday Frances's Day dwindled and melted away and closed, after +its manner; only Vera and Stephen lingered. They stayed on talking to +Michael long after everybody else had gone. + +Stephen said he had come to say good-bye to Michael's people and to make +a proposal to Michael himself. He was going to Ireland. + +Vera interrupted him with passion. + +"He isn't. He hasn't any proposal to make. He hasn't come to say +good-bye." + +Her restless, unhappy eyes turned to him incessantly, as if, more than +ever, she was afraid that he would escape her, that he would go off God +knew where. + +God knew where he was going, but Vera did not believe that he was going +to Ireland. He had talked about going to Ireland for years, and he had +never gone. + +Stephen looked as if he did not see her; as if he did not even see +Michael very distinctly. + +"I'm going," he said, "to Ireland on Monday week, the third of August. I +mayn't come back for long enough. I may not come back at all." + +"That's the sort of thing he keeps on saying." + +"I may not come back _at all_. So I want you to take over the _Review_ +for me. Ellis and my secretary will show you how it stands. You'll know +what to do. I can trust you not to let it down." + +"He doesn't mean what he says, Michael. He's only saying it to frighten +me. He's been holding it over me for years. + +"_Say_ you'll have nothing to do with it. _Say_ you won't touch his old +_Review_." + +"Could I go to Ireland for you?" + +"You couldn't." + +"Why not? What do you think you're going to do there?" + +"I'm going to pull the Nationalists together, so that if there's civil +war in Ireland, the Irish will have a chance to win. Thank God for +Carson! He's given us the opportunity we wanted." + +"Tell him he's not to go, Michael. He won't listen to me, but he'll mind +what you say." + +"I want to go instead of him." + +"You can't go instead of me. Nobody can go instead of me." + +"I can go with you." + +"You can't." + +"Larry, if you take Michael to Ireland, Anthony and Frances will never +forgive you. _I_'ll never forgive you." + +"I'm not taking Michael to Ireland, I'm telling you. There's no reason +why Michael should go to Ireland at all. It isn't _his_ country." + +"You needn't rub _that_ in," said Michael. + +"It isn't _yours_," said Vera. "Ireland doesn't want you. The +Nationalists don't want you. You said yourself they've turned you out of +Ireland. When you've lived in England all these years why should you go +back to a place that doesn't want you?" + +"Because if Carson gets a free hand I see some chance of Ireland being a +free country." + +Vera wailed and entreated. She said it showed how much he cared for her. +It showed that he was tired of her. Why couldn't he say so and have +done with it? + +"It's not," she said, "as if you could really do anything. You're a +dreamer. Ireland has had enough of dreamers." And Stephen's eyes looked +over her head, into the high branches of the tree of Heaven, as if he +saw his dream shining clear through them like a moon. + +The opportunist could see nothing but his sublime opportunity. + +Michael went back with him to dine and talk it over. There was to be +civil war in Ireland then? + +He thought: If only Lawrence would let him go with him. He wanted to go +to Ireland. To join the Nationalists and fight for Ireland, fight for +the freedom he was always dreaming about--_that_ would be a fine thing. +It would be a finer thing than writing poems about Ireland. + +Lawrence Stephen went soberly and steadily through the affair of the +_Review_, explaining things to Michael. He wanted this done, and this. +And over and over again Michael's voice broke through his instructions. +Why couldn't he go to Ireland instead of Lawrence? Or, if Lawrence +wouldn't let him go instead of him, he might at least take him with him. +He didn't want to stay at home editing the _Review_. Ellis or Mitchell +or Monier-Owen would edit it better than he could. Even the wretched +Wadham would edit it just as well. He wanted to go to Ireland and fight. + +But Lawrence wouldn't let him go. He wasn't going to have the boy's +blood on his hands. His genius and his youth were too precious. + +Besides, Ireland was not his country. + + * * * * * + +It was past ten o'clock. Frances was alone in the drawing-room. She sat +by the open window and waited and watched. + +The quiet garden lay open to her sight. Only the inner end of the +farther terrace, under the orchard wall, was hidden by a high screen +of privet. + +It seemed hours to Frances since she had seen Nicky and Veronica go down +the lawn on to the terrace. + +And then Anthony had gone out too. She was vexed with Anthony. She could +see him sitting under his ash-tree, her tree of heaven; his white +shirt-front gave out an oblong gleam like phosphorous in the darkness +under the tree. She was watching to see that he didn't get up and go on +to the terrace. Anthony had no business in the garden at all. He was +catching cold in it. He had sneezed twice. She wanted Nicholas and +Veronica to have the garden to themselves to-night, and the perfect +stillness of the twilight to themselves, every tree and every little +leaf and flower keeping quiet for them; and there was Anthony sneezing. + +She was restless and impatient, as if she carried the burden of their +passion in her own heart. + +Presently she could bear it no longer. She got up and called to Anthony +to come in. He came obediently. "What are you thinking of," she said, +"planting yourself out there and sneezing? I could see your shirt-front +a mile off. It's indecent of you." + +"Why indecent?" + +"Because Nicky and Veronica are out there." + +"I don't see them." + +"Do you suppose they want you to see them?" + +She turned the electric light on full, to make darkness of their +twilight out there. + + * * * * * + +Nicky and Veronica talked together in the twilight, sitting on the seat +under the orchard well behind the privet screen. They did not see +Anthony sitting under the ash-tree, they did not hear him, they did not +hear Frances calling to him to come in. They were utterly unaware of +Frances and Anthony. + +"Ronny," he said, "did Michael say anything to you?" + +"When?" + +"This afternoon, when he made you come with him here?" + +"How do you mean, 'say anything'?" + +"You know what I mean." + +"_Mick_?" + +"Yes. Did he ask you to marry him?" + +"No. He said a lot of funny things, but he didn't say that. He +wouldn't." + +"Why wouldn't he?" + +"Because--he just wouldn't." + +"Well, he says he understands you." + +"Then," said Veronica conclusively, "of course he wouldn't." + +"Yes; but he says _I_ don't." + +"Dear Nicky, you understand me when nobody else does. You always did." + +"Yes, when we were kids. But supposing _now_ I ever didn't, would it +matter? You see, I'm stupid, and caring--caring awfully--might make me +stupider. _Have_ people got to understand each other?" + +To that she replied astonishingly, "Are you quite sure you understand +about Ferdie?" + +"Ferdie?" + +"Yes." She turned her face full to him. "I don't know whether you know +about it. _I_ didn't till Mother told me the other day. I'm +Ferdie's daughter. + +"Did you know?" + +"Oh, Lord, yes. I've known it for--oh, simply ever so long." + +"Who told you?" + +"Dorothy, I think. But I guessed it because of something he said once +about seeing ghosts." + +"I wonder if you know how I feel about it? I want you to understand +that. I'm not a bit ashamed of it. I'm proud. I'm _glad_ I'm Ferdie's +daughter, not Bartie's.... I'd take his name, so that everybody should +know I was his daughter, only that I like Uncle Anthony's name best. I'm +glad Mother loved him." + +"So am I, Ronny. I know I shouldn't have liked Bartie's daughter. +Bartie's daughter wouldn't have been you." + +He took her in his arms and held her face against his face. And it was +as if Desmond had never been. + +A little while ago he had hated Desmond because she had come before +Veronica; she had taken what belonged to Veronica, the first tremor of +his passion, the irrecoverable delight and surprise. And now he knew +that, because he had not loved her, she had taken nothing. + + * * * * * + +"Do you love me?" + +"Do you love _me_?" + +"You know I love you." + +"You know. You know." + +What they said was new and wonderful to them as if nobody before them +had ever thought of it. + +Yet that night, all over the Heath, in hollows under the birch-trees, +and on beds of trampled grass, young lovers lay in each other's arms and +said the same thing in the same words: "Do you love me?" "You know I +love you!" over and over, in voices drowsy and thick with love. + + * * * * * + +"There's one thing I haven't thought of," said Nicky. "And that's that +damned strike. If it hits Daddy badly we may have to wait goodness knows +how long. Ages we may have to." + +"I'd wait all my life if I could have you in the last five seconds of +it. And if I couldn't, I'd still wait." + +And presently Veronica remembered Michael. + +"Why did you ask me whether Mick had said anything?" + +"Because I thought you ought to know about it before you--Besides, if he +_had_, we should have had to wait a bit before we told him." + +It seemed that there was nothing to prevent them marrying to-morrow if +they liked. The strike, Anthony said, couldn't hit him as badly as +all that. + +He and Frances sat up till long past midnight, talking about their +plans, and the children's plans. It was all settled. The first week in +August they would go down to Morfe for the shooting. They would stay +there till the first week in September. Nicky and Veronica would be +married the first week in October. And they would go to France and +Belgium and Germany for their honeymoon. + + + +XIX + +They did not go down to Morfe the first week in August for the shooting. + +Neither did Lawrence Stephen go to Ireland on Monday, the third. At the +moment when he should have been receiving the congratulations of the +Dublin Nationalists after his impassioned appeal for militant +consolidation, Mr. Redmond and Sir Edward Carson were shaking hands +dramatically in the House of Commons. Stephen's sublime opportunity, the +civil war, had been snatched from him by the unforeseen. + +And there was no chance of Nicky and Veronica going to Belgium and +France and Germany for their honeymoon. + +For within nine days of Frances's Day Germany had declared war on France +and Russia, and was marching over the Belgian frontier on her way +to Paris. + +Frances, aroused at last to realization of the affairs of nations, +asked, like several million women, "What does it mean?" + +And Anthony, like several million men, answered, "It means Armageddon." +Like several million people, they both thought he was saying something +as original as it was impressive, something clear and final and +descriptive. "Armageddon!" Stolid, unimaginative people went about +saying it to each other. The sound of the word thrilled them, +intoxicated them, gave them an awful feeling that was at the same time, +in some odd way, agreeable; it stirred them with a solemn and sombre +passion. They said "Armageddon. It means Armageddon." Yet nobody knew +and nobody asked or thought of asking what Armageddon meant. + +"Shall We come into it?" said Frances. She was thinking of the Royal +Navy turning out to the last destroyer to save England from invasion; of +the British Army most superfluously prepared to defend England from the +invader, who, after all, could not invade; of Indian troops pouring into +England if the worst came to the worst. She had the healthy British mind +that refuses and always has refused to acknowledge the possibility of +disaster. Yet she asked continually, "Would England be drawn in?" She +was thankful that none of her sons had gone into the Army or the Navy. +Whoever else was in, they would be out of it. + +At first Anthony said, "No. Of course England wouldn't be drawn in." + +Then, on the morning of England's ultimatum, the closing of the Stock +Exchange and the Banks made him thoughtful, and he admitted that it +looked as if England might be drawn in after all. The long day, without +any business for him and Nicholas, disturbed him. There was a nasty, +hovering smell of ruin in the air. But there was no panic. The closing +of the Banks was only a wise precaution against panic. And by evening, +as the tremendous significance of the ultimatum sank into him, he said +definitively that England would not be drawn in. + +Then Drayton, whom they had not seen for months (since he had had his +promotion) telephoned to Dorothy to come and dine with him at his club +in Dover Street. Anthony missed altogether the significance of _that_. + +He had actually made for himself an after-dinner peace in which coffee +could be drunk and cigarettes smoked as if nothing were happening +to Europe. + +"England," he said, "will not be drawn in, because her ultimatum will +stop the War. There won't be any Armageddon." + +"Oh, won't there!" said Michael. "And I can tell you there won't be much +left of us after it's over." + +He had been in Germany and he knew. He carried himself with a sort of +stern haughtiness, as one who knew better than any of them. And yet his +words conveyed no picture to his brain, no definite image of anything +at all. + +But in Nicholas's brain images gathered fast, one after another; they +thickened; clear, vivid images with hard outlines. They came slowly but +with order and precision. While the others talked he had been silent and +very grave. + +"_Some_ of us'll be left," he said. "But it'll take us all our time." + +Anthony looked thoughtfully at Nicholas. A sudden wave of realization +beat up against his consciousness and receded. + +"Well," he said, "we shall know at midnight." + + * * * * * + +An immense restlessness came over them. + +At a quarter-past eight Dorothy telephoned from her club in Grafton +street. Frank had had to leave her suddenly. Somebody had sent for him. +And if they wanted to see the sight of their lives they were to come +into town at once. St. James's was packed with people from Whitehall to +Buckingham Palace. It was like nothing on earth, and they mustn't miss +it. She'd wait for them in Grafton Street till a quarter to nine, but +not a minute later. + +Nicky got out his big four-seater Morss car. They packed themselves into +it, all six of them somehow, and he drove them into London. They had a +sense of doing something strange and memorable and historic. Dorothy, +picked up at her club, showed nothing but a pleasurable excitement. She +gave no further information about Frank. He had had to go off and see +somebody. What did he think? He thought what he had always thought; only +he wouldn't talk about it. + +Dorothy was not inclined to talk about it either. The Morss was caught +in a line blocked at the bottom of Albemarle Street by two streams of +cars, mixed with two streams of foot passengers, that poured steadily +from Piccadilly into St. James's Street. + +Michael and Dorothy got out and walked. Nicholas gave up his place to +Anthony and followed with Veronica. + +Their restlessness had been a part of the immense restlessness of the +crowd. They were drawn, as the crowd was drawn; they went as the crowd +went, up and down, restlessly, from Trafalgar Square and Whitehall to +Buckingham Palace; from Buckingham Palace to Whitehall and Trafalgar +Square. They drifted down Parliament Street to Westminster and back +again. An hour ago the drifting, nebulous crowd had split, torn asunder +between two attractions; its two masses had wheeled away, one to the +east and the other to the west; they had gathered themselves together, +one at each pole of the space it now traversed. The great meeting in +Trafalgar Square balanced the multitude that had gravitated towards +Buckingham Palace, to see the King and Queen come out on their balcony +and show themselves to their people. + +And as the edges of the two masses gave way, each broke and scattered, +and was mixed again with the other. Like a flood, confined and shaken, +it surged and was driven back and surged again from Whitehall to +Buckingham Palace, from Buckingham Palace to Whitehall. It looked for an +outlet in the narrow channels of the side-streets, or spread itself over +the flats of the Green Park, only to return restlessly upon itself, +sucked back by the main current in the Mall. + +It was as if half London had met there for Bank Holiday. Part of this +crowd was drunk; it was orgiastic; it made strange, fierce noises, like +the noises of one enormous, mystically excited beast; here and there, +men and women, with inflamed and drunken faces, reeled in each other's +arms; they wore pink paper feathers in their hats. Some, only half +intoxicated, flicked at each other with long streamers of pink and white +paper, carried like scourges on small sticks. These were the inspired. + +But the great body of the crowd was sober. It went decorously in a long +procession, young men with their sweethearts, friends, brothers and +sisters, husbands and wives, fathers and mothers with their children; +none, or very few, went alone that night. + +It was an endless procession of faces; grave and thoughtful faces; +uninterested, respectable faces; faces of unmoved integrity; excited +faces; dreaming, wondering, bewildered faces; faces merely curious, or +curiously exalted, slightly ecstatic, open-mouthed, fascinated by each +other and by the movements and the lights; laughing, frivolous faces, +and faces utterly vacant and unseeing. + +On every other breast there was a small Union Jack pinned; every other +hand held and waggled a Union Jack. The Union Jack flew from the engine +of every other automobile. In twelve hours, out of nowhere, thousands +and thousands of flags sprang magically into being; as if for years +London had been preparing for this day. + +And in and out of this crowd the train of automobiles with their flags +dashed up and down the Mall for hours, appearing and disappearing. +Intoxicated youths with inflamed faces, in full evening dress, squatted +on the roofs of taxi-cabs or rode astride on the engines of their cars, +waving flags. + +All this movement, drunken, orgiastic, somnambulistic, mysteriously +restless, streamed up and down between two solemn and processional lines +of lights, two solemn and processional lines of trees, lines that +stretched straight from Whitehall to Buckingham Palace in a recurrent +pattern of trees and lamps, dark trees, twilit trees, a lamp and a tree +shining with a metallic unnatural green; and, at the end of the avenue, +gilded gates and a golden-white façade. + +The crowd was drifting now towards the Palace. Michael and Dorothea, +Nicholas and Veronica, went with it. In this eternal perambulation they +met people that they knew; Stephen and Vera; Mitchell, Monier-Owen; +Uncle Morrie and his sisters. Anthony, looking rather solemn, drove +past them in his car. It was like impossible, grotesque encounters in +a dream. + +Outside the Palace the crowd moved up and down without rest; it drifted +and returned; it circled round and round the fountain. In the open +spaces the intoxicated motor-cars and taxi-cabs darted and tore with the +folly of moths and the fury of destroyers. They stung the air with their +hooting. Flags, intoxicated flags, still hung from their engines. They +came flying drunkenly out of the dark, like a trumpeting swarm of +enormous insects, irresistibly, incessantly drawn to the lights of the +Palace, hypnotized by the golden-white façade. + +Suddenly, Michael's soul revolted. + +"If this demented herd of swine is a great people going into a great +war, God help us! Beasts--it's not as if _their_ bloated skins were +likely to be punctured." + +He called back over his shoulders to the others. + +"Let's get out of this. If we don't I shall be sick." + +He took Dorothy by her arm and shouldered his way out. + +The water had ceased playing in the fountain. + +Nicholas and Veronica stood by the fountain. The water in the basin was +green like foul sea-water. The jetsam of the crowd floated there. A +small child leaned over the edge of the basin and fished for Union Jacks +in the filthy pool. Its young mother held it safe by the tilted edge of +its petticoats. She looked up at them and smiled. They smiled back again +and turned away. + +It was quiet on the south side by the Barracks. Small, sober groups of +twos and threes strolled there, or stood with their faces pressed close +against the railings, peering into the barrack yard. Motionless, +earnest and attentive, they stared at the men in khaki moving about on +the other side of the railings. They were silent, fascinated by the men +in khaki. Standing safe behind the railing, they stared at them with an +awful, sombre curiosity. And the men in khaki stared back, proud, +self-conscious, as men who know that the hour is great and that it is +their hour. + +"Nicky," Veronica said, "I wish Michael wouldn't say things like that." + +"He's dead right, Ronny. That isn't the way to take it, getting drunk +and excited, and rushing about making silly asses of themselves. They +_are_ rather swine, you know." + +"Yes; but they're pathetic. Can't you see how pathetic they are? Nicky, +I believe I love the swine--even the poor drunken ones with the pink +paper feathers--just because they're English; because awful things are +going to happen to them, and they don't know it. They're English." + +"You think God's made us all like that? He _hasn't_." + +They found Anthony in the Mall, driving up and down, looking for them. +He had picked up Dorothy and Aunt Emmeline and Uncle Morrie. + +"We're going down to the Mansion House," he said, "to hear the +Proclamation. Will you come?" + +But Veronica and Nicholas were tired of crowds, even of historic crowds. +Anthony drove off with his car-load, and they went home. + +"I never saw Daddy so excited," Nicky said. + +But Anthony was not excited. He had never felt calmer or cooler in his +life. + +He returned some time after midnight. By that time it had sunk into him. +Germany _had_ defied the ultimatum and England _had_ declared war +on Germany. + +He said it was only what was to be foreseen. He had known all the time +that it would happen--really. + +The tension of the day of the ultimatum had this peculiar psychological +effect that all over England people who had declared up to the last +minute that there would be no War were saying the same thing as Anthony +and believing it. + +Michael was disgusted with the event that had put an end to the Irish +Revolution. It was in this form that he conceived his first grudge +against the War. + +This emotion of his was like some empty space of horror opened up +between him and Nicholas; Nicky being the only one of his family who was +as yet aware of its existence. + +For the next three days, Nicholas, very serious and earnest, shut +himself up in his workshop at the bottom of the orchard and laboured +there, putting the last touches to the final, perfect, authoritative +form of the Moving Fortress, the joint creation of his brain and +Drayton's, the only experiment that had survived the repeated onslaughts +of the Major's criticism. The new model was three times the size of the +lost original; it was less like a battleship and more like a racing-car +and a destroyer. It was his and Drayton's last word on the subject of +armaments. + +It was going to the War Office, this time, addressed to the right +person, and accompanied by all sorts of protective introductions, and +Drayton blasting its way before it with his new explosive. + +In those three days Nick found an immense distraction in his Moving +Fortress. It also served to blind his family to his real intentions. He +knew that his real intentions could not be kept from them very long. +Meanwhile the idea that he was working on something made them happy. +When Frances saw him in his overalls she smiled and said: "Nicky's got +_his_ job, anyhow." John came and looked at him through the window of +the workshop and laughed. + +"Good old Nicky," he said. "Doing his bit!" + +In those three days John went about with an air of agreeable excitement. +Or you came upon him sitting in solitary places like the dining-room, +lost in happy thought. Michael said of him that he was unctuous. He +exuded a secret joy and satisfaction. John had acquired a sudden +remarkable maturity. He shone on each member of his family with +benevolence and affection, as if he were its protector and consoler, and +about to confer on it some tremendous benefit. + +"Look at Don-Don," Michael said. "The bloodthirsty little brute. He's +positively enjoying the War." + +"You might leave me alone," said Don-Don. "I shan't have it to enjoy for +long." + +He was one of those who believed that the War would be over in four +months. + +Michael, pledged to secrecy, came and looked at the Moving Fortress. He +was interested and intelligent; he admired that efficiency of Nicky's +that was so unlike his own. + +Yet, he wondered, after all, was it so unlike? He, too, was aiming at an +art as clean and hard and powerful as Nicky's, as naked of all blazonry +and decoration, an art which would attain its objective by the simplest, +most perfect adjustment of means to ends. + +And Anthony was proud of that hidden wonder locked behind the door of +the workshop in the orchard. He realized that his son Nicholas had taken +part in a great and important thing. He was prouder of Nicholas than he +had been of Michael. + +And Michael knew it. + +Nicky's brains could be used for the service of his country. + +But Michael's? Anthony said to himself that there wasn't any sense--any +sense that he could endure to contemplate--in which Michael's brains +could be of any use to his country. When Anthony thought of the +mobilization of his family for national service, Michael and Michael's +brains were a problem that he put behind him for the present and refused +to contemplate. There would be time enough for Michael later. + +Anthony was perfectly well aware of his own one talent, the talent which +had made "Harrison and Harrison" the biggest timber-importing firm in +England. If there was one thing he understood it was organization. If +there was one thing he could not tolerate it was waste of good material, +the folly of forcing men and women into places they were not fit for. He +had let his eldest son slip out of the business without a pang, or with +hardly any pang. He had only taken Nicholas into it as an experiment. +It was on John that he relied to inherit it and carry it farther. + +As a man of business he approved of the advertised formula: "Business as +Usual." He understood it to mean that the duty which England expected +every man to do was to stay in the place he was most fitted for and to +go where he was most wanted. Nothing but muddle and disaster could +follow any departure from this rule. + +It was fitting that Frances and Veronica should do Red Cross work. It +was fitting that Dorothy should help to organize the relief of the +Belgium refugees. It was fitting that John should stay at home and carry +on the business, and that he, Anthony, should enlist when he had settled +John into his place. It was, above all, fitting that Nicky should devote +himself to the invention and manufacture of armaments. He could not +conceive anything more wantonly and scandalously wasteful than a system +that could make any other use of Nicky's brains. He thanked goodness +that, with a European War upon us, such a system, if it existed, would +not be allowed to live a day. + +As for Michael, it might be fitting later--very much later--perhaps. If +Michael wanted to volunteer for the Army then, and if it were necessary, +he would have no right to stop him. But it would not be necessary. +England was going to win this War on the sea and not on land. Michael +was practically safe. + +And behind Frances's smile, and John's laughter, and Michael's +admiration, and Anthony's pride there was the thought: "Whatever +happens, Nicky will he safe." + +And the model of the Moving Fortress was packed up--Veronica and Nicky +packed it--and it was sent under high protection to the War Office. And +Nicky unlocked the door of his workshop and rested restlessly from +his labour. + +And there was a call for recruits, and for still more recruits. + +Westminster Bridge became a highway for regiments marching to battle. +The streets were parade-grounds for squad after squad of volunteers in +civilian clothes, self-conscious and abashed under the eyes of the +men in khaki. + +And Michael said: "This is the end of all the arts. Artists will not be +allowed to exist except as agents for the recruiting sergeant. +We're dished." + +That was the second grudge he had against the War. It killed the arts in +the very hour of their renaissance. "Eccentricities" by Morton Ellis, +with illustrations by Austin Mitchell, and the "New Poems" of Michael +Harrison, with illustrations by Austin Mitchell, were to have come out +in September. But it was not conceivable that they should come out. + +At the first rumour of the ultimatum Michael and Ellis had given +themselves up for lost. + +Liége fell and Namur was falling. + +And the call went on for recruits, and for still more recruits. And +Nicky in five seconds had destroyed his mother's illusions and the whole +fabric of his father's plans. + +It was one evening when they were in the drawing-room, sitting up after +Veronica had gone to bed. + +"I hope you won't mind, Father," he said; "but I'm going to enlist +to-morrow." + +He did not look at his father's face. He looked at his mother's. She was +sitting opposite him on the couch beside Dorothy. John balanced himself +on the head of the couch with his arm round his mother's shoulder. Every +now and then he stooped down and rubbed his cheek thoughtfully +against her hair. + +A slight tremor shook her sensitive, betraying upper lip; then she +looked back at Nicholas and smiled. + +Dorothy set her mouth hard, unsmiling. + +Anthony had said nothing. He stared before him at Michael's foot, thrust +out and tilted by the crossing of his knees. Michael's foot, with its +long, arched instep, fascinated Anthony. He seemed to be thinking: "If I +look at it long enough I may forget what Nicky has said." + +"I hope you won't mind, Father; but I'm enlisting too." + +John's voice was a light, high echo of Nicky's. + +With a great effort Anthony roused himself from his contemplation of +Michael's foot. + +"I--can't--see--that my minding--or not minding--has anything--to +do--with it." + +He brought his words out slowly and with separate efforts, as if they +weighed heavily on his tongue. "We've got to consider what's best for +the country all round, and I doubt if either of you is called upon +to go." + +"Some of us have got to go," said Nicky. + +"Quite so. But I don't think it ought to be you, Nicky; or John, +either." + +"I suppose," said Michael, "you mean it ought to be me." + +"I don't mean anything of the sort. One out of four's enough." + +"One out of four? Well then--" + +"That only leaves me to fight," said Dorothy. + +"I wasn't thinking of you, Michael. Or of Dorothy." + +They all looked at him where he sat, upright and noble, in his chair, +and most absurdly young. + +Dorothy said under her breath: "Oh, you darling Daddy." + +"_You_ won't be allowed to go, anyhow," said John to his father. "You +needn't think it." + +"Why not?" + +"Well--." He hadn't the heart to say: "Because you're too old." + +"Nicky's brains will be more use to the country than my old carcass." + +Nicky thought: "You're the very last of us that can be spared." But he +couldn't say it. The thing was so obvious. All he said was: "It's out of +the question, your going." + +"Old Nicky's out of the question, if you like," said John. "He's going +to be married. He ought to be thinking of his wife and children." + +"Of course he ought," said Anthony. "Whoever goes first, it isn't +Nicky." + +"You ought to think of Mummy, Daddy ducky; and you ought to think of +_us_," said Dorothy. + +"I," said John, "haven't got anybody to think of. I'm not going to be +married, and I haven't any children." + +"I haven't got a wife and children yet," said Nicky. + +"You've got Veronica. You ought to think of her." + +"I am thinking of her. You don't suppose Veronica'd stop me if I wanted +to go? Why, she wouldn't look at me if I didn't want to go." + +Suddenly he remembered Michael. + +"I mean," he said, "after my _saying_ that I was going." + +Their eyes met. Michael's flickered. He knew that Nicky was thinking of +him. + +"Then Ronny knows?" said Frances. + +"Of course she knows. _You_ aren't going to try to stop me, Mother?" + +"No," she said. "I'm not going to try to stop you--this time." + +She thought: "If I hadn't stopped him seven years ago, he would be safe +now, with the Army in India." + +One by one they got up and said "Good night" to each other. + +But Nicholas came to Michael in his room. + +He said to him: "I say, Mick, don't you worry about not enlisting. At +any rate, _not yet_. Don't worry about Don and Daddy. They won't take +Don because he's got a mitral murmur in his heart that he doesn't know +about. He's going to be jolly well sold, poor chap. And they won't take +the guv'nor because he's too old; though the dear old thing thinks he +can bluff them into it because he doesn't look it. + +"And look here--don't worry about me. As far as I'm concerned, the War's +a blessing in disguise. I always wanted to go into the Army. You know +how I loathed it when they went and stopped me. Now I'm going in and +nobody--not even mother--really wants to keep me out. Soon they'll all +be as pleased as Punch about it. + +"And I sort of know how you feel about the War. You don't want to stick +bayonets into German tummies, just _because_ they're so large and oodgy. +You'd think of that first and all the time and afterwards. And I shan't +think of it at all. + +"Besides, you disapprove of the War for all sorts of reasons that I +can't get hold of. But it's like this--you couldn't respect yourself if +you went into it; and I couldn't respect myself if I stayed out." + +"I wonder," Michael said, "if you really see it." + +"Of course I see it. That's the worst of you clever writing chaps. You +seem to think nobody can ever see anything except yourselves." + +When he had left him Michael thought: "I wonder if he really does see? +Or if he made it all up?" + +They had not said to each other all that they had really meant. Of +Nicky's many words there were only two that he remembered vividly, +"Not yet." + +Again he felt the horror of the great empty space opened up between him +and Nicky, deep and still and soundless, but for the two words: +"Not yet." + + + +XX + +It was as Nicholas had said. Anthony and John were rejected; Anthony on +account of his age, John because of the mitral murmur that he didn't +know about. + +The guv'nor had lied, John said, like a good 'un; swore he was under +thirty-five and stuck to it. He might have had a chance if he'd left it +at that, because he looked a jolly sight better than most of 'em when he +was stripped. But they'd given him so good an innings that the poor old +thing got above himself, and spun them a yarn about his hair having gone +grey from a recent shock. That dished him. They said they knew that sort +of hair; they'd been seeing a lot of it lately. + +Anthony was depressed. He said bitter things about "red tape," and +declared that if that was the way things were going to be managed it was +a bad look-out for the country. John was furious. He said the man who +examined him was a blasted idiot who didn't know his own rotten +business. He'd actually had the beastly cheek to tell him they didn't +want him dropping down dead when he went into action, or fainting from +sheer excitement after they'd been to the trouble and expense of +training him. As if he'd be likely to do a damn silly thing like that. +He'd never been excited in his life. It was enough to _give_ him +heart-disease. + +So John and Anthony followed the example of their women, and joined the +ambulance classes of the Red Cross. And presently they learned to their +disgust that, though they might possibly be accepted as volunteers for +Home Service, their disabilities would keep them forever from the Front. + +At this point Anthony's attention was diverted to his business by a +sudden Government demand for timber. As he believed that the War would +be over in four months he did not, at first, realize the personal +significance of this. Still, there could be no doubt that its immediate +message for him was that business must be attended to. He had not +attended to it many days before he saw that his work for his country lay +there under his hand, in his offices and his stackyards and factories. +He sighed and sat down to it, and turned his back resolutely on the +glamour of the Front. The particular business in hand had great issues +and a fascination of its own. + +And his son John sat down to it beside him, with a devoted body and a +brain alive to the great issues, but with an ungovernable and +abstracted soul. + +And Nicky, a recruit in Kitchener's Army, went rapidly through the first +courses of his training; sleeping under canvas; marching in sun and wind +and rain; digging trenches, ankle-deep, waist high, breast high in +earth, till his clear skin grew clearer, and his young, hard body harder +every day. + +And every day the empty spiritual space between him and Michael widened. + +With the exception of Michael and old Mrs. Fleming, Anthony's entire +family had offered itself to its country; it was mobilized from Frances +and Anthony down to the very Aunties. In those days there were few Red +Cross volunteers who were not sure that sooner or later they would be +sent to the Front. Their only fear was that they might not be trained +and ready when the moment of the summons came. Strong young girls +hustled for the best places at the ambulance classes. Fragile, elderly +women, twitching with nervous anxiety, contended with these remorseless +ones and were pushed to the rear. Yet they went on contending, sustained +by their extraordinary illusion. + +Aunt Louie, displaying an unexpected and premature dexterity with +bandages, was convinced that she would be sent to the Front if nobody +else was. Aunt Emmeline and Aunt Edith, in states of cerebral +excitement, while still struggling to find each other's arteries, +declared that they were going to the Front. They saw no earthly reason +why they should not go there. Uncle Maurice haunted the Emergency +class-rooms at the Polytechnic, wearing an Esmarch triangular bandage +round his neck, and volunteered as an instructor. He got mixed up with +his bandages, and finally consented to the use of his person as a +lay-figure for practical demonstrations while he waited for his orders +to go to the Front. + +They forebore to comment on the palpable absurdity of each other's +hopes. + +For, with the first outbreak of the War, the three Miss Flemings had +ceased from mutual recrimination. They were shocked into a curious +gentleness to each other. Every evening the old schoolroom (Michael's +study) was turned into a Red Cross demonstration hall, and there the +queer sight was to be seen of Louie, placable and tender, showing Edith +over and over again how to adjust a scalp bandage on Emmeline's head, +and of Emmeline motionless for hours under Edie's little, clumsy, +pinching fingers. It was thus, with small vibrations of tenderness and +charity, that they responded to the vast rhythm of the War. + +And Grannie, immutable in her aged wisdom and malevolence, pushed out +her lower lip at them. + +"If you three would leave off that folly and sit down and knit, you +might be some use," said Grannie. "Kitchener says that if every woman in +England knitted from morning till night he wouldn't have enough socks +for his Army." + +Grannie knitted from morning till night. She knitted conspicuously, as a +protest against bandage practice; giving to her soft and gentle action +an air of energy inimical to her three unmarried daughters. And not even +Louie had the heart to tell her that all her knitting had to be +unravelled overnight, to save the wool. + +"A set of silly women, getting in Kitchener's way, and wasting khaki!" + +Grannie behaved as if the War were her private and personal affair, as +if Kitchener were her right-hand man, and all the other women were +interfering with them. + +Yet it looked as if all the women would be mobilized before all the men. +The gates of Holloway were opened, and Mrs. Blathwaite and her followers +received a free pardon on their pledge to abstain from violence during +the period of the War. And instantly, in the first week of war, the +Suffrage Unions and Leagues and Societies (already organized and +disciplined by seven years' methodical resistance) presented their late +enemy, the Government, with an instrument of national service made to +its hand and none the worse because originally devised for its torture +and embarassment. + +The little vortex of the Woman's Movement was swept without a sound into +the immense vortex of the War. The women rose up all over England and +went into uniform. + +And Dorothea appeared one day wearing the khaki tunic, breeches and +puttees of the Women's Service Corps. She had joined a motor-ambulance +as chauffeur, driving the big Morss car that Anthony had given to it. +Dorothea really had a chance of being sent to Belgium before the end of +the month. Meanwhile she convoyed Belgian refugees from Cannon +Street Station. + +She saw nothing before her as yet. Her mind was like Cannon Street +Station--a dreadful twilit terminus into which all the horror and misery +of Belgium poured and was congested. + +Cannon Street Station. Presently it was as if she were spending all of +her life that counted there; as if for years she had been familiar with +the scene. + +Arch upon iron arch, and girder after iron girder holding up the blurred +transparency of the roof. Iron rails running under the long roof, that +was like the roof of a tunnel open at one end. By day a greyish light, +filtered through smoke and grit and steam. Lamps, opaque white globes, +hanging in the thick air like dead moons. By night a bluish light, and +large, white globes grown opalescent like moons, lit again to a +ghastly, ruinous life. + +The iron breasts of engines, huge and triumphant, advancing under the +immense fanlight of the open arch. Long trains of carriages packed tight +with packages, with, enormous bundles; human heads appearing, here and +there, above the swollen curves of the bundles; human bodies emerging in +the struggle to bring forth the bundles through the narrow doors. + +For the first few weeks the War meant to Dorothea, not bleeding wounds +and death, but just these train-loads of refugees--just this one +incredible spectacle of Belgium pouring itself into Cannon Street +Station. Her clear hard mind tried and failed to grasp the sequences of +which the final act was the daily unloading of tons of men, women and +children on Cannon Street platform. Yesterday they were staggering under +those bundles along their straight, flat roads between the everlasting +rows of poplars; their towns and villages flamed and smoked behind them; +some of them, goaded like tired cattle, had felt German bayonets at +their backs--yesterday. And this morning they were here, brave and gay, +smiling at Dorothea as she carried their sick on her stretcher and their +small children in her arms. + +And they were still proud of themselves. + +A little girl tripped along the platform, carrying in one hand a large +pasteboard box covered with black oilcloth, and in the other a cage with +a goldfinch in it. She looked back at Dorothea and smiled, proud of +herself because she had saved her goldfinch. A Belgium boy carried a +paralyzed old man on his shoulders. He grinned at Dorothea, proud of +himself because he had saved his grandfather. A young Flemish peasant +woman pushed back the shawl that covered her baby's face to show her how +pretty he was; she laughed because she had borne him and saved him. + +And there were terrible things significant of yesterday. Women and girls +idiotic with outrage and grief. A young man lamed in trying to throw +himself into a moving train because he thought his lost mother was in +it. The ring screening the agony of a woman giving birth to her child on +the platform. A death in the train; stiff, upturned feet at the end of a +stretcher that the police-ambulance carried away. + +And as Dorothea drove her car-loads of refugees day after day in perfect +safety, she sickened with impatience and disgust. Safety was hard and +bitter to her. Her hidden self was unsatisfied; it had a monstrous +longing. It wanted to go where the guns sounded and the shells burst, +and the villages flamed and smoked; to go along the straight, flat roads +between the poplars where the refugees had gone, so that her nerves and +flesh should know and feel their suffering and their danger. She was not +feeling anything now except the shame of her immunity. + +She thought: "I can't look at a Belgian woman without wishing I were +dead. I shall have no peace till I've gone." + +Her surface self was purely practical. She thought: "If I were in +Belgium I could get them out of it quicker than they could walk." + +Dorothea could bring all her mind to bear on her Belgians, because it +was at ease about her own people. They, at any rate, were safe. Her +father and poor Don were out of it. Michael was not in it--yet; though +of course he would be in it some time. She tried not to think too much +about Michael. Nicky was safe for the next six months. And Frank was +safe. Frank was training recruits. He had told her he might be kept +indefinitely at that infernal job. But for that he would be fighting +now. He wanted her to be sorry for him; and she was sorry for him. And +she was glad too. + +One afternoon, late in August, she had come home, to sleep till +dinner-time between her day's work and her night's work, when she found +him upstairs in her study. He had been there an hour waiting for her by +himself. The others were all at bandage practice in the schoolroom. + +"I hope you don't mind," he said. "Your mother told me to wait up here." + +She had come in straight from the garage; there was a light fur of dust +on her boots and on the shoulders of her tunic, and on her face and +hair. Her hands were black with oil and dirt from her car. + +He looked at her, taking it all in: the khaki uniform (it was the first +time he had seen her in it), the tunic, breeches and puttees, the loose +felt hat turned up at one side, its funny, boyish chin-strap, the dust +and dirt of her; and he smiled. His smile had none of the cynical +derision which had once greeted her appearances as a militant +suffragist. + +"And yet," she thought, "if he's consistent, he ought to loathe me now." + +"Dorothea. Going to the War," he said. + +"Not _yet_--worse luck." + +"Are you going as part of the Canadian contingent from overseas, or +what?" + +"I wish I was. Do you think they'd take me if I cut my hair off?" + +"They might. They might do anything. This is a most extraordinary war." + +"It's a war that makes it detestable to be a woman." + +"I thought--" For a moment his old ungovernable devil rose in him. + +"What did you think?" + +"No matter. That's all ancient history. I say, you look like business. +Do you really mean it? Are you really going to Flanders?" + +"Do you suppose any woman would go and get herself up like this if she +wasn't going _some_where?" + +He said (surprisingly), "I don't see what's wrong with it." And then: +"It makes you look about eighteen." + +"That's because you can't see my face for the dirt." + +"For the chin-strap, you mean. Dorothy--do you realize that you're not +eighteen? You're eight and twenty." + +"I do," she said. "But I rather hoped you didn't; or that if you did, +you wouldn't say so." + +"I realize that I'm thirty-eight, and that between us we've made a +pretty mess of each other's lives." + +"Have I made a mess of _your_ life?' + +"A beastly mess." + +"I'm sorry. I wouldn't have done it for the world if I'd known. You know +I wouldn't. + +"But one doesn't know things." + +"One doesn't if one's Dorothea. One knows some things awfully well; but +not the things that matter." + +"Well--but what could I do?" she said. + +"You could have done what you can do now. You could have married me. And +we would have had three years of each other." + +"You mean three centuries. There was a reason why we couldn't manage +it." + +"There wasn't a reason. There isn't any reason now. + +"Look here--to-day's Wednesday. Will you marry me on Friday if I get +leave and a licence and fix it up tomorrow? We shall have three days." + +"Three days." She seemed to be saying to herself that for three +days--No, it wasn't worth while. + +"Well, three months perhaps. Perhaps six, if my rotten luck doesn't +change. Because, I'm doing my level best to make it change. So, you see, +it's got to be one thing or another." + +And still she seemed to be considering: Was it or was it not worth +while? + +"For God's sake don't say you're going to make conditions. There really +isn't time for it. You can think what you like and say what you like and +do what you like, and wear anything--wear a busby--I shan't care if +you'll only marry me." + +"Yes. That's the way you go on. And yet you don't, say you love me. You +never have said it. You--you're leaving me to do all that." + +"Why--what else have I been doing for seven years? Nine years--ten +years?" + +"Nothing. Nothing at all. You just seem to think that I can go off and +get married to a man without knowing whether he cares for me or not. + +"And now it's too late. My hands are all dirty. So's my +face--filthy--you mustn't--" + +"I don't care. They're your hands. It's your face. I don't care." + +The chin-strap, the absurd chin-strap, fretted his mouth. He laughed. He +said, "She takes her hat off when she goes into a scrimmage, and she +keeps it on _now_!" + +She loosened the strap, laughing, and threw her hat, the hat of a +Canadian trooper, on to the floor. His mouth moved over her face, over +her hair, pressing hard into their softness; his arms clasped her +shoulders; they slipped to her waist; he strained her slender body fast +to him, straight against his own straightness, till the passion and the +youth she had denied and destroyed shook her. + +He said to himself, "She _shall_ come alive. She _shall_ feel. She +_shall want_ me. I'll make her. I should have thought of this ten +years ago." + +Her face was smooth; it smiled under the touch of his mouth and hands. +And fear came with her passion. She thought, "Supposing something +happens before Friday. If I could only give myself to him +now--to-night." + +Then, very gently and very tenderly, he released her, as if he knew what +she was thinking. He was sorry for her and afraid. Poor Dorothy, who had +made such a beastly mess of it, who had come alive so late. + +She thought, "But--he wouldn't take me that way. He'd loathe me if he +knew." + +Yet surely there was the same fear in his eyes as he looked at her? + + * * * * * + +They were sitting beside each other now, talking quietly. Her face and +hands were washed clean; as clean, she said, as they ever would be. + +"When I think," he said, "of the years we've wasted. I wonder if there +was anything that could have prevented it." + +"Only your saying what you've said now. That it didn't matter--that it +made no difference to you what I did. But, you see, it made all the +difference. And there we were." + +"It didn't--really." + +She shook her head. "We thought it did." + +"No. Do you remember that morning I fetched you from Holloway? + +"Yes." And she said as he had said then, "I don't want to talk about it. +I don't want to think about it--except that it was dear of you." + +"And yet it was from that morning--from five-thirty a.m.--that we seemed +to go wrong. + +"There's something I wanted most awfully to say, if you could stand +going back to it for just one second. Do you remember saying that I +didn't care? That I never thought of you when you were in prison or +wondered what you were feeling? _That's_ what put me off. It hurt so +atrociously that I couldn't say anything. + +"It wasn't true that I didn't think about you. I thought about nothing +else when I wasn't working; I nearly went off my head with thinking. + +"And you said I didn't listen to what you told me. That wasn't true. I +was listening like anything." + +"Darling--what did I tell you?" + +"Oh--about the thing you called your experience, or your adventure, or +something." + +"My adventure?" + +"That's what you called it. A sort of dream you had in prison. I +couldn't say anything because I was stupid. It was beyond me. It's +beyond me now." + +"Never mind my adventure. What does it matter?" + +"It matters awfully. Because I could see that it meant something big and +important that I couldn't get the hang of. It used to bother me. I kept +on trying to get it, and not getting it." + +"You poor dear! And I've forgotten it. It did feel frightfully big and +important and real at the time. And now it's as if it had happened to +somebody else--to Veronica or somebody--not me." + +"It was much more like Veronica. I do understand the rest of that +business. Now, I mean. I own I didn't at the time." + +"It's all over, Frank, and forgotten. Swallowed up in the War." + +"You're not swallowed up." + +"Perhaps I shall be." + +"Well, if you are--if I am--all the more reason why I want you to know +that I understand what you were driving at. It was this way, wasn't it? +You'd got to fight, just as I've got to fight. You couldn't keep out of +it any more than I can keep out of this War." + +"You couldn't stay out just for me any more than I can stay out for just +you." + +"And in a sort of way I'm in it for you. And in a sort of way you were +in it--in that damnable suffrage business--for me." + +"How clever of you," she said, "to see it!" + +"I didn't see it then," he said simply, "because there wasn't a war on. +We've both had to pay for my stupidity." + +"And mine. And my cowardice. I ought to have trusted you to see, or +risked it. We should have had three--no, two--years." + +"Well, anyhow, we've got this evening." + +"We haven't. I've got to drive Belgians from nine till past midnight." + +"We've got Friday. Suppose they'll give me leave to get married in. I +say--how about to-morrow evening?" + +"I can't. Yes, I can. At least, I shall. There's a girl I know who'll +drive for me. They'll have to give me leave to get married in, too." + +She thought: "I can't go to Flanders now, unless he's sent out. If he +is, nothing shall stop me but his coming back again." + +It seemed to her only fair and fitting that they should snatch at their +happiness and secure it, before their hour came. + +She tried to turn her mind from the fact that at Mons the British line +was being pressed back and back. It would recover. Of course it would +recover. We always began like that. We went back to go forwards faster, +when we got into our stride. + + * * * * * + +The next evening, Thursday, the girl she knew drove for Dorothea. + +When Frances was dressing for dinner her daughter came to her with two +frocks over her arm. + +"Mummy ducky," she said, "I think my head's going. I can't tell whether +to wear the white thing or the blue thing. And I feel as if it mattered +more than anything. More than anything on earth." + +Frances considered it--Dorothea in her uniform, and the white frock and +the blue frock. + +"It doesn't matter a little bit," she said. "If he could propose to you +in that get-up--" + +"Can't you see that I want to make up for _that_ and for all the things +he's missed, the things I haven't given him. If only I was as beautiful +as you, Mummy, it wouldn't matter." + +"My dear--my dear--" + +Dorothy had never been a pathetic child--not half so pathetic as Nicky +with his recklessness and his earache--but this grown-up Dorothy in +khaki breeches, with her talk about white frocks and blue frocks, made +Frances want to cry. + + * * * * * + +Frank was late. And just before dinner he telephoned to Dorothy that he +couldn't be with her before nine and that he would only have one hour +to give her. + +Frances and Anthony looked at each other. But Dorothy looked at +Veronica. + +"What's the matter, Ronny? You look simply awful." + +"Do I? My head's splitting. I think I'll go and lie down." + +"You'd better." + +"Go straight to bed," said Frances. "and let Nanna bring you some hot +soup." + +But Veronica did not want Nanna and hot soup. She only wanted to take +herself and her awful look away out of Dorothy's sight. + +"Well," said Anthony, "if she's going to worry herself sick about Nicky +now--" + +Frances knew that she was not worrying about Nicky. + +It was nine o'clock. + +At any minute now Frank might be there. Dorothy thought: "Supposing he +hasn't got leave?" But she knew that was not likely. If he hadn't got +leave he would have said so when he telephoned. + +The hour that was coming had the colour of yesterday. He would hold her +in his arms again till she trembled, and then he would be afraid, and +she would be afraid, and he would let her go. + +The bell rang, the garden gate swung open; his feet were loud and quick +on the flagged path of the terrace. He came into the room to them, +holding himself rather stiffly and very upright. His eyes shone with +excitement. He laughed the laugh she loved, that narrowed his eyes and +jerked his mouth slightly crooked. + +They all spoke at once. "You've got leave?" "_He's_ got it all right." +"What kept you?" "You _have_ got leave?" + +His eyes still shone; his mouth still jerked, laughing. + +"Well, no," he said. "That's what I haven't got. In fact, I'm lucky to +be here at all." + +Nanna came in with the coffee. He took his cup from her and sat down on +the sofa beside Frances, stirring his coffee with his spoon, and smiling +as if at something pleasant that he knew, something that he would tell +them presently when Nanna left the room. + +The door closed softly behind her. He seemed to be listening intently +for the click of the latch. + +"Funny chaps," he said meditatively. "They keep putting you off till you +come and tell them you want to get married to-morrow. Then they say +they're sorry, but your marching orders are fixed for that day. + +"Twelve hours isn't much notice to give a fellow." + +He had not looked at Dorothy. He had not spoken to her. He was speaking +to Anthony and John and Frances who were asking questions about trains +and boats and his kit and his people. He looked as if he were not +conscious of Dorothy's eyes fixed on him as he sat, slowly stirring his +coffee without drinking it. The vibration of her nerves made his answers +sound muffled and far-off. + +She knew that her hour was dwindling slowly, wasting, passing from her +minute by minute as they talked. She had an intolerable longing to be +alone with him, to be taken in his arms; to feel what she had felt +yesterday. It was as if her soul stood still there, in yesterday, and +refused to move on into to-day. + +Yet she was glad of their talking. It put off the end. When they stopped +talking and got up and left her alone with him, that would be the end. + +Suddenly he looked straight at her. His hands trembled. The cup he had +not drunk from rattled in its saucer. It seemed to Dorothea that for a +moment the whole room was hushed to listen to that small sound. She saw +her mother take the cup from him and set it on the table. + +One by one they got up, and slunk out of the room, as if they were +guilty, and left her alone with him. + +It was not like yesterday. He did not take her in his arms. He sat +there, looking at her rather anxiously, keeping his distance. He seemed +to be wondering how she was going to take it. + +He thought: "I've made a mess of it again. It wasn't fair to make her +want me--when I might have known. I ought to have left it." + +And suddenly her soul swung round, released from yesterday. + +She knew what he had wanted yesterday: that her senses should be ready +to follow where her heart led. But that was not the readiness he +required from her to-day; rather it was what his anxious eyes implored +her to put away from her. + +There was something more. + +He wasn't going to say the obvious things, the "Well, this is hard luck +on both of us. You must be brave. Don't make it too hard for me." (She +could have made it intolerable.) It wasn't that. He knew she was brave; +he knew she wouldn't make it hard for him; he knew he hadn't got to say +the obvious things. + +There was something more; something tremendous. It came to her with the +power and sweetness of first passion; but without its fear. She no +longer wanted him to take her in his arms and hold her as he had held +her yesterday. Her swinging soul was steady; it vibrated to an +intenser rhythm. + +She knew nothing now but that what she saw was real, and that they were +seeing it together. It was Reality itself. It was more than they. When +realization passed it would endure. + +Never as long as they lived would they be able to speak of it, to say to +each other what it was they felt and saw. + + * * * * * + +He said, "I shall have to go soon." + +And she said, "I know. Is there anything I can do?" + +"I wish you'd go and see my mother some time. She'd like it." + +"I should love to go and see her. What else?" + +"Well--I've no business to ask you, but I wish you'd give it up." + +"I'll give anything up. But what?" + +"That ambulance of yours that's going to get into the firing line." + +"Oh--" + +"I know why you want to get there. You want to tackle the hardest and +most dangerous job. Naturally. But it won't make it easier for us to win +the War. You can't expect us to fight so comfy, and to be killed so +comfy, if we know our womenkind are being pounded to bits in the ground +we've just cleared. If I thought _you_ were knocking about +anywhere there--" + +"It would make it too hard?" + +"It would make me jumpy. The chances are I shouldn't have much time to +think about it, but when I did--" + +"You'd think 'She might have spared me _that_.'" + +"Yes. And you might think of your people. It's bad enough for them, +Nicky going." + +"It isn't only that I'd have liked to be where you'll be, and where +he'll be. That was natural." + +"It's also natural that we should like to find you here when we come +back." + +"I was thinking of those Belgian women, and the babies--and England; so +safe, Frank; so disgustingly safe." + +"I know. Leaving the children in the burning house?" + +(She had said that once and he had remembered.) + +"You can do more for them by staying in England--I'm asking you to take +the hardest job, really." + +"It isn't; if it's what you want most." + +He had risen. He was going. His hands were on her shoulders, and they +were still discussing it as if it were the most momentous thing. + +"Of course," she said, "I won't go if you feel like that about it. I +want you to fight comfy. You mustn't worry about me." + +"Nor you about me. I shall be all right. Remember--it's _your_ War, +too--it's the biggest fight for freedom--" + +"I know," she said. + +And then: "Have you got all your things?" + +"Somebody's got 'em." + +"I haven't given you anything. You must have my wrist-watch." + +She unstrapped the leather band and put it on him. + +"My wrist's a whopper." + +"So's mine. It'll just meet--at the last hole. It's phosphorous," she +said. "You can see the time by it in the dark." + +"I've nothing for _you_. Except--" he fumbled in his pockets--"I +say--here's the wedding-ring." + +They laughed. + +"What more could you want?" she said. + +He put it on her finger; she raised her face to him and he stooped and +kissed her. He held her for a minute in his arms. But it was not like +yesterday. + +Suddenly his face stiffened. "Tell them," he said, "that I'm going." + +The British were retreating from Mons. + +The German attack was not like the advance of an Army but like the +travelling of an earthquake, the bursting of a sea-wall. There was no +end to the grey battalions, no end to the German Army, no end to the +German people. And there was no news of British reinforcements, or +rumour of reinforcements. + +"They come on like waves. Like waves," said Dorothea, reading from the +papers. + +"I wouldn't read about it if I were you, darling," said Frances. + +"Why not? It isn't going to last long. We'll rally. See if we don't." + +Dorothea's clear, hard mind had gone under for the time, given way +before that inconceivable advance. She didn't believe in the retreat +from Mons. It couldn't go on. Reinforcements had been sent. + +Of course they had been sent. If Frank was ordered off at twelve hours' +notice that meant reinforcements, or there wouldn't be any sense in it. +They would stop the retreat. We were sitting here, safe; and the least +we could do for _them_ was to trust them, and not believe any tales of +their retreating. + +And all the time she wondered how news of him would come. By wire? By +letter? By telephone? She was glad that she hadn't got to wait at home, +listening for the clanging of the garden gate, the knock, the ringing +of the bell. + +She waited five days. And on the evening of the sixth day the message +came from his mother to her mother: "Tell your dear child for me that my +son was killed five days ago, in the retreat from Mons. And ask her to +come and see me; but not just yet." + +She had enclosed copies of the official telegram; and the letter from +his Colonel. + + * * * * * + +After Mons, the siege of Antwerp. The refugees poured into Cannon Street +Station. + +Dorothea tried hard to drown her grief in the grief of Belgium. But she +could not drown it. She could only poison it with thoughts that turned +it into something more terrible than grief. They came to her regularly, +beginning after midnight, when she lay in bed and should have slept, +worn out with her hard day's driving. + +She thought: "I could bear it if I hadn't wasted the time we might have +had together. All those years--like a fool--over that silly suffrage. + +"I could bear it if I hadn't been cruel to him. I talked to him like a +brute and an idiot. I told him he didn't care for freedom. And he's died +for it. He remembered that. It was one of the last things he remembered. +He said 'It's _your_ War--it's the biggest fight for freedom.' And he's +killed in it. + +"I could bear it if I'd given myself to him that night--even for one +night. + +"How do you know he'd have loathed it? I ought to have risked it. I was +a coward. He got nothing." + +His persistent image in her memory tortured her. It was an illusion that +prolonged her sense of his material presence, urging it towards a +contact that was never reached. Death had no power over this illusion. +She could not see Drayton's face, dead among the dead. + +Obsessed by her illusion she had lost her hold on the reality that they +had seen and felt together. All sense of it was gone, as if she had +dreamed it or made it up. + +Presently she would not have her work to keep her from thinking. The +Ambulance Corps was going out to Flanders at the end of September, and +it would take her car with it and a new driver. + +Frances's heart ached when she looked at her. + +"If I could only help you." + +"You can't, Mummy ducky," she would say. And she would get up and leave +the room where Frances was. Sometimes she would go to Veronica; but more +often she hid away somewhere by herself. + +Frances thought: "She is out of my reach. I can't get at her. She'll go +to anybody rather than to me. It used to be Rosalind. Now it's +Veronica." + +But Dorothy could not speak about Drayton to her mother. Only to +Veronica, trying to comfort her, she said, "I could bear it if he'd been +killed in an attack. But to go straight, like that, into the retreat. He +couldn't have had five hours' fighting. + +"And to be killed--Retreating. + +"He got nothing out of it but agony." + +Veronica said, "How do you know he got nothing out of it? You don't know +what he may have got in the last minute of it." + +"Ronny, I don't believe I should mind so much if I were going out to +Flanders--if there was the least little chance of a bullet getting me. +But I gave him my word I wouldn't go. + +"Do you think I'm bound by that--now?" + +"Now? You're more bound than ever, because he's more near you, more +alive." + +"You wouldn't say that if you loved him." + + * * * * * + +One day a package came to her from Eltham. Two notes were enclosed with +it, one from Drayton's mother and one from Drayton: + +"Frank said I was to send you this if he was killed. I think he must +have known that he would not come back." + + * * * * * + +"My Dear Dorothy,--You will think this is a very singular bequest. But I +want you to see that my memory is fairly good." + + * * * * * + +The very singular bequest was a Bible, with three cigarette-lighters for +markers, and a date on the fly-leaf: "July 5th, 1912." + +The cigarette-lighters referred her to Psalm cxliv., and Isaiah xxxv. +and xl., and pencil marks to the verses: + +"Blessed be the Lord my strength which teacheth my hands to war and my +fingers to fight."... + +"And an highway shall be there ... the redeemed shall walk there, and +the ransomed of the Lord shall return" ... + +... "They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall +mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they +shall walk and not faint." + +And their last hour came back to her with its mysterious, sweet and +powerful passion that had no fear in it; and she laid hold again on the +Reality they had seen and felt together. + +The moment passed. She wanted it to come back, for as long as it lasted +she was at peace. + +But it did not come back. Nothing came back but her anguish of remorse +for all that she had wasted. + + + +XXI + +After Drayton's death Frances and Anthony were sobered and had ceased to +feed on illusions. The Battle of the Marne was fought in vain for them. +They did not believe that it had saved Paris. + +Then came the fall of Antwerp and the Great Retreat. There was no more +Belgium. The fall of Paris and the taking of Calais were only a question +of time, of perhaps a very little time. Then there would be no more +France. They were face to face with the further possibility of there +being no more England. + +In those months of September and October Anthony and Frances were +changed utterly to themselves and to each other. If, before the War, +Frances had been asked whether she loved England, she would, after +careful consideration, have replied truthfully, "I like England. But I +dislike the English people. They are narrow and hypocritical and +conceited. They are snobbish; and I hate snobs." At the time of the Boer +War, beyond thinking that the British ought to win, and that they would +win, and feeling a little spurt as of personal satisfaction when they +did win, she had had no consciousness of her country whatsoever. As for +loving it, she loved her children and her husband, and she had a sort of +mild, cat-like affection for her garden and her tree of Heaven and her +house; but the idea of loving England was absurd; you might just as well +talk of loving the Archbishopric of Canterbury. She who once sat in +peace under the tree of Heaven with her _Times_ newspaper, and flicked +the affairs of the nation from her as less important than the stitching +on her baby's frock, now talked and thought and dreamed of nothing else. +She was sad, not because her son Nicholas's time of safety was dwindling +week by week, but because England was in danger; she was worried, not +because Lord Kitchener was practically asking her to give up her son +Michael, but because she had found that the race was to the swift and +the battle to the strong, and that she was classed with her incompetent +sisters as too old to wait on wounded soldiers. Every morning she left +her household to old Nanna's care and went down to the City with +Anthony, and worked till evening in a room behind his office, receiving, +packing, and sending off great cases of food and clothing to the +Belgian soldiers. + +Anthony was sad and worried, not because he had three sons, all well +under twenty-seven, but simply and solely because the Government +persisted in buying the wrong kind of timber--timber that swelled and +shrank again--for rifles and gun-carriages, and because officials +wouldn't listen to him when he tried to tell them what he knew about +timber, and because the head of a department had talked to _him_ about +private firms and profiteering. As if any man with three sons under +twenty-seven would want to make a profit out of the War; and as if they +couldn't cut down everybody's profits if they took the trouble. They +might cut his to the last cent so long as we had gun-carriages that +would carry guns and rifles that would shoot. He knew what he was +talking about and they didn't. + +And Frances said he was right. He always had been right. She who had +once been impatient over his invariable, irritating rightness, loved it +now. She thought and said that if there were a few men like Anthony at +the head of departments we should win the War. We were losing it for +want of precisely that specialized knowledge and that power of +organization in which Anthony excelled. She was proud of him, not +because he was her husband and the father of her children, but because +he was a man who could help England. They were both proud of Michael and +Nicholas and John, not because they were their sons, but because they +were men who could fight for England. + +They found that they loved England with a secret, religious, instinctive +love. Two feet of English earth, the ground that a man might stand and +fight for, became, mysteriously and magically, dearer to them than their +home. They loved England more than their own life or the lives of their +children. Long ago they had realized that fathers do not beget children +nor mothers bear them merely to gratify themselves. Now, in September +and October, they were realizing that children are not begotten and born +for their own profit and pleasure either. + +When they sat together after the day's work they found themselves saying +the most amazing things to each other. + +Anthony said, "Downham thinks John's heart is decidedly better. I +shouldn't wonder if he'd have to go." Almost as if the idea had been +pleasant to him. + +And Frances: "Well, I suppose if we had thirteen sons instead of three, +we ought to send them all." + +"Positively," said Anthony. "I believe I'd let Dorothy go out now if she +insisted." + +"Oh, no, I think we might be allowed to keep Dorothy." + +She pondered. "I suppose one will get used to it in time. I grudged +giving Nicky at first. I don't grudge him now. I believe if he went out +to-morrow, and was killed, I should only feel how splendid it was +of him." + +"I wish poor Dorothy could feel that way about Drayton." + +"She does--really. But that's different. Frank had to go. It was his +profession. Nicky's gone in of his own free will." + +He did not remind her that Frank's free will had counted in his choice +of a profession. + +"Once," said Frances, "volunteers didn't count. Now they count more than +the whole Army put together." + +They were silent, each thinking the same thing; each knowing that sooner +or later they must speak of it. + +Frances was the braver of the two. She spoke first. + +"There's Michael. I don't know what to make of him. He doesn't seem to +want to go." + +That was the vulnerable place; there they had ached unbearably in +secret. It was no use trying to hide it any longer. Something must be +done about Michael. + +"I wish you'd say something to him, Anthony." + +"I would if I were going myself. But how can I?" + +"When he knows that you'd have gone before any of them if you were young +enough." + +"I can't say anything. You'll have to." + +"No, Anthony. I can't ask him to go any more than you can. Nicky is the +only one of us who has any right to." + +"Or Dorothy. Dorothy'd be in the trenches now if she had her way." + +"I can't think how he can bear to look at Dorothy." + +But in the end she did say something. + +She went to him in his room upstairs where he worked now, hiding himself +away every evening out of their sight. "Almost," she thought, "as if he +were ashamed of himself." + +Her heart ached as she looked at him; at the fair, serious beauty of his +young face; at the thick masses of his hair that would not stay as they +were brushed back, but fell over his forehead; it was still yellow, and +shining as it shone when he was a little boy. + +He was writing. She could see the short, irregular lines of verse on the +white paper. He covered them with his hand as she came in lest she +should see them. That hurt her. + +"Michael," she said, "I wonder if you _ever_ realize that we are at +war." + +"The War isn't a positive obsession to me, if that's what you mean." + +"It isn't what I mean. Only--that when other people are doing so much-- + +"George Vereker enlisted yesterday." + +"I don't care what other people are doing. I never did. If George +Vereker chooses to enlist it is no reason why I should." + +"My darling Mick, I'm not so sure. Isn't it all the more reason, when so +much more has been done for you than was ever done for him?" + +"It's no use trying to get at me." + +"England's fighting for her life," said Frances. + +"So's Germany. + +"You see, I can't feel it like other people. George Vereker hates +Germany; I don't. I've lived there. I don't want to make dear old Frau +Henschel a widow, and stick a bayonet into Ludwig and Carl, and make +Hedwig and Löttchen cry." + +"I see. You'd rather Carl and Ludwig stuck bayonets into George and +Nicky, and that Ronny and Dorothy and Alice Lathom cried." + +"Bayonetting isn't my business." + +"Your own safety is. How can you bear to let other men fight for you?" + +"They're not fighting for _me_, Mother. You ask them if they are, and +see what they'll say to you. They're fighting for God knows what; but +they're no more fighting for me than they're fighting for Aunt +Emmeline." + +"They _are_ fighting for Aunt Emmeline. They're fighting for everything +that's weak and defenceless." + +"Well, then, they're not fighting for me. I'm not weak and defenceless," +said Michael. + +"All the more shame for you, then." + +He smiled, acknowledging her score. + +"You don't mean that, really, Mummy. You couldn't resist the opening for +a repartee. It was quite a nice one." + +"If," she said, "you were only _doing_ something. But you go on with +your own things as though nothing had happened." + +"I _am_ doing something. I'm keeping sane. And I'm keeping sanity alive +in other people." + +"Much you care for other people," said Frances as she left the room. + +But when she had shut the door on him her heart turned to him again. She +went down to Anthony where he waited for her in his room. + +"_Well?_" he said. + +"It's no use. He won't go." + +And Frances, quite suddenly and to her own surprise, burst into tears. + +He drew her to him, and she clung to him, sobbing softly. + +"My dear--my dear. You mustn't take it to heart like this. He's as +obstinate as the devil; but he'll come round." + +He pressed her tighter to him. He loved her in her unfamiliar weakness, +crying and clinging to him. + +"It's not that," she said, recovering herself with dignity. "I'm glad he +didn't give in. If he went out, and anything happened to him, I couldn't +bear to be the one who made him go." + +After all, she didn't love England more than Michael. + +They were silent. + +"We must leave it to his own feeling," she said presently. + +But Anthony's heart was hard against Michael. + +"He must know that _public_ feeling's pretty strong against him. To say +nothing of _my_ feeling and _your_ feeling." + + * * * * * + +He did know it. He knew that they were all against him; his father and +his mother, and John and Dorothy. Because he couldn't bear to look at +Dorothy, and couldn't bear Dorothy to look at him, he kept out of her +way as much as possible. + +As for public opinion, it had always been against him, and he against +it. + +But Anthony was mistaken when he thought that the pressure of these +antagonisms would move Michael an inch from the way he meant to go. +Rather, it drew out that resistance which Michael's mind had always +offered to the loathsome violences of the collective soul. From his very +first encounters with the collective soul and its emotions they had +seemed to Michael as dangerous as they were loathsome. Collective +emotion might be on the side of the archangels or on the side of devils +and of swine; its mass was what made it dangerous, a thing that +challenged the resistance of the private soul But in his worst dreams of +what it could do to him Michael had never imagined anything more +appalling than the collective patriotism of the British and their +Allies, this rushing together of the souls of four countries to make one +monstrous soul. + +And neither Anthony nor Frances realized that Michael, at this moment, +was afraid, not of the War so much as of the emotions of the War, the +awful, terrifying flood that carried him away from his real self and +from everything it cared for most. Patriotism was, no doubt, a fine +emotion; but the finer the thing was, the more it got you; it got you +and you were done for. He was determined that it shouldn't get him. They +couldn't see--and that was Michael's grievance--that his resistance was +his strength and not his weakness. + +Even Frances, who believed that people never changed, did not realize +that the grown-up Michael who didn't want to enlist was the same entity +as the little Michael who hadn't wanted to go to the party, who had +wanted to go on playing with himself, afraid of nothing so much as of +forgetting "pieces of himself that he wanted to remember." He was +Michael who refused to stay at school another term, and who talked about +shooting himself because he had to go with his class and do what the +other fellows were doing. He objected to being suddenly required to feel +patriotic because other people were feeling patriotic, to think that +Germany was in the wrong because other people thought that Germany was +in the wrong, to fight because other people were fighting. + +Why should he? He saw no earthly reason why. + +He said to himself that it was the blasted cheek of the assumption that +he resented. There was a peculiarly British hypocrisy and unfairness and +tyranny about it all. + +It wasn't--as they all seemed to think--that he was afraid to fight. He +had wanted to go and fight for Ireland. He would fight any day in a +cleaner cause. By a cleaner cause Michael meant a cause that had not +been messed about so much by other people. Other people had not put +pressure on him to fight for Ireland; in fact they had tried to stop +him. Michael was also aware that in the matter of Ireland his emotions, +though shared by considerable numbers of the Irish people, were not +shared by his family or by many people whom he knew; to all intents and +purposes he had them to himself. + +It was no use trying to explain all this to his father and mother, for +they wouldn't understand it. The more he explained the more he would +seem to them to be a shirker. + +He could see what they thought of him. He saw it in their stiff, +reticent faces, in his mother's strained smile, in his sister's silence +when he asked her what she had been doing all day. Their eyes--his +mother's and his sister's eyes--pursued him with the unspoken question: +"Why don't you go and get killed--for England--like other people?" + +Still, he could bear these things, for they were visible, palpable; he +knew where he was with them. What he could not stand was that empty +spiritual space between him and Nicky. That hurt him where he was most +vulnerable--in his imagination. + + * * * * * + +And again, his imagination healed the wound it made. + +It was all very well, but if you happened to have a religion, and your +religion was what mattered to you most; if you adored Beauty as the +supreme form of Life; if you cared for nothing else; if you lived, +impersonally, to make Beauty and to keep it alive; and for no other end, +how could you consent to take part in this bloody business? That would +be the last betrayal, the most cowardly surrender. + +And you were all the more bound to faithfulness if you were one of the +leaders of a forlorn hope, of the forlorn hope of all the world, of all +the ages, the forlorn hope of God himself. + + * * * * * + +For Michael, even more than Ellis, had given himself up as lost. + +And yet somehow they all felt curiously braced by the prospect. When the +young men met in Lawrence Stephen's house they discussed it with a calm, +high heroism. This was the supreme test: To go on, without pay, without +praise, without any sort of recognition. Any fool could fight; but, if +you were an artist, your honour bound you to ignore the material +contest, to refuse, even to your country, the surrender of the highest +that you knew. They believed with the utmost fervour and sincerity that +they defied Germany more effectually, because more spiritually, by going +on and producing fine things with imperturbability than if they went out +against the German Armies with bayonets and machine-guns. Moreover they +were restoring Beauty as fast as Germany destroyed it. + +They told each other these things very seriously and earnestly, on +Friday evenings as they lay about more or less at their ease (but rather +less than more) in Stephen's study. + +They had asked each other: "Are _you_ going to fight for your country?" + +And Ellis had said he was damned if he'd fight for his country; and +Mitchell had said he hadn't got a country, so there was no point in his +fighting, anyhow; and Monier-Owen that if you could show him a country +that cared for the arts before anything he'd fight for it; but that +England was very far from being that country. + +And Michael had sat silent, thinking the same thoughts. + +And Stephen had sat silent, thinking other thoughts, not listening to +what was said. + +And now people were whining about Louvain and Rheims Cathedral. Michael +said to himself that he could stand these massed war emotions if they +were sincere; but people whined about Louvain and Rheims Cathedral who +had never cared a damn about either before the War. + +Anthony looked up over the edge of his morning paper, inquired whether +Michael could defend the destruction of Louvain and Rheims Cathedral? + +Michael shrugged his shoulders. "Why bother," he said, "about Rheims +Cathedral and Louvain? From your point of view it's all right. If +Louvain and Rheims Cathedral get in the way of the enemy's artillery +they've got to go. They didn't happen to be in the way of ours, +that's all." + +Michael's mind was showing certain symptoms, significant of its malady. +He was inclined to disparage the military achievements of the Allies and +to justify the acts of Germany. + +"It's up to the French to defend Paris. And what have we got to do with +Alsace-Lorraine? As if every inteligent Frenchman didn't know that +Alsace-Lorraine is a sentimental stunt. No. I'm not pro-German. I simply +see things as they are." + +"I think," Frances would say placably, "we'd better not talk about the +War." + +He would remind them that it was not his subject. + +And John laughed at him. "Poor old Nick hates the War because it's +dished him. He knows his poems can't come out till it's over." + +As it happened, his poems came out that autumn. + +After all, the Germans had been held back from Paris. As Stephen pointed +out to him, the Battle of the Marne had saved Michael. In magnificent +defiance of the enemy, the "New Poems" of Michael Harrison, with +illustrations by Austin Mitchell, were announced as forthcoming in +October; and Morton Ellis's "Eccentricities," with illustrations by +Austin Mitchell, were to appear the same month. Even Wadham's poems +would come out some time, perhaps next spring. + +Stephen said the advertisements should be offered to the War Office as +posters, to strike terror into Germany and sustain the morale of the +Allied Armies. "If England could afford to publish Michael--" + +Michael's family made no comment on the appearance of his poems. The +book lay about in the same place on the drawing-room table for weeks. +When Nanna dusted she replaced it with religious care; none of his +people had so much as taken it up to glance inside it, or hold it in +their hands. It seemed to Michael that they were conscious of it all the +time, and that they turned their faces away from it pointedly. They +hated it. They hated him for having written it. + +He remembered that it had been different when his first book had come +out two years ago. They had read that; they had snatched at all the +reviews of it and read it again, trying to see what it was that they +had missed. + +They had taken each other aside, and it had been: + +"Anthony, do you understand Michael's poems?" + +"Dorothy, do you understand Michael's poems?" + +"Nicky, do you understand Michael's poems?" + +He remembered his mother's apology for not understanding them: "Darling, +I _do_ see that they're very beautiful." He remembered how he had wished +that they would give up the struggle and leave his poems alone. They +were not written for them. He had been amused and irritated when he had +seen his father holding the book doggedly in front of him, his poor old +hands twitching with embarrassment whenever he thought Michael was +looking at him. + +And now he, who had been so indifferent and so contemptuous, was +sensitive to the least quiver of his mother's upper lip. + +Veronica's were the only eyes that were kind to him; that did not hunt +him down with implacable suggestion and reminder. + +Veronica had been rejected too. She was not strong enough to nurse in +the hospitals. She was only strong enough to work from morning to night, +packing and carrying large, heavy parcels for the Belgian soldiers. She +wanted Michael to be sorry for her because she couldn't be a nurse. +Rosalind Jervis was a nurse. But he was not sorry. He said he would very +much rather she didn't do anything that Rosalind did. + +"So would Nicky," he said. + +And then: "Veronica, do _you_ think I ought to enlist?" + +The thought was beginning to obsess him. + +"No," she said; "you're different. + +"I know how you feel about it. Nicky's heart and soul are in the War. If +he's killed it can only kill his body. _Your_ soul isn't in it. It would +kill your soul." + +"It's killing it now, killing everything I care for." + +"Killing everything we all care for, except the things it can't kill." + +That was one Sunday evening in October. They were standing together on +the long terrace under the house wall. Before them, a little to the +right, on the edge of the lawn, the great ash-tree rose over the garden. +The curved and dipping branches swayed and swung in a low wind that +moved like quiet water. + +"Michael," she said, "do look what's happening to that tree." + +"I see," he said. + +It made him sad to look at the tree; it made him sad to look at +Veronica--because both the tree and Veronica were beautiful. + +"When I was a little girl I used to sit and look and look at that tree +till it changed and got all thin and queer and began to move towards me. + +"I never knew whether it had really happened or not; I don't know +now--or whether it was the tree or me. It was as if by looking and +looking you could make the tree more real and more alive." + +Michael remembered something. + +"Dorothy says you saw Ferdie the night he died." + +"So I did. But that's not the same thing. I didn't have to look and +look. I just saw him. I _sort_ of saw Frank that last night--when the +call came--only sort of--but I knew he was going to be killed. + +"I didn't see him nearly so distinctly as I saw Nicky-" + +"Nicky? You didn't see him--as you saw Ferdie?" + +"No, no, no! it was ages ago--in Germany--before he married. I saw him +with Desmond." + +"Have you ever seen me?" + +"Not yet. That's because you don't want me as they did." + +"Don't I! Don't I!" + +And she said again: "Not yet." + +Nicky had had leave for Christmas. He had come and gone. + +Frances and Anthony were depressed; they were beginning to be +frightened. + +For Nicky had finished his training. He might be sent out any day. + +Nicky had had some moments of depression. Nothing had been heard of the +Moving Fortress. Again, the War Office had given no sign of having +received it. It was hard luck, he said, on Drayton. + +And John was depressed after he had gone. + +"They'd much better have taken me," he said. + +"What's the good of sending the best brains in the Army to get pounded? +There's Drayton. He ought to have been in the Ordnance. He's killed. + +"And here's Nicky. Nicky ought to be in the engineers or the gunners or +the Royal Flying Corps; but he's got to stand in the trenches and +be pounded. + +"Lot they care about anybody's brains. Drayton could have told Kitchener +that we can't win this war without high-explosive shells. So +could Nicky. + +"You bet they've stuck all those plans and models in the sanitary +dust-bin behind the War Office back door. It's enough to make Nicky blow +his brains out." + +"Nicky doesn't care, really," Veronica said. "He just leaves things--and +goes on." + +That night, after the others had gone to bed, Michael stayed behind with +his father. + +"It must look to you," he said, "as if I ought to have gone instead of +Nicky." + +"I don't say so, Michael. And I'm sure Nicky wouldn't." + +"No, but you both think it. You see, if I went I shouldn't be any good +at it. Not the same good as Nicky. He wants to go and I don't. Can't you +see it's different?" + +"Yes," said Anthony, "I see. I've seen it for some time." + +And Michael remembered the night in August when his brother came to him +in his room. + + * * * * * + +Beauty--the Forlorn Hope of God--if he cared for it supremely, why was +he pursued and tormented by the thought of the space between him +and Nicky? + + + +XXII + +Michael had gone to Stephen's house. + +He was no longer at his ease there. It seemed to him that Lawrence's +eyes followed him too; not with hatred, but with a curious +meditative wonder. + +To-night Stephen said to him, "Did you know that Réveillaud's killed?" + +"Killed? Killed? I didn't even know he was fighting." + +Lawrence laughed. "What did you suppose he was doing?" + +"No--but how?" + +"Out with the patrol and shot down. There you are--" + +He shoved the _Times_ to him, pointing to the extract from _Le Matin_: +"It is with regret that we record the death of M. Jules Réveillaud, the +brilliant young poet and critic--" + +Michael stared at the first three lines; something in his mind prevented +him from going on to the rest, as if he did not care to read about +Réveillaud and know how he died. + +"It is with regret that we record the death. It is with regret that we +record--with regret--" + +Then he read on, slowly and carefully, to the end. It was a long +paragraph. + +"To think," he said at last, "that this revolting thing should have +happened to him." + +"His death?" + +"No--_this_. The _Matin_ never mentioned Réveillaud before. None of the +big papers, none of the big reviews noticed his existence except to +sneer at him. He goes out and gets killed like any little bourgeois, and +the swine plaster him all over with their filthy praise. He'd rather +they'd spat on him." + +He meditated fiercely. "Well--he couldn't help it. He was conscripted." + +"You think he wouldn't have gone of his own accord?" + +"I'm certain he wouldn't." + +"And I'm certain he would." + +"I wish to God we'd got conscription here. I'd rather the Government +commandeered my body than stand this everlasting interference with +my soul." + +"Then," said Lawrence, "you'll not be surprised at my enlisting." + +"You're not--" + +"I am. I'd have been in the first week if I'd known what to do about +Vera." + +"But--it's--it's not sane." + +"Perhaps not. But it's Irish." + +"Irish? I can understand ordinary Irishmen rushing into a European row +for the row's sake, just because they haven't got a civil war to mess +about in. But you--of all Irishmen--why on earth should _you_ be in it?" + +"Because I want to be in it." + +"I thought," said Michael, "you were to have been a thorn in England's +side?" + +"So I was. So I am. But not at this minute. My grandmother was a hard +Ulster woman and I hated her. But I wouldn't be a thorn in my +grandmother's side if the old lady was assaulted by a brutal voluptuary, +and I saw her down and fighting for her honour. + +"I've been a thorn in England's side all my life. But it's nothing to +the thorn I'll be if I'm killed fighting for her." + +"Why--why--if you want to fight in the civil war afterwards?" + +"Why? Because I'm one of the few Irishmen who can reason straight. I was +going into the civil war last year because it was a fight for freedom. +I'm going into this War this year because it's a bigger fight for a +bigger freedom. + +"You can't have a free Ireland without a free England, any more than you +can have religious liberty without political liberty. If the Orangemen +understood anything at all about it they'd see it was the Nationalists +and the Sinn Feiners that'll help them to put down Catholicism +in Ireland." + +"You think it matters to Ireland whether Germany licks us or we lick +Germany?" + +"I think it matters to the whole world." + +"What's changed you?" said Michael. + +He was angry with Lawrence. He thought: "He hasn't any excuse for +failing us. He hasn't been conscripted." + +"Nothing's changed me. But supposing it didn't matter to the whole +world, or even to Europe, and supposing the Allies were beaten in the +end, you and I shouldn't be beaten, once we'd stripped ourselves, +stripped our souls clean, and gone in. + +"Victory, Michael--victory is a state of mind." + + * * * * * + +The opportunist had seen his supreme opportunity. + +He would have snatched at it in the first week of the War, as he had +said, but that Vera had made it hard for him. She was not making it easy +now. The dull, dark moth's wings of her eyes hovered about him, +fluttering with anxiety. + +When she heard that he was going to enlist she sent for Veronica. + +Veronica said, "You must let him go." + +"I can't let him go. And why should I? He'll do no good. He's over age. +He's no more fit than I am." + +"You'll have to, sooner or later." + +"Later, then. Not one minute before I must. If they want him let them +come and take him." + +"It won't hurt so much if you let him go, gently, now. He'll tear at you +if you keep him." + +"He has torn at me. He tears at me every day. I don't mind his tearing. +I mind his going--going and getting killed, wounded, paralysed, broken +to pieces." + +"You'll mind his hating you. You'll mind that awfully." + +"I shan't. He's hated me before. He went away and left me once. But he +came back. He can't really do without me." + +"You don't know how he'll hate you if you come between him and what he +wants most." + +"_I_ used to be what he wanted most." + +"Well--it's his honour now." + +"That's what they all say, Michael and Anthony, and Dorothy. They're men +and they don't know. Dorothy's more a man than a woman. + +"But you're different. I thought you might help me to keep him--they say +you've got some tremendous secret. And this is the way you go on!" + +"I wouldn't help you to keep him if I could. I wouldn't have kept Nicky +for all the world. Aunt Frances wouldn't have kept him. She wants +Michael to go." + +"She doesn't. If she says she does she lies. All the women are lying. +Either they don't care--they're just _lumps_, with no hearts and no +nerves in them--or they lie. + +"It's this rotten pose of patriotism. They get it from each other, +like--like a skin disease. No wonder it makes Michael sick." + +"Men going out--thousands and thousands and thousands--to be cut about +and blown to bits, and their women safe at home, snuffling and +sentimentalizing-- + +"Lying--lying--lying." + +"Who wouldn't? Who wouldn't tell one big, thumping, sacred lie, if it +sends them off happy?" + +"But we're not lying. It's the most real thing that ever happened to us. +I'm glad Nicky's going. I shall be glad all my life." + +"It comes easy to you. You're a child. You've never grown up. You were a +miserable little mummy when you were born. And now you look as if every +drop of blood was drained out of your body in your teens. If that's +your tremendous secret you can keep it yourself. It seems to be all +you've got." + +"If it wasn't for Aunt Frances and Uncle Anthony it _would_ have been +all I've got." + +Vera looked at her daughter and saw her for the first time as she really +was. The child was not a child any more. She was a woman, astonishingly +and dangerously mature. Veronica's sorrowful, lucid eyes took her in; +they neither weighed her nor measured her, but judged her, off-hand with +perfect accuracy. + +"Poor little Ronny. I've been a beastly mother to you. Still, you can +thank my beastliness for Aunt Frances and Uncle Anthony." + +Veronica thought: "How funny she is about it!" She said, "It's your +beastliness to poor Larry that I mind. You know what you're keeping +him for." + + * * * * * + +She knew; and Lawrence knew. + +That night he told her that if he hadn't wanted to enlist he'd be driven +to it to get away from her. + +And she was frightened and held her tongue. + +Then she got desperate. She did things. She intrigued behind his back to +keep him; and he found her out. + +He came to her, furious. + +"You needn't lie about it," he said. "I know what you've done. You've +been writing letters and getting at people. You've told the truth about +my age and you've lied about my health. You've even gone round cadging +for jobs for me in the Red Cross and the Press Bureau and the +Intelligence Department, and God only knows whether I'm supposed to have +put you up to it." + +"I took care of that, Larry." + +"You? You'd no right to interfere with my affairs." + +"Hadn't I? Not after living with you seven years?" + +"If you'd lived with me seven centuries you'd have had no right to try +to keep a man back from the Army." + +"I'm trying to keep a man's brain for my country." + +"You lie. It's my body you're trying to keep for yourself. As you did +when I was going to Ireland." + +"Oh, then--I tried to stop you from being a traitor to England. They'd +have hanged you, my dear, for that." + +"Traitor? It's women like you that are the traitors. My God, if there +was a Government in this country that could govern, you'd be strung up +in a row, all of you, and hanged." + +"No wonder you think you're cut out for a soldier. You're cruel enough." + +"_You're_ cruel. I'd rather be hanged than live with you a day longer +after what you've done. A Frenchman shot his _wife_ the other day for +less than that." + +"What was 'less than that'?" she said. + +"She crawled after him to the camp, like a bitch. + +"He sent her away and she came again and again. He _had_ to shoot her." + +"Was there nothing to be said for her?" + +"There was. She knew it was a big risk and she took it. _You_ knew you +were safe while you slimed my honour." + +"She loved him, and he shot her, and you think that's a fine thing. +_How_ she must have loved him!" + +"Men don't want to be loved that way. That's the mistake you women will +make." + +"It's the way you've taught us. I should like to know what other way you +ever want us to love you?" + +"The way Veronica loves Nicky, and Dorothy loved Drayton and Frances +loves Anthony." + +"Dorothy? She ruined Drayton's life." + +"Men's lives aren't ruined that way. And not all women's." + +"Well, anyhow, if she'd loved him she'd have married him. And Frances +loves her children better than Anthony, and Anthony knows it." + +"Veronica, then." + +"Veronica doesn't know what passion is. The poor child's anæmic." + +"Another mistake. Veronica, and 'children' like Veronica have more +passion in one eyelash than you have in your whole body." + +"It's a pity," she said, "you can't have Veronica and her eyelashes +instead of me. She's young and she's pretty." + +He sighed with pain as her nerves lashed into his. + +"That's what it all amounts to--your wanting to get out to the Front. +It's what's the matter with half the men who go there and pose as +heroes. They want to get rid of the wives--and mistresses--they're tired +of because the poor things aren't young or pretty any longer." + +She dropped into the mourning voice that made him mad with her. "I'm +old--old--old. And the War's making me older every day, and uglier. And +I'm not married to you. Talk of keeping you! How _can_ I keep you when +I'm old and ugly?" + +He looked at her and smiled with a hard pity. Compunction always worked +in him at the sight of her haggard face, glazed and stained with crying. + +"That's how--by getting older. + +"I've never tired of you. You're more to me now than you were when I +first knew you. It's when I see you looking old that I'm sure I +love you." + +She smiled, too, in her sad sexual wisdom. + +"There may be women who'd believe you, Larry, or who'd say they believe +you; but not me." + +"It's the truth," he said. "If you were young and if you were married to +me I should have enlisted months ago. + +"Can't you see it's not you, it's this life we lead that I'm sick and +tired of? I tell you I'd rather be hanged than go on with it. I'd rather +be a prisoner in Germany than shut up in this house of yours." + +"Poor little house. You used to like it. What's wrong with it now?" + +"Everything. Those damned lime-trees all round it. And that damned white +wall round the lime-trees. Shutting me in. + +"And those curtains in your bed-room. Shutting me in. + +"And your mind, trying to shut mine in. + +"I come into this room and I find Phyllis Desmond in it and Orde-Jones, +drinking tea and talking. I go upstairs for peace, and Michael and Ellis +are sitting there--talking; trying to persuade themselves that funk's +the divinest thing in God's universe. + +"And over there's the one thing I've been looking for all my life--the +one thing I've cared for. And you're keeping me from it." + +They left it. But it began all over again the next day and the next. And +Lawrence went on growing his moustache and trying to train it upwards in +the way she hated. + + * * * * * + +One evening, towards dinner-time he turned up in khaki, the moustache +stiff on his long upper lip, his lopping hair clipped. He was another +man, a strange man, and she was not sure whether she hated him or not. + +But she dried her eyes and dressed her hair, and put on her best gown to +do honour to his khaki. + +She said, "It'll be like living with another man." + +"You won't have very long to live with him," said Lawrence. + +And even then, sombrely, under the shadow of his destiny, her passion +for him revived; his very strangeness quickened it to violence, to +perversity. + +And in the morning the Army took him from her; it held him out of her +reach. He refused to let her go with him to the place where he was +stationed. + +"What would you do," she said, "if I followed you? Shoot me?" + +"I might shoot _myself_. Anyhow, you'd never see me or hear from me +again." + + * * * * * + +He went out to France three weeks before Nicholas. + +She had worn herself out with wondering when he would be sent, till +she, too, was in a hurry for him to go and end it. Now that he had gone +she felt nothing but a clean and sane relief that was a sort of peace. +She told herself that she would rather he were killed soon than that she +should be tortured any longer with suspense. + +"If I saw his name in the lists this morning I shouldn't mind. That +would end it." + +And she sent her servant to the stationer's to stop the papers for fear +lest she should see his name in the lists. + +But Lawrence spared her. He was wounded in his first engagement, and +died of his wounds in a hospital at Dunkirk. + +The Red Cross woman who nursed him wrote to Vera an hour before he died. +She gave details and a message. + + * * * * * + +"7.30. I'm writing now from his dictation. He says you're to forgive him +and not to be too sorry, because it was what he thought it would be (he +means the fighting) only much more so--all except this last bit. + +"He wants you to tell Michael and Dicky?--Nicky?--that. He says: 'It's +odd I should be first when he got the start of me.' + +"(I think he means you're to forgive him for leaving you to go to the +War.)" + + * * * * * + +"8.30. It is all over. + +"He was too weak to say anything more. But he sent you his love." + + * * * * * + +Vera said to herself: "He didn't. She made that up." + +She hated the Red Cross woman who had been with Lawrence and had seen so +much; who had dared to tell her what he meant and to make up messages. + + + +XXIII + +Nicholas had applied for a commission, and he had got it, and Frances +was glad. + +She had been proud of him because he had chosen the ranks instead of the +Officers' Training Corps; but she persisted in the belief that, when it +came to the trenches, second lieutenants stood a better chance. "For +goodness' sake," Nicholas had said, "don't tell her that they're over +the parapet first." + +That was in December. In February he got a week's leave--sudden, +unforeseen and special leave. It had to be broken to her this time that +leave as special as that meant war-leave. + +She said, "Well, if it does, I shall have him for six whole days." She +had learned how to handle time, how to prolong the present, drawing it +out minute by minute; thus her happiness, stretched to the snapping +point, vibrated. + +She had a sense of its vibration now, as she looked at Nicholas. It was +the evening of the day he had come home, and they were all in the +drawing-room together. He was standing before her, straight and tall, on +the hearthrug, where he had lifted the Persian cat, Timmy, out of his +sleep and was holding him against his breast. Timmy spread himself +there, softly and heavily, hanging on to Nicky's shoulder by his claws; +he butted Nicky's chin with his head, purring. + +"I don't know how I'm to tear myself away from Timmy. I should like to +wear him alive as a waistcoat. Or hanging on my shoulder like a cape, +with his tail curled tight round my neck. He'd look uncommonly _chic_ +with all his khaki patches." + +"Why don't you take him with you?" Anthony said. + +"'Cos he's Ronny's cat." + +"He isn't. I've given him to you," Veronica said. + +"When?" + +"Now, this minute. To sleep on your feet and keep you warm." + +Frances listened and thought: "What children--what babies they are, +after all." If only this minute could be stretched out farther. + +"I mustn't," Nicky said. "I should spend hours in dalliance; and if a +shell got him it would ruin my morale." + +Timmy, unhooked from Nicky's shoulder, lay limp in his arms. He lay on +his back, in ecstasy, his legs apart, showing the soft, cream-white fur +of his stomach. Nicky rubbed his face against the soft, cream-white fur. + +"I say, what a heavenly death it would be to die--smothered in Timmies." + +"Nicky, you're a beastly sensualist. That's what's the matter with you," +John said. And they all laughed. + +The minute broke, stretched to its furthest. + + * * * * * + +Frances was making plans now for Nicky's week. There were things they +could do, plays they could see, places they could go to. Anthony would +let them have the big car as much as they wanted. For you could stretch +time out by filling it; you could multiply the hours by what they held. + +"Ronny and I are going to get married to-morrow," Nicky said. "We +settled it that we would at once, if I got war-leave. It's the best +thing to do." + +"Of course," Frances said, "it's the best thing to do." + +But she had not allowed for it, nor for the pain it gave her. That pain +shocked her. It was awful to think that, after all her surrenders, +Nicky's happiness could give her pain. It meant that she had never let +go her secret hold. She had been a hypocrite to herself. + +Nicky was talking on about it, excitedly, as he used to talk on about +his pleasures when he was a child. + +If Dad'll let us have the racing car, we'll go down to Morfe. We can do +it in a day." + +"My dear boy," Anthony said, "don't you know I've lent the house to the +Red Cross, and let the shooting?" + +"I don't care. There's the little house in the village we can have. And +Harker and his wife can look after us." + +"Harker gone to the War, and his wife's looking after his brother's +children somewhere. And I've put two Belgian refugees into it." + +"_They_ can look after us," said Nicky. "We'll stay three days, run +back, and have one day at home before I sail." + +Frances gave up her play with time. She was beaten. + +And still she thought: "At least I shall have him one whole day." + +And then she looked across the room to Michael, as if Michael's face +had signalled to her. His clear, sun-burnt skin showed blotches of white +where the blood had left it. A light sweat was on his forehead. When +their eyes met, he shifted his position to give himself an appearance +of ease. + +Michael had not reckoned on his brother's marriage, either. It was when +he asked himself: "On what, then, _had_ he been reckoning?" that the +sweat broke out on his forehead. + +He had not reckoned on anything. But the sudden realization of what he +might have reckoned on made him sick. He couldn't bear to think of Ronny +married. And yet again, he couldn't bear to think of Nicky not marrying +her. If he had had a hold on her he would have let her go. In this he +knew himself to be sincere. He had had no hold on her, and to talk about +letting her go was idiotic; still, there was a violent pursuit and +possession by the mind--and Michael's mind was innocent of jealousy, +that psychic assault and outrage on the woman he loved. His spiritual +surrender of her was so perfect that his very imagination gave her up +to Nicky. + +He was glad that they were going to be married tomorrow. Nothing could +take their three days from them, even when the War had done its worst. + +And then, with his mother's eyes on him, he thought: "Does she think I +was reckoning on that?" + + * * * * * + +Nicholas and Veronica were married the next morning at Hampstead Town +Hall, before the Registrar. + +They spent the rest of the day in Anthony's racing car, defying and +circumventing time and space and the police, tearing, Nicky said, whole +handfuls out of eternity by sheer speed. At intervals, with a clear run +before him, he let out the racing car to its top speed on the Great +North Road. It snorted and purred and throbbed like some immense, +nervous animal, but lightly and purely as if all its weight were purged +from it by speed. It flew up and down the hills of Hertfordshire and +Buckinghamshire and out on to the flat country round Peterborough and +Grantham, a country of silver green and emerald green grass and purple +fallow land and bright red houses; and so on to the great plain of York, +and past Reyburn up towards the bare hill country netted with grey +stone walls. + +Nicholas slowed the car down for the winding of the road. + +It went now between long straight ramparts of hills that showed enormous +and dark against a sky cleared to twilight by the unrisen moon. Other +hills, round-topped, darker still and more enormous, stood piled up in +front of them, blocking the head of Rathdale. + +Then the road went straight, and Nicholas was reckless. It was as if, +ultimately, they must charge into the centre of that incredibly high, +immense obstruction. They were thrilled, mysteriously, as before the +image of monstrous and omnipotent disaster. Then the dale widened; it +made way for them and saved them. + +The lights of Morfe on its high platform made the pattern of a coronet +and pendants on the darkness; the small, scattered lights of the village +below, the village they were making for, showed as if dropped out of the +pattern on the hill. + +One larger light burned in the room that was their marriage chamber. +Jean and Suzanne, the refugees, stood in the white porch to receive +them, holding the lanterns that were their marriage torches. The old +woman held her light low down, lighting the flagstone of the threshold. +The old man lifted his high, showing the lintel of the door. It was so +low that Nicholas had to stoop to go in. + + * * * * * + +In the morning they read the date cut in the wall above the porch: 1665. + +The house was old and bent and grey. Its windows were narrow slits in +the stone mullions. It crouched under the dipping boughs of the ash-tree +that sheltered it. Inside there was just room for Veronica to stand up. +Nicholas had to stoop or knock his head against the beams. It had only +four rooms, two for Nicholas and Veronica, and two for Jean and Suzanne. +And it was rather dark. + +But it pleased them. They said it was their apple-tree-house grown up +because they were grown up, and keeping strict proportions. You had to +crawl into it, and you were only really comfortable sitting or lying +down. So they sat outside it, watching old Suzanne through the window as +she moved about the house place, cooking Belgian food for them, and old +Jean as he worked in the garden. + +Veronica loved Jean and Suzanne. She had found out all about them the +first morning. + +"Only think, Nicky. They're from Termonde, and their house was burnt +behind them as they left it. They saw horrors, and their son was killed +in the War. + +"Yet they're happy and at peace. Almost as if they'd forgotten. He'll +plant flowers in his garden." + +"They're old, Ronny. And perhaps they were tired already when it +happened." + +"Yes, that must be it. They're old and tired." + + * * * * * + +And now it was the last adventure of their last day. They were walking +on the slope of Renton Moor that looks over Rathdale towards Greffington +Edge. The light from the west poured itself in vivid green down the +valley below them, broke itself into purple on Karva Hill to the north +above Morfe, and was beaten back in subtle blue and violet from the +stone rampart of the Edge. + +Nicholas had been developing, in fancy, the strategic resources of the +country. Guns on Renton Moor, guns along Greffington Edge, on Sarrack +Moor. The raking lines of the hills were straight as if they had been +measured with a ruler and then planed. + +"Ronny," he said at last, "we've licked 'em in the first round, you and +I. The beastly Boche can't do us out of these three days." + +"No. We've been absolutely happy. And we'll never forget it. Never." + +"Perhaps it was a bit rough on Dad and Mummy, our carting ourselves up +here, away from them. But, you see, they don't really mind. They're +feeling about it now just as we feel about it. I knew they would." + +There had been a letter from Frances saying she was glad they'd gone. +She was so happy thinking how happy they were. + +"They're angels, Nicky." + +"Aren't they? Simply angels. That's the rotten part of it. I wish-- + +"I wish I could tell them what I think of them. But you can't, somehow. +It sticks in your throat, that sort of thing." + +"You needn't," she said; "they know all right." + +She thought: "This is what he wants me to tell them about--afterwards." + +"Yes, but--I must have hurt them--hurt them horribly--lots of times. I +wish I hadn't. + +"But" he went on, "they're funny, you know. Dad actually thought it +idiotic of us to do this. He said it would only make it harder for us +when I had to go. They don't see that it's just piling it on--going from +one jolly adventure to another. + +"I'm afraid, though, what he really meant was it was hard on you; +because the rest of it's all my show." + +"But it isn't all your show, Nicky darling. It's mine, and it's +theirs--because we haven't grudged you your adventure." + +"That's exactly how I want you to feel about it." + +"And they're assuming that I shan't come back. Which, if you come to +think of it, is pretty big cheek. They talk, and they think, as though +nobody ever got through. Whereas I've every intention of getting through +and of coming back. I'm the sort of chap who does get through, who does +come back." + +"And even if I wasn't, if they studied statistics they'd see that it's a +thousand chances to one against the Boches getting me--just me out of +all the other chaps. As if I was so jolly important. + +"No; don't interrupt. Let's get this thing straight while we can. +Supposing--just supposing I didn't get through--didn't come +back--supposing I was unlike myself and got killed, I want you to think +of _that_, not as a clumsy accident, but just another awfully +interesting thing I'd done. + +"Because, you see, you might be going to have a baby; and if you took +the thing as a shock instead of--of what it probably really is, and went +and got cut up about it, you might start the little beggar with a sort +of fit, and shake its little nerves up, so that it would be jumpy +all its life. + +"It ought," said Nicky, "to sit in its little house all quiet and comfy +till it's time for it to come out." + +He was struck with a sudden, poignant realization of what might be, what +probably would be, what ought to be, what he had wanted more than +anything, next to Veronica. + +"It shall, Nicky, it shall be quiet and comfy." + +"If _that_ came off all right," he said, "it would make it up to Mother +no end." + +"It wouldn't make it up to me." + +"You don't know what it would do," he said. + +She thought: "I don't want it. I don't want anything but you." + +"That's why," he went on, "I'm giving Don as the next of kin--the one +they'll wire to; because it won't take him that way; it'll only make him +madder to get out and do for them. I'm afraid of you or Mummy or Dad, or +Michael being told first." + +"It doesn't matter a bit who's _told_ first. I shall _know_ first," she +said. "And you needn't be afraid. It won't kill either me or the baby. +If a shock could kill me I should have died long ago." + +"When?" + +"When you went to Desmond. Then, when I thought I couldn't bear it any +longer, something happened." + +"What?" + +"I don't know. I don't know what it _is_ now; I only know what it does. +It always happens--always--when you want it awfully. And when you're +quiet and give yourself up to it." + +"It'll happen again." + +He listened, frowning a little, not quite at ease, not quite interested; +puzzled, as if he had lost her trail; put off, as if something had come +between him and her. + +"You can make it happen to other people," she was saying; "so that when +things get too awful they can bear them. I wanted it to happen to +Dorothy when she was in prison, and it did. She said she was absolutely +happy there; and that all sorts of queer things came to her. And, Nicky, +they were the same queer things that came to me. It was like something +getting through to her." + +"I say--did you ever do it to me?" + +"Only once, when you wanted it awfully." + +"When? When?" + +Now he was interested; he was intrigued; he was on her trail. + +"When Desmond did--that awful thing. I wanted you to see that it didn't +matter, it wasn't the end." + +"But that's just what I did see, what I kept on telling myself. It looks +as if it worked, then?" + +"It doesn't always. It comes and goes. But I think with _you_ it would +always come; because you're more _me_ than other people; I mean I care +more for you." + +She closed and clinched it. "That's why you're not to bother about me, +Nicky. If _the_ most awful thing happened, and you didn't come back, It +would come." + +"I wish I knew what It was," he said. + +"I don't know what it is. But it's so real that I think it's God." + +"That's why _they're_ so magnificently brave--Dorothy and Aunt Frances +and all of them. They don't believe in it; they don't know it's there; +even Michael doesn't know it's there--yet; and still they go on bearing +and bearing; and they were glad to give you up." + +"I know," he said; "lots of people _say_ they're glad, but they really +_are_ glad." + +He meditated. + +"There's one thing. I can't think what you do, unless it's praying or +something; and if you're going to turn it on to me, Ronny, I wish you'd +be careful; because it seems to me that if there's anything in it at +all, there might be hitches. I mean to say, you might work it just +enough to keep me from being killed but not enough to keep my legs from +being blown off. Or the Boches might get me fair enough and you might +bring me back, all paralysed and idiotic. + +"That's what I should funk. I should funk it most damnably, if I thought +about it. Luckily one doesn't think." + +"But, Nicky, I shouldn't try to keep you back then any more than I tried +before." + +"You wouldn't? Honour bright?" + +"Of course I wouldn't. It wouldn't be playing the game. To begin with, I +won't believe that you're not going to get through. + +"But if you didn't--if you didn't come back--I still wouldn't believe +you'd gone. I should say, 'He hasn't cared. He's gone on to something +else. It doesn't end him.'" + +He was silent. The long rampart of the hill, as he stared at it, made a +pattern on his mind; a pattern that he paid no attention to. + +Veronica followed the direction of his eyes. "Do you mind talking about +it?" she said. + +"Me? Rather not. It sort of interests me. I don't know whether I believe +in your thing or not; but I've always had that feeling, that you go on. +You don't stop; you can't stop. That's why I don't care. They used to +think I was trying to be funny when I said I didn't care. But I really +didn't. Things, most things, don't much matter, because there's always +something else. You go on to it. + +"I care for _you_. _You_ matter most awfully; and my people; but most of +all you. You always have mattered to me more than anything, since the +first time I heard you calling out to me to come and sit on your bed +because you were frightened. You always will matter. + +"But Desmond didn't a little bit. You need'nt have tried to make me +_think_ she didn't. She really didn't. I only married her because she +was going to have a baby. And _that_ was because I remembered you and +the rotten time you'd had. I believe that would have kept me straight +with women if nothing else did. + +"Of course I was an idiot about it. I didn't think of marrying you till +Vera told me I ought to have waited. Then it was too late. + +"That's why I want you most awfully to have a baby." + +"Yes, Nicky. + +"I'll tell you what I'm going to do when I know it's coming. The cottage +belongs to Uncle Anthony, doesn't it?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, I love it. Do you think he'd let me live in it?" + +"I think he'd give it to you if you asked him." + +"For my very own. Like the apple-tree house. Very well, he'll give it to +me--I mean to both of us--and I shall come up here where it's all quiet +and you'd never know there was a war at all--even the Belgians have +forgotten it. And I shall sit out here and look at that hill, because +it's straight and beautiful. I won't--I simply won't think of anything +that isn't straight and beautiful. And I shall get strong. Then the baby +will be straight and beautiful and strong, too. + +"I shall try--I shall try hard, Nicky--to make him like you." + + * * * * * + +Frances's one Day was not a success. It was taken up with little things +that had to be done for Nicky. Always they seemed, he and she, to be on +the edge of something great, something satisfying and revealing. It was +to come in a look or a word; and both would remember it afterwards +for ever. + +In the evening Grannie, and Auntie Louie, and Auntie Emmeline, and +Auntie Edie, and Uncle Morrie, and Uncle Bartie came up to say good-bye. +And in the morning Nicholas went off to France, excited and happy, as he +had gone off on his wedding journey. And between Frances and her son the +great thing remained unsaid. + +Time itself was broken. All her minutes were scattered like fine sand. + + + _February 27th, 1915._ + B.E.F., FRANCE. + +Dearest Mother and Dad,--I simply don't know how to thank you all for +the fur coat. It's pronounced the rippingest, by a long way, that's been +seen in these trenches. Did Ronny really choose it because it "looked as +if it had been made out of Timmy's tummy?" It makes me feel as if I +_was_ Timmy. Timmy on his hind legs, rampant, clawing at the Boches. +Just think of the effect if he got up over the parapet! + +The other things came all right, too, thanks. When you can't think what +else to send let Nanna make another cake. And those tubes of chutney are +a good idea. + +No; it's no earthly use worrying about Michael. If there was no English +and no Allies and no Enthusiasm, and he had this War all to himself, you +simply couldn't keep him out of it. I believe if old Mick could send +himself out by himself against the whole German Army he'd manage to put +in some first rate fancy work in the second or two before they got him. +He'd be quite capable of going off and doing grisly things that would +make me faint with funk, if he was by himself, with nothing but the eye +of God to look at him. And _then_ he'd rather God wasn't there. He +always _was_ afraid of having a crowd with him. + +The pity is he's wasting time and missing such a lot. If I were you two, +I should bank on Don. He's the sensiblest of us, though he is +the youngest. + +And don't worry about me. Do remember that even in the thickest curtain +fire there _are_ holes; there are more holes than there is stuff; and +the chances are I shall be where a hole is. + +Another thing, Don's shell, the shell you see making straight for you +like an express train, isn't likely to be the shell that's going to get +you; so that if you're hit you don't feel that pang of personal +resentment which must be the worst part of the business. Bits of shells +that have exploded I rank with bullets which we knew all about before +and were prepared for. Really, if you're planted out in the open, the +peculiar awfulness of big shell-fire--what is it more than the peculiar +awfulness of being run over by express trains let loose about the sky? +Tell Don that when shrapnel empties itself over your head like an old +tin pail, you might feel injured, but the big shell has a most disarming +air of not being able to help itself, of not looking for anybody in +particular. It's so innocent of personal malice that I'd rather have it +any day than fat German fingers squeezing my windpipe. + +That's an answer to his question. + +And Dorothy wanted to know what it feels like going into action. +Well--there's a lot of it that perhaps she wouldn't believe in if I told +her--it's the sort of thing she never has believed; but Stephen was +absolutely right. You aren't sold. It's more than anything you could +have imagined. I'm not speaking only for myself. + +There's just one beastly sensation when you're half way between your +parapet and theirs--other fellows say they've felt it too--when you're +afraid it (the feeling) should fizzle out before you get there. But it +doesn't. It grows more and more so, simply swinging you on to them, and +that swing makes up for all the rotten times put together. You needn't +be sorry for us. It's waste of pity. + +I know Don and Dorothy and Dad and Ronny aren't sorry for us. But I'm +not so sure of Michael and Mother.--Always your loving, + + NICKY. + + May, 1915. + B.E.F., FRANCE + +My Dear Mick,--It's awfully decent of you to write so often when you +loathe writing, especially about things that bore you. But you needn't +do that. We get the news from the other fronts in the papers more or +less; and I honestly don't care a damn what Asquith is saying or what +Lloyd George is doing or what Northcliffe's motives are. Personally, I +should say he was simply trying, like most of us, to save his country. +Looks like it. But you can tell him from me, if he gets them to send us +enough shells out _in time_ we shan't worry about his motives. Anyhow +that sort of thing isn't in your line, old man, and Dad can do it much +better than you, if you don't mind my saying so. + +What I want to know is what Don and Dorothy are doing, and the last +sweet thing Dad said to Mother--I'd give a day's rest in my billet for +one of his _worst_ jokes. And I like to hear about Morrie going on the +bust again, too--it sounds so peaceful. Only if it really is anxiety +about me that makes him do it, I wish he'd leave off thinking about me, +poor old thing. + +More than anything I want to know how Ronny is; how she's looking and +what she's feeling; you'll be able to make out a lot, and she may tell +you things she won't tell the others. That's why I'm glad you're there +and not here. + +And as for that--why go on worrying? I do know how you feel about it. I +think I always did, in a way. I never thought you were a "putrid +Pacifist." Your mind's all right. You say the War takes me like +religion; perhaps it does; I don't know enough about religion to say, +but it seems near enough for a first shot. And when you say it doesn't +take you that way, that you haven't "got" it, I can see that that +expresses a fairly understandable state of mind. Of course, I know it +isn't funk. If you'd happened to think of the Ultimatum first, instead +of the Government, you'd have been in at the start, before me. + +Well--there's such a thing as conversion, isn't there? You never can +tell what may happen to you, and the War isn't over yet. Those of us who +are in it now aren't going to see the best of it by a long way. There's +no doubt the very finest fighting'll be at the finish; so that the +patriotic beggars who were in such a hurry to join up will be jolly well +sold, poor devils. Take me, for instance. If I'd got what I wanted and +been out in Flanders in 1914, ten to one I should have been in the +retreat from Mons, like Frank, and never anywhere else. Then I'd have +given my head to have gone to Gallipoli; but _now_, well, I'm just as +glad I'm not mixed up in that affair. + +Still, that's not the way to look at it, calculating the fun you can get +out of it for yourself. And it's certainly not the way to win the War. +At that rate one might go on saving oneself up for the Rhine, while all +the other fellows were getting pounded to a splash on the way there. So +if you're going to be converted let's hope you'll be converted quick. + +If you are, my advice is, try to get your commission straight away. +There are things you won't be able to stand if you're a Tommy. For +instance, having to pig it on the floor with all your brother Tommies. I +slept for three months next to a beastly blighter who used to come in +drunk and tread on my face and be ill all over me. + +Even now, when I look back on it, that seems worse than anything that's +happened out here. But that's because at home your mind isn't adjusted +to horrors. That chap came as a shock and a surprise to me every time. +I _couldn't_ get used to him. Whereas out here everything's shifted in +the queerest way. Your mind shifts. You funk your first and your second +sight, say, of a bad stretcher case; but when it comes to the third and +the fourth you don't funk at all; you're not shocked, you're not a bit +surprised. It's all in the picture, and you're in the picture too. +There's a sort of horrible harmony. It's like a certain kind of beastly +dream which doesn't frighten you because you're part of it, part of the +beastliness. + +No, the thing that got me, so far, more than anything was--what d'you +think? A little dog, no bigger than a kitten, that was run over the +other day in the street by a motor-cyclist--and a civilian at that. +There were two or three women round it, crying and gesticulating. It +looked as if they'd just lifted it out of a bath of blood. That made me +sick. You see, the little dog wasn't in the picture. I hadn't +bargained for him. + +Yet the things Morrie saw in South Africa--do you remember how he +_would_ tell us about them?--weren't in it with the things that happened +here. Pounding apart, the things that corpses can do, apparently on +their own, are simply unbelievable--what the war correspondents call +"fantastic postures." But I haven't got to the point when I can slap my +thighs, and roar with laughter--if they happen to be Germans. + +In between, the boredom is so awful that I've heard some of our men say +they'd rather have things happening. And, of course, we're all hoping +that when those shells come along there won't be quite so much +"between." + +Love to Ronny and Mother and all of them.--Your very affectionate, + + NICHOLAS. + + + June 1st, 1915. + B.E.F., FRANCE. + +My Darling Ronny,--Yes, I think all your letters must have come, because +you've answered everything. You always tell me just what I want to know. +When I see the fat envelopes coming I know they're going to be +chock-full of the things I've happened to be thinking about. Don't let's +ever forget to put the dates, because I make out that I've always +dreamed about you, too, the nights you've written. + +And so the Aunties are working in the War Hospital Supply Depôt? It's +frightfully funny what Dorothy says about their enjoying the War and +feeling so important. Don't let her grudge it them, though; it's all the +enjoyment, or importance, they're ever had in their lives, poor dears. +But I shall know, if a swab bursts in my inside, that it's Auntie +Edie's. As for Auntie Emmeline's, I can't even imagine what they'd be +like--monstrosities--or little babies injured at birth. Aunt Louie's +would be well-shaped and firm, but erring a little on the hard side, +don't you think? + +That reminds me, I suppose I may tell you now since it's been in the +papers, that we've actually got Moving Fortresses out here. I haven't +seen them yet, but a fellow who has thinks they must be uncommonly like +Drayton's and my thing. I suspect, from what he says, they're a bit +better, though. We hadn't got the rocking-horse idea. + +It's odd--this time last year I should have gone off my head with agony +at the mere thought of anybody getting in before us; and now I don't +care a bit. I do mind rather for Drayton's sake, though I don't suppose +he cares, either. The great thing is that it's been done, and done +better. Anyway we've been lucky. Supposing the Germans had got on to +them, and trotted them out first, and one of our own guns had potted him +or me, _that_ would have been a jolly sell. + +What makes you ask after Timmy? I hardly like to tell you the awful +thing that's happened to him. He had to travel down to the base hospital +on a poor chap who was shivering with shell-shock, and--_he never came +back again_. It doesn't matter, because the weather's so warm now that I +don't want him. But I'm sorry because you all gave him to me and it +looks as if I hadn't cared for him. But I did.... + + June 10th. + +Sorry I couldn't finish this last week. Things developed rather +suddenly. I wish I could tell you _what_, but we mustn't let on what +happens, not even now, when it's done happening. Still, there are all +the other things I couldn't say anything about at the time. + +If you _must_ know, I've been up "over the top" three times now since I +came out in February. So, you see, one gets through all right. + +Well--I tried ages ago to tell Dorothy what it was like. It's been like +that every time (except that I've got over the queer funky feeling +half-way through). It'll be like that again next time, I know. Because +now I've tested it. And, Ronny--I couldn't tell Dorothy this, because +she'd think it was all rot--but when you're up first out of the trench +and stand alone on the parapet, it's absolute happiness. And the charge +is--well, it's simply heaven. It's as if you'd never really lived till +then; I certainly hadn't, not up to the top-notch, barring those three +days we had together. + +That's why--this part's mostly for Michael--there's something rotten +about that poem he sent me that somebody wrote, making out that this +gorgeous fight-feeling (which is what I suppose he's trying for) is +nothing but a form of sex-madness. If he thinks that's all there is in +it, he doesn't know much about war, or love either. Though I'm bound to +say there's a clever chap in my battalion who thinks the same thing. He +says he feels the ecstasy, or whatever it is, all right, just the same +as I do; but that it's simply submerged savagery bobbing up to the +top--a hidden lust for killing, and the hidden memory of having killed, +he called it. He's always ashamed of it the next day, as if he had +been drunk. + +And my Sergeant-Major, bless him, says there's nothing in it but "a +ration of rum." Can't be that in my case because I always give mine to a +funny chap who _knows_ he's going to have collywobbles as soon as he +gets out into the open. + +But that isn't a bit what I mean. They're all wrong about it, because +they make it turn on killing, and not on your chance of being killed. +_That_--when you realize it--well, it's like the thing you told me about +that you said you thought must be God because it's so real. I didn't +understand it then, but I do now. You're bang up against reality--you're +going clean into it--and the sense of it's exquisite. Of course, while +one half of you is feeling like that, the other half is fighting to kill +and doing its best to keep on _this_ side reality. But I've been near +enough to the other side to know. And I wish Michael's friend would come +out and see what it's like for himself. Or, better still, Mick. _He_'d +write a poem about it that would make you sit up. It's a sin that I +should be getting all this splendid stuff when I can't do anything +with it. + +Love to all of them and to your darling self.--Always your loving, + + NICKY. + +P.S.-I wish you'd try to get some notion of it into Dad and Dorothy and +Mother. It would save them half the misery they're probably +going through. + + * * * * * + +The gardener had gone to the War, and Veronica was in the garden, +weeding the delphinium border. + +It was Sunday afternoon and she was alone there. Anthony was digging in +the kitchen garden, and Frances was with him, gathering green peas and +fruit for the hospital. Every now and then she came through the open +door on to the flagged path of the upper terrace with the piled up +baskets in her arms, and she smiled and nodded to Veronica. + +It was quiet in the garden, so that, when her moment came, Veronica +could time it by the striking of the clock heard through the open +doorway of the house: four strokes; and the half-hour; and then, almost +on the stroke, her rush of pure, mysterious happiness. + +Up till then she had been only tranquil; and her tranquillity made each +small act exquisite and delightful, as her fingers tugged at the weeds, +and shook the earth from their weak roots, and the palms of her hand +smoothed over the places where they had been. She thought of old Jean +and Suzanne, planting flowers in the garden at Renton, and of that +tranquillity of theirs that was the saddest thing she had ever seen. + +And her happiness had come, almost on the stroke of the half-hour, not +out of herself or out of her thoughts, but mysteriously and from +somewhere a long way off. + + * * * * * + +She turned to nod and smile at Frances who was coming through the door +with her basket, and it was then that she saw Nicholas. + +He stood on something that looked like a low wall, raised between her +and the ash-tree; he stood motionless, as if arrested in the act of +looking back to see if she were following him. His eyes shone, vivid and +blue, as they always shone when he was happy. He smiled at her, but +with no movement of his mouth. He shouted to her, but with no sound. + +Everything was still; her body and her soul were still; her heart was +still; it beat steadily. + +She had started forwards to go to him when the tree thrust itself +between them, and he was gone. + +And Frances was still coming through the door as Veronica had seen her +when she turned. She was calling to her to come in out of the sun. + + + +XXIV + +The young men had gone--Morton Ellis, who had said he was damned if he'd +fight for his country; and Austin Mitchell who had said he hadn't got a +country; and Monier-Owen, who had said that England was not a country +you could fight for. George Wadham had gone long ago. That, Michael +said, was to be expected. Even a weak gust could sweep young Wadham off +his feet--and he had been fairly carried away. He could no more resist +the vortex of the War than he could resist the vortex of the arts. + +Michael had two pitiful memories of the boy: one of young Wadham +swaggering into Stephen's room in uniform (the first time he had it on), +flushed and pleased with himself and talking excitedly about the "Great +Game"; and one of young Wadham returned from the Front, mature and hard, +not talking about the "Great Game" at all, and wincing palpably when +other people talked; a young Wadham who, they said, ought to be arrested +under the Defence of the Realm Act as a quencher of war-enthusiasms. + +The others had gone later, one by one, each with his own gesture: +Mitchell and Monier-Owen when Stephen went; Ellis the day after +Stephen's death. It had taken Stephen's death to draw him. + +Only Michael remained. + +He told them they were mistaken if they thought their going would +inspire him to follow them. It, and Stephen's death, merely intensified +the bitterness he felt towards the War. He was more than ever determined +to keep himself pure from it, consecrated to his Forlorn Hope. If they +fell back, all the more reason why be should go on. + +And, while he waited for the moment of vision, he continued Stephen's +work on the _Green Review_. Stephen had left it to him when he went out. +Michael tried to be faithful to the tradition he thus inherited; but +gradually Stephen's spirit disappeared from the _Review_ and its place +was taken by the clear, hard, unbreakable thing that was Michael's mind. + +And Michael knew that he was beginning to make himself felt. + +But Stephen's staff, such as it was, and nearly all his contributors had +gone to the War, one after another, and Michael found himself taking all +their places. He began to feel a strain, which he took to be the strain +of overwork, and he went down to Renton to recover. + +That was on the Tuesday that followed Veronica's Sunday. + +He thought that down there he would get away from everything that did +him harm: from his father's and mother's eyes; from his sister's proud, +cold face; and from his young brother's smile; and from Veronica's +beauty that saddened him; and from the sense of Nicky's danger that +brooded as a secret obsession over the house. He would fill up the awful +empty space. He thought: "For a whole fortnight I shall get away from +this infernal War." + +But he did not get away from it. On every stage of the journey down he +encountered soldiers going to the Front. He walked in the Park at +Darlington between his trains, and wounded soldiers waited for him on +every seat, shuffled towards him round every turning, hobbled after him +on their crutches down every path. Their eyes looked at him with a +shrewd hostility. He saw the young Yorkshire recruits drinking in the +open spaces. Sergeants' eyes caught and measured him, appraising his +physique. Behind and among them he saw Drayton's, and Réveillaud's, and +Stephen's eyes; and young Wadham's eyes, strange and secretive and hard. + + * * * * * + +At Reyburn Michael's train was switched off to a side platform in the +open. Before he left Darlington, a thin, light rain had begun to fall +from a shred of blown cloud; and at Reyburn the burst mass was coming +down. The place was full of the noise of rain. The drops tapped on the +open platform and hissed as the wind drove them in a running stream. +They drummed loudly on the station roof. But these sounds went out +suddenly, covered by the trampling of feet. + +A band of Highlanders with their bagpipes marched into the station. They +lined up solemnly along the open platform with their backs to Michael's +train and their faces to the naked rails on the other side. Higher up +Michael could see the breast of an engine; it was backing, backing, +towards the troop-train that waited under the cover of the roof. He +could hear the clank of the coupling and the recoil. At that sound the +band had their mouths to their bagpipes and their fingers ready on the +stops. Two or three officers hurried down from the station doors and +stood ready. + +The train came on slowly, packed with men; men who thrust their heads +and shoulders through the carriage windows, and knelt on the seats, and +stood straining over each other's backs to look out; men whose faces +were scarlet with excitement; men with open mouths shouting for joy. + +The officers saluted as it passed. It halted at the open platform, and +suddenly the pipers began to play. + +Michael got out of his train and watched. + +Solemnly, in the grey evening of the rain, with their faces set in a +sort of stern esctasy, the Highlanders played to their comrades. Michael +did not know whether their tune was sad or gay. It poured itself into +one mournful, savage, sacred cry of salutation and valediction. When it +stopped the men shouted; there were voices that barked hoarsely and +broke; voices that roared; young voices that screamed, strung up by the +skirling of the bagpipes. The pipers played to them again. + +And suddenly Michael was overcome. Pity shook him and grief and an +intolerable yearning, and shame. For one instant his soul rose up above +the music, and was made splendid and holy, the next he cowered under it, +stripped and beaten. He clenched his fists, hating this emotion that +stung him to tears and tore at his heart and at the hardness of +his mind. + +As the troop-train moved slowly out of the station the pipers, piping +more and more shrilly, swung round and marched beside it to the end of +the platform. The band ceased abruptly, and the men answered with shout +after shout of violent joy; they reared up through the windows, +straining for the last look--and were gone. + +Michael turned to the porter who lifted his luggage from the rack. "What +regiment are they?" he said. + +"Camerons, sir. Going to the Front." + +The clear, uncanny eyes of Veronica's father pursued him now. + + * * * * * + +At last he had got away from it. + +In Rathdale, at any rate, there was peace. The hills and their pastures, +and the flat river fields were at peace. And in the villages of Morfe +and Renton there was peace; for as yet only a few men had gone from +them. The rest were tied to the land, and they were more absorbed in the +hay-harvest than in the War. Even the old Belgians in Veronica's cottage +were at peace. They had forgotten. + +For three days Michael himself had peace. + +He went up to Veronica's hill and sat on it; and thought how for +hundreds of miles, north, south, east and west of him, there was not a +soul whom he knew. In all his life he had never been more by himself. + +This solitude of his had a singular effect on Michael's mind. So far +from having got away from the War he had never been more conscious of it +than he was now. What he had got away from was other people's +consciousness. From the beginning the thing that threatened him had +been, not the War but this collective war-spirit, clamouring for his +private soul. + +For the first time since August, nineteen-fourteen, he found himself +thinking, in perfect freedom and with perfect lucidity, about the War. +He had really known, half the time, that it was the greatest War of +Independence that had ever been. As for his old hatred of the British +Empire, he had seen long ago that there was no such thing, in the +continental sense of Empire; there was a unique thing, the rule, more +good than bad, of an imperial people. He had seen that the strength of +the Allies was in exact proportion to the strength and the enlightenment +of their democracies. Reckoning by decades, there could be no deadlock +in the struggle; the deadlock meant a ten years' armistice and another +war. He could not help seeing these things. His objection to occupying +his mind with them had been that they were too easy. + +Now that he could look at it by himself he saw how the War might take +hold of you like a religion. It was the Great War of Redemption. And +redemption meant simply thousands and millions of men in troop-ships and +troop-trains coming from the ends of the world to buy the freedom of the +world with their bodies. It meant that the very fields he was looking +over, and this beauty of the hills, those unused ramparts where no +batteries were hid, and the small, silent villages, Morfe and Renton, +were bought now with their bodies. + +He wondered how at this moment any sane man could be a Pacifist. And, +wondering, he felt a reminiscent sting of grief and yearning. But he +refused, resolutely, to feel any shame. + +His religion also was good; and, anyhow, you didn't choose your +religion; it chose you. + +And on Saturday the letters came: John's letter enclosing the wire from +the War Office, and the letter that Nicky's Colonel had written +to Anthony. + +Nicky was killed. + +Michael took in the fact, and the date (it was last Sunday). There were +some official regrets, but they made no impression on him. John's letter +made no impression on him. Last Sunday Nicky was killed. + +He had not even unfolded the Colonel's letter yet. The close black lines +showed through the thin paper. Their closeness repelled him. He did not +want to know how his brother had died; at least not yet. He was afraid +of the Colonel's letter. He felt that by simply not reading it he could +put off the unbearable turn of the screw. + +He was shivering with cold. He drew up his chair to the wide, open +hearth-place where there was no fire; he held out his hands over it. The +wind swept down the chimney and made him colder; and he felt sick. + +He had been sitting there about an hour when Suzanne came in and asked +him if he would like a little fire. He heard himself saying, "No, thank +you," in a hard voice. The idea of warmth and comfort was disagreeable +to him. Suzanne asked him then if he had had bad news? And he heard +himself saying: "Yes," and Suzanne trying, trying very gently, to +persuade him that it was perhaps only that Monsieur Nicky was wounded? + +"No? _Then_," said the old woman, "he is killed." And she began to cry. + +Michael couldn't stand that. He got up and opened the door into the +outer room, and she passed through before him, sobbing and whimpering. +Her voice came to him through the closed door in a sharp cry telling +Jean that Monsieur Nicky was dead, and Jean's voice came, hushing her. + +Then he heard the feet of the old man shuffling across the kitchen +floor, and the outer door opening and shutting softly; and through the +windows at the back of the room, he saw, without heeding, as the +Belgians passed and went up into the fields together, weeping, leaving +him alone. + +They had remembered. + +It was then that Michael read the Colonel's letter, and learned the +manner of his brother's death: "... About a quarter past four o'clock in +the afternoon his battalion was being pressed back, when he rallied his +men and led them in as gallant an attack as was ever made by so small a +number in this War. He was standing on the enemy's parapet when he was +shot through the heart and fell. By a quarter to five the trench was +stormed and taken, owing to his personal daring and impetus and to the +affection and confidence he inspired.... We hear it continually said of +our officers and men that 'they're all the same,' and I daresay as far +as pluck goes they are. But, if I may say so, we all felt that your son +had something that we haven't got...." + + * * * * * + +Michael lay awake in the bed that had been his brother's marriage bed. +The low white ceiling sagged and bulged above him. For three nights the +room had been as if Nicky and Veronica had never gone from it. They had +compelled him to think of them. They had lain where he lay, falling +asleep in each other's arms. + +The odd thing had been that his acute and vivid sense of them had in no +way troubled him. It had been simply there like some exquisite +atmosphere, intensifying his peace. He had had the same feeling he +always had when Veronica was with him. He had liked to lie with his head +on their pillow, to touch what they had touched, to look at the same +things in the same room, to go in and out through the same doors over +the same floors, remembering their hands and feet and eyes, and saying +to himself: "They did this and this"; or, "That must have pleased them." + +It ought to have been torture to him; and he could not imagine why it +was not. + +And now, on this fourth night, he had no longer that sense of Nicky and +Veronica together. The room had emptied itself of its own memory and +significance. He was aware of nothing but the bare, spiritual space +between him and Nicky. He lay contemplating it steadily and without +any horror. + +He thought: "This ends it. Of course I shall go out now. I might have +known that this would end it. _He_ knew." + +He remembered how Nicky had come to him in his room that night in +August. He could see himself sitting on the side of his bed, +half-dressed, and Nicky standing over him, talking. + +Nicky had taken it for granted even then that he would go out some time. +He remembered how he had said, "Not yet." + +He thought: "Of course; this must have been what he meant." + +And presently he fell asleep, exhausted and at the same time appeased. + + * * * * * + +It was morning. + +Michael's sleep dragged him down; it drowned and choked him as he +struggled to wake. + +Something had happened. He would know what it was when he came clear out +of this drowning. + +Now he remembered. Nicky was killed. Last Sunday. He knew that. But that +wasn't all of it. There was something else that followed on-- + +Suddenly his mind leaped on it. He was going out. He would be killed +too. And because he was going out, and because he would be killed, he +was not feeling Nicky's death so acutely as he should have thought he +would have felt it. He had been let off that. + +He lay still a moment, looking at the thing he was going to do, feeling +a certain pleasure in its fitness. Drayton and Réveillaud and Lawrence +had gone out, and they had been killed. Ellis and Mitchell and +Monier-Owen were going out and they would certainly be killed. Wadham +had gone out and young Vereker, and they also would be killed. + +Last Sunday it was Nicky. Now it must be he. + +His mind acknowledged the rightness of the sequence without concern. It +was aware that his going depended on his own will. But never in all his +life had he brought so little imagination to the act of willing. + +He got up, bathed in the river, dressed, and ate his breakfast. He +accepted each moment as it arrived, without imagination or concern. + +Then his mother's letter came. Frances wrote, among other things: "I +know how terribly you will be feeling it, because I know how you cared +for him. I wish I could comfort you. We could not bear it, Michael, if +we were not so proud of him." + +He answered this letter at once. He wrote: "I couldn't bear it either, +if I were not going out. But of course I'm going now." + +As he signed himself, "Your loving Michael," he thought: "That settles +it." Yet, if he had considered what he meant by settling it he would +have told himself that he meant nothing; that last night had settled it; +that his resolution had been absolutely self-determined and absolutely +irrevocable then, and that his signature gave it no more sanctity or +finality than it had already. If he was conscript, he was conscript to +his own will. + +He went out at once with his letter, though he knew that the post did +not leave Renton for another five hours. + +It was the sliding of this light thing and its fall into the letter-box +that shook him into realization of what he had done and of what was +before him. He knew now why he was in such a hurry to write that letter +and to post it. By those two slight acts, not dreadful nor difficult in +themselves, he had put it out of his power to withdraw from the one +supremely difficult and dreadful act. A second ago, while the letter was +still in his hands, he could have backed out, because he had not given +any pledge. Now he would have to go through with it. And he saw clearly +for the first time what it was that he would have to go through. + +He left the village and went up to Renton Moor and walked along the top +for miles, without knowing or caring where he went, and seeing nothing +before him but his own act and what must come afterwards. By to-morrow, +or the next day at the latest, he would have enlisted; by six months, at +the latest, three months if he had what they called "luck," he would be +in the trenches, fighting and killing, not because he chose, but because +he would be told to fight and kill. By the simple act of sending that +letter to his mother he was committed to the whole ghastly business. + +And he funked it. There was no use lying to himself and saying that he +didn't funk it. + +Even more than the actual fighting and killing, he funked looking on at +fighting and killing; as for being killed, he didn't think he would +really mind that so much. It would come--it must come--as a relief from +the horrors he would have to see before it came. Nicky had said that +they were unbelievable; he had seemed to think you couldn't imagine them +if you hadn't seen them. But Michael could. He had only to think of them +to see them now. He could make war-pictures for himself, in five +minutes, every bit as terrifying as the things they said happened under +fire. Any fool, if he chose to think about it, could see what must +happen. Only people didn't think. They rushed into it without seeing +anything; and then, if they were honest, they owned that they funked it, +before and during and afterwards and all the time. + +Nicky didn't. But that was only because Nicky had something that the +others hadn't got; that he, Michael, hadn't. It was all very well to +say, as he had said last night: "This ends it"; or, as their phrase was, +"Everything goes in now." It was indeed, as far as he was concerned, +the end of beauty and of the making of beauty, and of everything worth +caring for; but it was also the beginning of a life that Michael dreaded +more than fighting and killing and being killed: a life of boredom, of +obscene ugliness, of revolting contacts, of intolerable subjection. For +of course he was going into the ranks as Nicky had gone. And already he +could feel the heat and pressure and vibration of male bodies packed +beside and around him on the floor; he could hear their breathing; he +could smell their fetid bedding, their dried sweat. + +Of course he was going through with it; only--this was the thought his +mind turned round and round on in horror at itself--he funked it. He +funked it so badly that he would really rather die than go through with +it. When he was actually killed that would be his second death; months +before it could happen he would have known all about it; he would have +been dead and buried and alive again in hell. + +What shocked Michael was his discovering, not that he funked it now, +which was natural, almost permissible, but that he had funked it all the +time. He could see now that, since the War began, he had been struggling +to keep out of it. His mind had fought every suggestion that he should +go in. It had run to cover, like a mad, frightened animal before the +thoughts that hunted it down. Funk, pure funk, had been at the bottom of +all he had said and thought and done since August, nineteen-fourteen; +his attitude to the War, his opinion of the Allies, and of the +Government and of its conduct of the War, all his wretched criticisms +and disparagements--what had they been but the very subterfuges +of funk? + +His mother had known it; his father had known it; and Dorothy and John. +It was not conceivable that Nicky did not know it. + +That was what had made the horror of the empty space that separated +them. + +Lawrence Stephen had certainly known it. + +He could not understand his not knowing it himself, not seeing that he +struggled. Yet he must have seen that Nicky's death would end it. +Anyhow, it _was_ ended; if not last night, then this morning when he +posted the letter. + +But he was no longer appeased by this certainty of his. He was going out +all right. But merely going out was not enough. What counted was the +state of mind in which you went. Lawrence had said, "Victory--Victory is +a state of mind." + +Well--it was a state that came naturally to Nicky, and did not come +naturally to him. It was all very well for Nicky: he had wanted to go. +He had gone out victorious before victory. Michael would go beaten +before defeat. + +He thought: "If this is volunteering, give me compulsion." All the same +he was going. + +All morning and afternoon, as he walked and walked, his thoughts went +the same round. And in the evening they began again, but on a new track. +He thought: "It's all very well to say I'm going; but how _can_ I go?" +He had Lawrence Stephen's work to do; Lawrence's Life and Letters were +in his hands. How could he possibly go and leave Lawrence dead and +forgotten? This view seemed to him to be sanity and common sense. + +As his mind darted up this turning it was driven back. He saw Lawrence +Stephen smiling at him as he had smiled at him when Réveillaud died. +Lawrence would have wanted him to go more than anything. He would have +chosen to be dead and forgotten rather than keep him. + +At night these thoughts left him. He began to think of Nicky and of his +people. His father and mother would never be happy again. Nicky had been +more to them than he was, or even John. He had been more to Dorothy. It +was hard on Dorothy to lose Nicky and Drayton too. + +He thought of Nicky and Veronica. Poor little Ronny, what would she do +without Nicky? He thought of Veronica, sitting silent in the train, and +looking at him with her startling look of spiritual maturity. He thought +of Veronica singing to him over and over again: + + "London Bridge is broken down-- + + * * * * * + + "Build it up with gold so fine-- + + * * * * * + + "Build it up with stones so strong--" + +He thought of Veronica running about the house and crying, "Where's +Nicky? I want him." + +Monday was like Sunday, except that he walked up Karva Hill in the +morning and up Greffington Edge in the afternoon, instead of Renton +Moor. Whichever way he went his thoughts went the same way as yesterday. +The images were, if anything, more crowded and more horrible; but they +had lost their hold. He was tired of looking at them. + +About five o'clock he turned abruptly and went back to the village the +same way by which he came. + +And as he swung down the hill road in sight of Renton, suddenly there +was a great clearance in his soul. + +When he went into the cottage he found Veronica there waiting for him. +She sat with her hands lying in her lap, and she had the same look he +had seen when she was in the train. + +"Ronny--" + +She stood up to greet him, as if it had been she who was staying there +and he who had incredibly arrived. + +"They told me you wouldn't be long," she said. + +"I? You haven't come because you were ill or anything?" + +She smiled and shook her head. "No. Not for anything like that." + +"I didn't write, Ronny. I couldn't." + +"I know." Their eyes met, measuring each other's grief. "That's why I +came. I couldn't bear to leave you to it." + + * * * * * + +"I'd have come before, Michael, if you'd wanted me." + +They were sitting together now, on the settle by the hearth-place. + +"I can't understand your being able to think of me," he said. + +"Because of Nicky? If I haven't got Nicky it's all the more reason why I +should think of his people." + +He looked up. "I say--how are they? Mother and Father?" + +"They're very brave. + +"It's worse for them than it is for me," she said. "What they can't bear +is your going." + +"Mother got my letter, then?" + +"Yes. This morning." + +"What did she say?" + +"She said: 'Oh, no. _Not_ Michael.' + +"It was a good thing you wrote, though. Your letter made her cry. It +made even Dorothy cry. They hadn't been able to, before." + +"I should have thought if they could stand Nicky's going--" + +"That was different. They know it was different." + +"Do you suppose _I_ don't know how different it was? They mean I funked +it and Nicky didn't." + +"They mean that Nicky got what he wanted when he went, and that there +was nothing else he could have done so well, except flying, or +engineering." + +"It comes to the same thing, Nicky simply wasn't afraid." + +"Yes, Michael, he _was_ afraid." + +"What _of_?" + +"He was most awfully afraid of seeing suffering." + +"Well, so am I. And I'm afraid of suffering myself too. I'm afraid of +the whole blessed thing from beginning to end." + +"That's because you keep on seeing the whole blessed thing from +beginning to end. Nicky only saw little bits of it. The bits he liked. +Machine-guns working beautifully, and shells dropping in the right +places, and trenches being taken. + +"And then, remember--Nicky hadn't so much to give up." + +"He had you." + +"Oh, no. He knew that was the way to keep me." + +"Ronny--if Nicky had been like me could he have kept you?" + +She considered it. + +"Yes--if he could have been himself too." + +"He couldn't, you see. He never could have felt like that." + +"I don't say He could." + +"Well--the awful thing is 'feeling like that.'" + +"And the magnificent thing is 'feeling like that,' and going all the +same. Everybody knows that but you, Michael." + +"Yes," he said. "I'm _going_. But I'm not going to lie about it and say +I don't funk it. Because I do." + +"You don't _really_." + +"I own I didn't the first night--the night I knew Nicky was killed. +Because I couldn't think of anything else _but_ Nicky. + +"It was after I'd written to Mother that it came on. Because I knew then +I couldn't back out of it. That's what I can't get over--my having to do +that--to clinch it--because I was afraid." + +"My dear, my dear, thousands of men do that every day for the same +reason, only they don't find themselves out; and if they did they +wouldn't care. You're finding yourself out all the time, and killing +yourself with caring." + +"Of course I care. Can't you see it proves that I never meant to go at +all?" + +"It proves that you knew you'd have to go through hell first and you +were determined that even hell shouldn't keep you back." + +"Ronny--that's what it _has_ been. Simply hell. It's been inconceivable. +Nothing--absolutely nothing out there could be as bad. It went on all +yesterday and to-day--till you came." + +"I know, Michael. That's why I came." + +"To get me out of it?" + +"To get you out of it. + +"It's all over," she said. + +"It may come back--out there." + +"It won't. Out there you'll be happy. I saw Nicky on Sunday--the minute +before he was killed, Michael. And he was happy." + +"He would be." He was silent for a long time. + +"Ronny. Did Nicky know I funked it?" + +"Never! He knew you wouldn't keep out. All he minded was your missing +any of it." + +She got up and put on her hat. "I must go. It's getting late. Will you +walk up to Morfe with me? I'm sleeping there. In the hotel." + +"No, I say--I'm not going to let you turn out for me. _I_'ll sleep at +the hotel." + +She smiled at him with a sort of wonder, as if she thought: "Has he +forgotten, so soon?" And he remembered. + +"I can't stop here," she said. "That would be more than even _I_ can +bear." + +He thought: "She's gone through hell herself, to get me out of it." + + May, 1916. + B.E.F., FRANCE. + +DEAREST MOTHER AND FATHER,--Yes, "Captain," please. (I can hardly +believe it myself, but it is so.) It was thundering good luck getting +into dear old Nicky's regiment. The whole thing's incredible. But +promotion's nothing. Everybody's getting it like lightning now. You're +no sooner striped than you're starred. + +I'm glad I resisted the Adjutant and worked up from the ranks. I own it +was a bit beastly at the time--quite as beastly as Nicky said it would +be; but it was worth while going through with it, especially living in +the trenches as a Tommy. There's nothing like it for making you know +your men. You can tell exactly what's going to bother them, and what +isn't. You've got your finger on the pulse of their morale--not that +it's jumpier than yours; it isn't--and their knowing that they haven't +got to stand anything that you haven't stood gives you no end of a pull. +Honestly, I don't believe I could have faced them if it wasn't for that. +So that _your_ morale's the better for it as well as theirs. You know, +if you're shot down this minute it won't matter. The weediest Tommy in +your Company can "carry on." + +_We_'re a funny crowd in my billet all risen from the ranks except my +Senior. John would love us. There's a chap who writes short stories and +goes out very earnestly among the corpses to find copy; and there's +another who was in the publishing business and harks back to it, now and +then, in a dreamy nostalgic way, and rather as if he wanted to rub it +into us writing chaps what he _could_ do for us, only he wouldn't; and +there's a tailor who swears he could tell a mile off where my tunic came +from; and a lawyer's clerk who sticks his cigarette behind his ear. (We +used to wonder what he'd do with his revolver till we saw what he did +with it.) They all love thinking of what they've been and telling you +about it. I almost wish I'd gone into Daddy's business. Then perhaps I'd +know what it feels like to go straight out of a shop or an office into +the most glorious Army in history. + +I forgot the Jew pawnbroker at least we _think_ he's a pawnbroker--who's +always inventing things; stupendous and impossible things. His last idea +was machine-howitzers fourteen feet high, that take in shells exactly as +a machine-gun takes in bullets. He says "You'll see them in the next +War." When you ask him how he's going to transport and emplace and hide +his machine-howitzers, he looks dejected, and says "I never thought of +_that_," and has another idea at once, even more impossible. + +That reminds me. I've seen the "Tanks" (Nicky's Moving Fortresses) in +action. I'd give my promotion if only he could have seen them too. We +mustn't call them Fortresses any more--they're most violently for +attack. As far as I can make out Nicky's and Drayton's thing was +something between these and the French ones; otherwise one might have +wondered whether their plans and models really did go where John says +they did! I wish I could believe that Nicky and Drayton really _had_ had +a hand in it. + +I'm most awfully grieved to hear that young Vereker's reported missing. +Do you remember how excited he used to be dashing about the lawn at +tennis, and how Alice Lathom used to sit and look at him, and jump if +you brought her her tea too suddenly? Let's hope we'll have finished up +this damned War before they get little Norris. + +Love to Dorothy and Don and Ronny.--Your loving, MICK. + +When Frances read that letter she said, "I wonder if he really is all +right. He says very little about himself." + +And Anthony said, "Then you may be sure he is." + + May 31st, 1916. + B.E.F., FRANCE. + +MY DEAR RONNY,--I'm glad Mummy and Father have got all my letters. They +won't mind my writing to you this time. It really _is_ your turn now. +Thanks for Wadham's "Poems" (I wish they'd been Ellis's). It's a shame +to laugh at Waddy--but--he _has_ spread himself over Flanders, hasn't +he? Like the inundations round Ypres. + +I'm most awfully touched at Dad and Mummy wanting to publish mine. Here +they all are--just as I wrote them, in our billet, at night or in the +early morning, when the others were sleeping and I wasn't. I don't know +whether they're bad or good; I haven't had time to think about them. It +all seems so incredibly far away. Even last week seems far away. You go +on so fast here. + +I'd like Ellis and Monier-Owen to see them and to weed out the bad ones. +But you mustn't ask them to do anything. They haven't time, either. I +think you and Dorothy and Dad will manage it all right among you. If you +don't I shan't much care. + +Of course I'm glad that they've taken you on at the Hampstead Hospital, +if it makes you happier to nurse. And I'm glad Dad put his foot down on +your going to Vera. She gave you up to my people and she can't take you +back now. I'm sorry for her though; so is he. + +Have I had any adventures "by myself"? Only two. (I've given up what +Mother calls my "not wanting to go to the party.") One came off in "No +Man's Land" the other night. I went out with a "party" and came back by +myself--unless you count a damaged Tommy hanging on to me. It began in +pleasurable excitement and ended in some perturbation, for I had to get +him in under cover somehow, and my responsibility weighed on me--so did +he. The other was ages ago in a German trench. I was by myself, because +I'd gone in too quick, and the "party" behind me took the wrong turning. +I did manage to squeeze a chilly excitement out of going on alone. Then +I bumped up against a fat German officer and his revolver. That really +was an exquisite moment, and I was beast enough to be glad I had it all +to myself. It meant a bag of fifteen prisoners--all my own. But that was +nothing; they'd have surrendered to a mouse. There was no reason why +they shouldn't, because I'd fired first and there was no more officer to +play up to. + +But the things you don't do by yourself are a long way the best. +Nothing--not even poetry--can beat an infantry charge when you're +leading it. That's because of your men. It feels as if you were drawing +them all up after you. Of course you aren't. They're coming on their +own, and you're simply nothing, only a little unimportant part of +them--even when you're feeling as if you were God Almighty. + +I'm afraid it _does_ look awfully as if young Vereker were killed. They +may hear, you know, in some roundabout way--through the Red Cross, or +some of his men. I've written to them. + +Love to everybody. Certainly you may kiss Nanna for me, if she'd like +it. I wish I liked Waddy more--when you've given him to me.--Always your +affectionate, + + MICHAEL. + +P.S.--I don't sound pleased about the publication; but I am. I can't get +over their wanting to do it. I thought they didn't care. + +Ronny--I've been such a beast to them--when Father tried to read my +stuff--bless him!--and couldn't, I used to wish to God he'd leave it +alone. And now I'd give anything to see his dear old paws hanging on to +it and twitching with fright, and his eyes slewing round to see if I'm +looking at him. + + June 14th, 1916. + B.E.F., FRANCE. + +MY DEAR RONNY,--I'm glad you like them, and I'm glad Father thinks he +"understands Michael's poems" this time, and I'm glad they've made +Mother and Dorothy feel happier about me--BUT--they must get it out of +their heads that they're my "message," or any putrescent thing of that +sort. The bare idea of writing a message, or of being supposed to write +a message, makes me sick. I know it's beastly of me, but, really I'd +rather they weren't published at all, if there's the smallest chance of +their being taken that way. + +But if Ellis is doing the introduction there isn't the smallest chance. +Thank God for Ellis. + +There--I've let off all my beastliness. + +And now I'll try to answer your letter. Yes; the "ecstasy" in the last +two poems _is_ Nicky's ecstasy. And as Ellis says it strikes him as +absolutely real, I take it that some of Nicky's "reality" has got +through. It's hard on Ellis that he has to take _his_ ecstasy from me, +instead of coming out and getting it for himself. + +But you and Nicky and Lawrence are right. It _is_ absolutely real. I +mean it has to do with absolute reality. With God. It hasn't anything to +do with having courage, or not having courage; it's another state of +mind altogether. It isn't what Nicky's man said it was--you're not +ashamed of it the next day. It isn't excitement; you're not excited. It +isn't a tingling of your nerves; they don't tingle. It's all curiously +quiet and steady. You remember when you saw Nicky--how everything stood +still? And how two times were going on, and you and Nicky were in one +time, and Mother was in the other? Well--it's like that. Your body and +its nerves aren't in it at all. Your body may be moving violently, with +other bodies moving violently round it; but _you_'re still. + +But suppose it is your nerves. Why should they tingle at just that +particular moment, the moment that makes _animals_ afraid? Why should +you be so extraordinarily happy? Why should the moment of extreme danger +be always the "exquisite" moment? Why not the moment of safety? + +Doesn't it look as if danger were the point of contact with reality, and +death the closest point? You're through. Actually you lay hold on +eternal life, and you know it. + +Another thing--it always comes with that little shock of recognition. +It's happened before, and when you get near to it again you know what it +is. You keep on wanting to get near it, wanting it to happen again. You +may lose it the next minute, but you know. Lawrence knew what it was. +Nicky knew. + + * * * * * + + June 19th. + +I'm coming back to it--after that interruption--because I want to get +the thing clear. I have to put it down as I feel it; there's no other +way. But they mustn't think it's something that only Lawrence and Nicky +and I feel. The men feel it too, even when they don't know what it is. +And some of them _do_ know. + +Of course we shall be accused of glorifying War and telling lies about +it. Well--there's a Frenchman who has told the truth, piling up all the +horrors, faithfully, remorselessly, magnificently. But he seems to think +people oughtn't to write about this War at all unless they show up the +infamy of it, as a deterrent, so that no Government can ever start +another one. It's a sort of literary "frightfulness." But who is he +trying to frighten? Does he imagine that France, or England, or Russia +or Belgium, or Serbia, will want to start another war when this is over? +And does he suppose that Germany--if we don't beat her--will be deterred +by his frightfulness? Germany's arrogance will be satisfied when she +knows she's made a Frenchman feel like that about it. + +He's got his truth all right. As Morrie would say: "That's War." But a +peaceful earthquake can do much the same thing. And if _our_ truth--what +_we_'ve seen--isn't War, at any rate it's what we've got out of it, it's +our "glory," our spiritual compensation for the physical torture, and +there would be a sort of infamy in trying to take it from us. It isn't +the French Government, or the British that's fighting Germany; it's +we--all of us. To insist on the world remembering nothing but these +horrors is as if men up to their knees in the filth they're clearing +away should complain of each other for standing in it and splashing +it about. + +The filth of War--and the physical torture--Good God! As if the world +was likely to forget it. Any more than we're likely to forget what +_we_ know. + +You remember because you've known it before and it all hangs together. +It's not as if danger were the only point of contact with reality. You +get the same ecstasy, the same shock of recognition, and the same utter +satisfaction when you see a beautiful thing. At least to me it's like +that. You know what Nicky thought it was like. You know what it was like +when you used to sit looking and looking at Mother's "tree of Heaven." + +It's odd, Ronny, to have gone all your life trying to get reality, +trying to get new beauty, trying to get utter satisfaction; to have +funked coming out here because you thought it was all obscene ugliness +and waste and frustration, and then to come out, and to find what +you wanted. + + * * * * * + + June 25th. + +I wrote all that, while I could, because I want to make them see it. +It's horrible that Dorothy should think that Drayton's dead and that +Mother should think that Nicky's dead, when they wouldn't, if they +really knew. If they don't believe Lawrence or me, can't they believe +Nicky? I'm only saying what he said. But I can't write to them about it +because they make me shy, and I'm afraid they'll think I'm only gassing, +or "making poetry"--as if poetry wasn't the most real thing there is! + +If anybody can make them see it, you can.--Always your affectionate, + + MICHAEL. + + + +XXV + +Anthony was going into the house to take back the key of the workshop. + +He had locked the door of the workshop a year ago, after Nicky's death, +and had not opened it again until to-day. This afternoon in the orchard +he had seen that the props of the old apple-tree were broken and he had +thought that he would like to make new ones, and the wood was in +the workshop. + +Everything in there was as it had been when Nicky finished with his +Moving Fortress. The brass and steel filings lay in a heap under the +lathe, the handle was tilted at the point where he had left it; pits in +the saw-dust showed where his feet had stood. His overalls hung over the +bench where he had slipped them off. + +Anthony had sat down on the bench and had looked at these things with +remembrance and foreboding. He thought of Nicky and of Nicky's pleasure +and excitement over the unpacking of his first lathe--the one he had +begged for for his birthday--and of his own pleasure and excitement as +he watched his boy handling it and showing him so cleverly how it +worked. It stood there still in the corner. Nicky had given it to +Veronica. He had taught her how to use it. And Anthony thought of +Veronica when she was little; he saw Nicky taking care of her, teaching +her to run and ride and play games. And he remembered what Veronica's +mother had said to him and Frances: "Wait till Nicky has children of +his own." + +He thought of John. John had volunteered three times and had been three +times rejected. And now conscription had got him. He had to appear +before the Board of Examiners that afternoon. He might be rejected +again. But the standard was not so exacting as it had been--John +might be taken. + +He thought of his business--John's business and his, and Bartie's. Those +big Government contracts had more than saved them. They were making tons +of money out of the War. Even when the Government cut down their +profits; even when they had given more than half they made to the War +funds, the fact remained that they were living on the War. Bartie, +without a wife or children, was appallingly rich. + +If John were taken. If John were killed-- + +If Michael died-- + +Michael had been reported seriously wounded. + +He had thought then of Michael. And he had not been able to bear +thinking any more. He had got up and left the workshop, locking the door +behind him, forgetting what he had gone in for; and he had taken the key +back to the house. He kept it in what his children used to call the +secret drawer of his bureau. It lay there with Nicky's last letter of +June, 1915, and a slab of coromandel wood. + +It was when he was going into the house with the key that John met him. + +"Have they taken you?" + +"Yes." + +John's face was hard and white. They went together into Anthony's room. + +"It's what you wanted," Anthony said. + +"Of course it's what I wanted. I want it more than ever now. + +"The wire's come, Father. Mother opened it." + + * * * * * + +It was five days now since they had heard that Michael had died of his +wounds. Frances was in Michael's room. She was waiting for Dorothea and +Veronica to help her to find his papers. It was eight o'clock in the +evening, and they had to be sorted and laid out ready for Morton Ellis +to look over them to-morrow. To-morrow Morton Ellis would come, and he +would take them away. + +The doors of Michael's and of Nicky's rooms were always kept shut; +Frances knew that, if she were to open the door on the other side of the +corridor and look in, every thing in Nicky's room would welcome her with +tenderness even while it inflicted its unique and separate wound. But +Michael's room was bare and silent. He had cleared everything away out +of her sight last year before he went. The very books on the shelves +repudiated her; reminded her that she had never understood him, that he +had always escaped her. His room kept his secret, and she felt afraid +and abashed in it, knowing herself an intruder. Presently all that was +most precious in it would be taken from her and given over to a stranger +whom he had never liked. + +Her mind turned and fastened on one object--the stiff, naked wooden +chair standing in its place before the oak table by the window. She +remembered how she had come to Michael there and found him writing at +his table, and how she had talked to him as though he had been a shirker +and a coward. + +She had borne Nicky's death. But she could not bear Michael's. She stood +there in his room, staring, hypnotized by her memory. She heard Dorothea +come in and go out again. And then Veronica came in. + +She turned to Veronica to help her. + +She clung to Veronica and was jealous of her. Veronica had not come +between her and Nicky as long as he was alive, but now that he was dead +she came between them. She came between her and Michael too. Michael's +mind had always been beyond her; she could only reach it through +Veronica and through Veronica's secret. Her mind clutched at Veronica's +secret, and flung it away as useless, and returned, clutching at +it again. + +It was as if Veronica held the souls of Michael and Nicholas in her +hands. She offered her the souls of her dead sons. She was the mediator +between her and their souls. + +"I could bear it, Veronica, if I hadn't made him go. I came to him, +here, in this room, and bullied him till he went. I said horrible things +to him--that he must have remembered. + +"He wasn't like Nicky--it was infinitely worse for him. And I was cruel +to him. I had no pity. I drove him out--to be killed. + +"And I simply cannot bear it." + +"But--he didn't go then. He waited till--till he was free. If anybody +could have made him, Nicky could. But it wasn't even Nicky. It was +himself." + +"If he'd been killed as Nicky was--but to die like that, in the +hospital--of those horrible wounds." + +"He was leading a charge, just as Nicky was. And you know he was happy, +just as Nicky was. Every line he's written shows that he was happy." + +"It only shows that they were both full of life, that they loved their +life and wanted to live. + +"It's no use, Ronny, you're saying you know they're there. I don't. I'd +give anything to believe it. And yet it wouldn't be a bit of good if I +did. I don't _want_ them all changed into something spiritual that I +shouldn't know if it was there. I want their bodies with me just as they +used to be. I want to hear them and touch them, and see them come in in +their old clothes. + +"To see Nicky standing on the hearthrug with Timmy in his arms. I want +things like that, Ronny. Even if you're right, it's all clean gone." + +Her lips tightened. + +"I'm talking as if I was, the only one. But I know it's worse for you, +Ronny. I _had_ them all those years. And I've got Anthony. You've had +nothing but your poor three days." + +Veronica thought: "How can I tell her that I've got more than she +thinks? It's awful that I should have what she hasn't." She was ashamed +and beaten before this irreparable, mortal grief. + +"And it's worse," Frances said, "for the wretched mothers whose sons +haven't fought." + +For her pride rose in her again--the pride that uplifted her +supernaturally when Nicky died. + +"You mustn't think I grudge them. I don't. I don't even grudge John." + +The silence of Michael's room sank into them, it weighed on their hearts +and they were afraid of each other's voices. Frances was glad when +Dorothy came and they could begin their work there. + +But Michael had not left them much to do. They found his papers all in +one drawer of his writing-table, sorted and packed and labelled, ready +for Morton Ellis to take away. One sealed envelope lay in a place by +itself. Frances thought: "He didn't want any of us to touch his things." + +Then she saw Veronica's name on the sealed envelope. She was glad when +Veronica left them and went to her hospital. + +And when she was gone she wanted her back again. + +"I wish I hadn't spoken that way to Veronica," she said. + +"She won't mind. She knows you couldn't help it." + +"I could, Dorothy, if I wasn't jealous of her. I mean I'm jealous of her +certainty. If I had it, too, I shouldn't be jealous." + +"She wants you to have it. She's trying to give it you. + +"Mother--how do we know she isn't right? Nicky said she was. And Michael +said Nicky was right. + +"If it had been only Nicky--_he_ might have got it from Veronica. But +Michael never got things from anybody. And you _do_ know things in queer +ways. Even I do. At least I did once--when I was in prison. I knew +something tremendous was going to happen. I saw it, or felt it, or +something. I won't swear I knew it was the War. I don't suppose I did. +But I knew Frank was all mixed up with it. And it was the most awfully +real thing. You couldn't go back on it, or get behind it. It was as if +I'd seen that he and Lawrence and Nicky and Michael and all of them +would die in it to save the whole world. Like Christ, only that they +really _did_ die and the whole world _was_ saved. There was nothing +futile about it." + +"Well--?" + +"Well, _they_ might see their real thing the same way--in a flash. +Aren't they a thousand times more likely to know than we are? What right +have we--sitting here safe--to say it isn't when they say it is?" + +"But--if there's anything in it--why can't I see it as well as you and +Veronica? After all, I'm their mother." + +"Perhaps that's why it takes you longer, Mummy. You think of their +bodies more than we do, because they were part of your body. Their +souls, or whatever it is, aren't as real to you just at first." + +"I see," said Frances, bitterly. "You've only got to be a mother, and +give your children your flesh and blood, to be sure of their souls going +from you and somebody else getting them." + +"That's the price you pay for being mothers." + +"Was Frank's soul ever more real to _you_, Dorothy?" + +"Yes. It was once--for just one minute. The night he went away. That's +another queer thing that happened." + +"It didn't satisfy you, darling, did it?" + +"Of course it didn't satisfy me. I want more and more of it. Not just +flashes." + +"You say it's the price we pay for being mothers. Yet if Veronica had +had a child--" + +"You needn't be so sorry for Veronica." + +"I'm not. It's you I'm sorriest for. You've had nothing. From beginning +to end you had nothing. + +"I might at least have seen that you had it in the beginning." + +"_You_, Mummy?" + +"Yes. Me. You _shall_ have it now. Unless you want to leave me." + +"I wouldn't leave you for the world, Mummy ducky. Only you must let me +work always and all the time." + +"Let you? I'll let you do what you like, my dear." + +"You always have let me, haven't you?" + +"It was the least I could do." + +"Poor Mummy, did you think you had to make up because you cared for them +more than me?" + +"I wonder," said Frances, thoughtfully, "if I did." + +"Of course. Of course you did. Who wouldn't?" + +"I never meant you to know it, Dorothy." + +"Of course I knew it. I must have known it ever since Michael was born. +I knew you couldn't help it. You had to. Even when I was a tiresome kid +I knew you had to. It was natural." + +"Natural or unnatural, many girls have hated their mothers for less. +You've been very big and generous. + +"Perhaps--if you'd been little and weak--but you were always such an +independent thing. I used to think you didn't want me." + +"I wanted you a lot more than you thought. But, you see, I've learned to +do without." + +She thought: "It's better she should have it straight." + +"If you'd think less about me, Mother," she said, "and more about +Father--" + +"Father?" + +"Yes. Father isn't independent--though he looks it. He wants you +awfully. He always has wanted you. And he hasn't learned to do without." + +"Where is he?" + +"He's sitting out there in the garden, all by himself, in the dark, +under the tree." + +Frances went to him there. + +"I wondered whether you would come to me," he said. + +"I was doing something for Michael." + +"Is it done?" + +"Yes. It's done." + + * * * * * + +Five months passed. It was November now. + +In the lane by the side door, Anthony was waiting in his car. Rain was +falling, hanging from the trees and falling. Every now and then he +looked at his watch. + +He had still a quarter of an hour before he need start. But he was not +going back into the house. They were all in there saying good-bye to +John: old Mrs. Fleming, and Louie and Emmeline and Edith. And Maurice. +And his brother Bartie. + +The door in the garden wall opened and they came out: the four women in +black--the black they still wore for Michael--and the two men. + +They all walked slowly up the lane. Anthony could see Bartie's shoulders +hunched irritably against the rain. He could see Morrie carrying his +sodden, quivering body with care and an exaggerated sobriety. He saw +Grannie, going slowly, under the umbrella, very upright and conscious of +herself as wonderful and outlasting. + +He got down and cranked up his engine. + +Then he sat sternly in his car and waited, with his hands on the +steering-wheel, ready. + +The engine throbbed, impatient for the start. + +John came out very quickly and took his seat beside his father. And the +car went slowly towards the high road. + +Uncle Morrie stood waiting for it by the gate at the top of the lane. As +it passed through he straightened himself and put up his hand in a +crapulous salute. + +The young man smiled at him, saluted, and was gone + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13883 *** |