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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/9617-h.zip b/9617-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f96b14a --- /dev/null +++ b/9617-h.zip diff --git a/9617-h/9617-h.htm b/9617-h/9617-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..19ddf5f --- /dev/null +++ b/9617-h/9617-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6649 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content= + "text/html; charset=us-ascii"> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Echoes of the War, by J. M. + Barrie. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + <!-- + * { font-family: Times;} + P { text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: .75em; + font-size: 12pt; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; } + HR { width: 33%; } + // --> + </style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Echoes of the War, by J. M. Barrie + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Echoes of the War + +Author: J. M. Barrie + +Posting Date: November 3, 2011 [EBook #9617] +Release Date: January, 2006 +First Posted: October 10, 2003 +Last Updated: December 13, 2004 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ECHOES OF THE WAR *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, David Garcia +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + +</pre> + + + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <h1> + ECHOES OF THE WAR + </h1> + <center> + <b>BY J. M. BARRIE</b> + </center> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="TOC"><!-- TOC --></a> + <h2> + CONTENTS + </h2> + <center> + <a href="#RULE4_1">THE OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS</a><br> + <a href="#RULE4_2">THE NEW WORD</a><br> + <a href="#RULE4_3">BARBARA'S WEDDING</a><br> + <a href="#RULE4_4">A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE</a> + </center> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_1"><!-- RULE4 1 --></a> + <h2> + THE OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS + </h2> + <p> + Three nice old ladies and a criminal, who is even nicer, are + discussing the war over a cup of tea. The criminal, who is + the hostess, calls it a dish of tea, which shows that she + comes from Caledonia; but that is not her crime. + </p> + <p> + They are all London charwomen, but three of them, including + the hostess, are what are called professionally 'charwomen + <i>and</i>' or simply 'ands.' An 'and' is also a caretaker + when required; her name is entered as such in ink in a + registry book, financial transactions take place across a + counter between her and the registrar, and altogether she is + of a very different social status from one who, like Mrs. + Haggerty, is a charwoman but nothing else. Mrs. Haggerty, + though present, is not at the party by invitation; having + seen Mrs. Dowey buying the winkles, she followed her + downstairs, so has shuffled into the play and sat down in it + against our wish. We would remove her by force, or at least + print her name in small letters, were it not that she takes + offence very readily and says that nobody respects her. So, + as you have slipped in, you sit there, Mrs. Haggerty; but + keep quiet. + </p> + <p> + There is nothing doing at present in the caretaking way for + Mrs. Dowey, our hostess; but this does not damp her, + caretaking being only to such as she an extra financially and + a halo socially. If she had the honour of being served with + an income-tax paper she would probably fill in one of the + nasty little compartments with the words, + 'Trade—charring; Profession (if any)—caretaking.' + This home of hers (from which, to look after your house, she + makes occasionally temporary departures in great style, + escorting a barrow) is in one of those what-care-I streets + that you discover only when you have lost your way; on + discovering them, your duty is to report them to the + authorities, who immediately add them to the map of London. + That is why we are now reporting Friday Street. We shall call + it, in the rough sketch drawn for to-morrow's press, 'Street + in which the criminal resided'; and you will find Mrs. + Dowey's home therein marked with a X. + </p> + <p> + Her abode really consists of one room, but she maintains that + there are two; so, rather than argue, let us say that there + are two. The other one has no window, and she could not swish + her old skirts in it without knocking something over; its + grandest display is of tin pans and crockery on top of a + dresser which has a lid to it; you have but to whip off the + utensils and raise the lid, and, behold, a bath with hot and + cold. Mrs. Dowey is very proud of this possession, and when + she shows it off, as she does perhaps too frequently, she + first signs to you with closed fist (funny old thing that she + is) to approach softly. She then tiptoes to the dresser and + pops off the lid, as if to take the bath unawares. Then she + sucks her lips, and is modest if you have the grace to do the + exclamations. + </p> + <p> + In the real room is a bed, though that is putting the matter + too briefly. The fair way to begin, if you love Mrs. Dowey, + is to say to her that it is a pity she has no bed. If she is + in her best form she will chuckle, and agree that the want of + a bed tries her sore; she will keep you on the hooks, so to + speak, as long as she can; and then, with that mouse-like + movement again, she will suddenly spring the bed on you. You + thought it was a wardrobe, but she brings it down from the + wall; and lo, a bed. There is nothing else in her abode + (which we now see to contain four rooms—kitchen, + pantry, bedroom, and bathroom) that is absolutely a surprise; + but it is full of 'bits,' every one of which has been paid + ready money for, and gloated over and tended until it has + become part of its owner. Genuine Doweys, the dealers might + call them, though there is probably nothing in the place + except the bed that would fetch half-a-crown. + </p> + <p> + Her home is in the basement, so that the view is restricted + to the lower half of persons passing overhead beyond the area + stairs. Here at the window Mrs. Dowey sometimes sits of a + summer evening gazing, not sentimentally at a flower-pot + which contains one poor bulb, nor yearningly at some tiny + speck of sky, but with unholy relish at holes in stockings, + and the like, which are revealed to her from her point of + vantage. You, gentle reader, may flaunt by, thinking that + your finery awes the street, but Mrs. Dowey can tell (and + does) that your soles are in need of neat repair. + </p> + <p> + Also, lower parts being as expressive as the face to those + whose view is thus limited, she could swear to scores of the + passers-by in a court of law. + </p> + <p> + These four lively old codgers are having a good time at the + tea-table, and wit is flowing free. As you can see by their + everyday garments, and by their pails and mops (which are + having a little tea-party by themselves in the corner), it is + not a gathering by invitations stretching away into + yesterday, it is a purely informal affair; so much more + attractive, don't you think? than banquets elaborately + prearranged. You know how they come about, especially in + war-time. Very likely Mrs. Dowey met Mrs. Twymley and Mrs. + Mickleham quite casually in the street, and meant to do no + more than the time of day; then, naturally enough, the word + camouflage was mentioned, and they got heated, but in the end + Mrs. Twymley apologised; then, in the odd way in which one + thing leads to another, the winkle man appeared, and Mrs. + Dowey remembered that she had that pot of jam and that Mrs. + Mickleham had stood treat last time; and soon they were all + three descending the area stairs, followed cringingly by the + Haggerty Woman. + </p> + <p> + They have been extremely merry, and never were four + hard-worked old ladies who deserved it better. All a woman + can do in war-time they do daily and cheerfully. Just as + their men-folk are doing it at the Front; and now, with the + mops and pails laid aside, they sprawl gracefully at ease. + There is no intention on their part to consider peace terms + until a decisive victory has been gained in the field (Sarah + Ann Dowey), until the Kaiser is put to the right-about (Emma + Mickleham), and singing very small (Amelia Twymley). + </p> + <p> + At this tea-party the lady who is to play the part of Mrs. + Dowey is sure to want to suggest that our heroine has a + secret sorrow, namely, the crime; but you should see us + knocking that idea out of her head! Mrs. Dowey knows she is a + criminal, but, unlike the actress, she does not know that she + is about to be found out; and she is, to put it bluntly in + her own Scotch way, the merriest of the whole clanjamfry. She + presses more tea on her guests, but they wave her away from + them in the pretty manner of ladies who know that they have + already had more than enough. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Just one more winkle, Mrs. Mickleham?' Indeed + there is only one more. + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Mickleham indicates politely that if she took this + one it would have to swim for it. (The Haggerty Woman takes + it long afterwards when she thinks, erroneously, that no one + is looking.) + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Twymley is sulking. Evidently some one has contradicted + her. Probably the Haggerty Woman. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I say it is so.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I say it may be so.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I suppose I ought to know: me that has a son a + prisoner in Germany.' She has so obviously scored that all + good feeling seems to call upon her to end here. But she + continues rather shabbily, 'Being the only lady present that + has that proud misfortune.' The others are stung. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'My son is fighting in France.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Mine is wounded in two places.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Mine is at Salonaiky.' + </p> + <p> + The absurd pronunciation of this uneducated person moves the + others to mirth. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'You'll excuse us, Mrs. Haggerty, but the correct + pronunciation is Salonikky.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, to cover her confusion. 'I don't think.' + She feels that even this does not prove her case. 'And I + speak as one that has War Savings Certificates.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'We all have them.' + </p> + <p> + The Haggerty Woman whimpers, and the other guests regard her + with unfeeling disdain. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, to restore cheerfulness, 'Oh, it's a terrible + war.' + </p> + <p> + ALL, brightening, 'It is. You may say so.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, encouraged, 'What I say is, the men is splendid, + but I'm none so easy about the staff. That's your weak point, + Mrs. Mickleham.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM, on the defence, but determined to reveal + nothing that might be of use to the enemy, 'You may take it + from me, the staff's all right.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'And very relieved I am to hear you say it.' + </p> + <p> + It is here that the Haggerty Woman has the remaining winkle. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'You don't understand properly about trench + warfare. If I had a map——' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, wetting her finger to draw lines on the table. + 'That's the river Sommy. Now, if we had barrages + here——' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Very soon you would be enfilided. Where's your + supports, my lady?' Mrs. Dowey is damped. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'What none of you grasps is that this is a + artillery war——' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, strengthened by the winkle, 'I say that + the word is Salonaiky.' + </p> + <p> + The others purse their lips. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY, with terrible meaning, 'We'll change the + subject. Have you seen this week's <i>Fashion Chat</i>?' She + has evidently seen and devoured it herself, and even licked + up the crumbs. 'The gabardine with accordion pleats has quite + gone out.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, her old face sparkling. 'My sakes! You tell me?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY, with the touch of haughtiness that comes of + great topics, 'The plain smock has come in again, with silk + lacing, giving that charming chic effect.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Oho!' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I must say I was always partial to the + straight line'—thoughtfully regarding the want of line + in Mrs. Twymley's person—'though trying to them as is + of too friendly a figure.' + </p> + <p> + It is here that the Haggerty Woman's fingers close + unostentatiously upon a piece of sugar. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY, sailing into the Empyrean, 'Lady Dolly Kanister + was seen conversing across the railings in a dainty <i>de + jou</i>.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Fine would I have liked to see her.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'She is equally popular as maid, wife, and + munition-worker. Her two children is inset. Lady Pops + Babington was married in a tight tulle.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'What was her going-away dress?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'A champagny cream velvet with dreamy corsage. + She's married to Colonel the Hon. Chingford—"Snubs," + they called him at Eton.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, having disposed of the sugar, 'Very + likely he'll be sent to Salonaiky.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Wherever he is sent, she'll have the same + tremors as the rest of us. She'll be as keen to get the + letters wrote with pencils as you or me.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Them pencil letters!' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, in her sweet Scotch voice, timidly, afraid she + may be going too far, 'And women in enemy lands gets those + pencil letters and then stop getting them, the same as + ourselves. Let's occasionally think of that.' + </p> + <p> + She has gone too far. Chairs are pushed back. + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I ask you!' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'That's hardly language, Mrs. Dowey.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, scared, 'Kindly excuse. I swear to death I'm none + of your pacifists.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Freely granted.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I've heard of females that have no male + relations, and so they have no man-party at the wars. I've + heard of them, but I don't mix with them.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'What can the likes of us have to say to + them? It's not their war.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, wistfully, 'They are to be pitied.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'But the place for them, Mrs. Dowey, is + within doors with the blinds down.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, hurriedly, 'That's the place for them.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I saw one of them to-day buying a flag. I + thought it was very impudent of her.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, meekly, 'So it was.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM, trying to look modest with indifferent + success, 'I had a letter from my son, Percy, yesterday.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Alfred sent me his photo.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Letters from Salonaiky is less common.' + </p> + <p> + Three bosoms heave, but not, alas, Mrs. Dowey's. Nevertheless + she doggedly knits her lips. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, the criminal, 'Kenneth writes to me every week.' + There are exclamations. The dauntless old thing holds aloft a + packet of letters. 'Look at this. All his.' + </p> + <p> + The Haggerty Woman whimpers. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Alfred has little time for writing, being a + bombardier.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, relentlessly, 'Do your letters begin "Dear + mother"?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Generally.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Invariable.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Every time.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, delivering the knock-out blow, 'Kenneth's begin + "Dearest mother.'" + </p> + <p> + No one can think of the right reply. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY, doing her best, 'A short man, I should say, + judging by yourself.' + </p> + <p> + She ought to have left it alone. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Six feet two-and a half.' + </p> + <p> + The gloom deepens. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM, against her better judgment, 'A kilty, did + you tell me?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Most certainly. He's in the famous Black Watch.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, producing her handkerchief, 'The Surrey + Rifles is the famousest.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'There you and the King disagrees, Mrs. + Haggerty. His choice is the Buffs, same as my Percy's.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY, magnanimously, 'Give me the R.H.A. and you can + keep all the rest.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'I'm sure I have nothing to say against the + Surreys and the R.H.A. and the Buffs; but they are just + breeches regiments, I understand.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'We can't all be kilties.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, crushingly, 'That's very true.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. It is foolish of her, but she can't help saying + it. 'Has your Kenneth great hairy legs?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Tremendous.' + </p> + <p> + The wicked woman: but let us also say 'Poor Sarah Ann Dowey.' + For at this moment, enter Nemesis. In other words, the less + important part of a clergyman appears upon the stair. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'It's the reverent gent!' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, little knowing what he is bringing her, 'I see he + has had his boots heeled.' + </p> + <p> + It may be said of Mr. Willings that his happy smile always + walks in front of him. This smile makes music of his life, + it means that once again he has been chosen, in his opinion, + as the central figure in romance. No one can well have led a + more drab existence, but he will never know it; he will + always think of himself, humbly though elatedly, as the + chosen of the gods. Of him must it have been originally + written that adventures are for the adventurous. He meets + them at every street corner. For instance, he assists an old + lady off a bus, and asks her if he can be of any further + help. She tells him that she wants to know the way to Maddox + the butcher's. Then comes the kind, triumphant smile; it + always comes first, followed by its explanation, 'I was there + yesterday!' This is the merest sample of the adventures that + keep Mr. Willings up to the mark. + </p> + <p> + Since the war broke out, his zest for life has become almost + terrible. He can scarcely lift a newspaper and read of a hero + without remembering that he knows some one of the name. The + Soldiers' Rest he is connected with was once a china + emporium, and (mark my words), he had bought his tea service + at it. Such is life when you are in the thick of it. + Sometimes he feels that he is part of a gigantic spy drama. + In the course of his extraordinary comings and goings he + meets with Great Personages, of course, and is the + confidential recipient of secret news. Before imparting the + news he does not, as you might expect, first smile + expansively; on the contrary, there comes over his face an + awful solemnity, which, however, means the same thing. When + divulging the names of the personages, he first looks around + to make sure that no suspicious character is about, and then, + lowering his voice, tells you, 'I had that from Mr. Farthing + himself—he is the secretary of the Bethnal Green + Branch,—h'sh!' + </p> + <p> + There is a commotion about finding a worthy chair for the + reverent, and there is also some furtive pulling down of + sleeves, but he stands surveying the ladies through his + triumphant smile. This amazing man knows that he is about to + score again. + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS, waving aside the chairs, 'I thank you. But not + at all. Friends, I have news.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'News?' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'From the Front?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'My Alfred, sir?' + </p> + <p> + They are all grown suddenly anxious—all except the + hostess, who knows that there can never be any news from the + Front for her. + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS. 'I tell you at once that all is well. The news + is for Mrs. Dowey.' + </p> + <p> + She stares. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'News for me?' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS. 'Your son, Mrs. Dowey—he has got five + days' leave.' She shakes her head slightly, or perhaps it + only trembles a little on its stem. 'Now, now, good news + doesn't kill.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'We're glad, Mrs. Dowey.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'You're sure?' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS. 'Quite sure. He has arrived.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'He is in London?' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS. 'He is. I have spoken to him.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'You lucky woman.' + </p> + <p> + They might see that she is not looking lucky, but experience + has told them how differently these things take people. + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS, marvelling more and more as he unfolds his + tale, 'Ladies, it is quite a romance, I was in + the——' he looks around cautiously, but he knows + that they are all to be trusted—'in the Church Army + quarters in Central Street, trying to get on the track of one + or two of our missing men. Suddenly my eyes—I can't + account for it—but suddenly my eyes alighted on a + Highlander seated rather drearily on a bench, with his kit at + his feet.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'A big man?' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS. 'A great brawny fellow.' The Haggerty Woman + groans. '"My friend," I said at once, "welcome back to + Blighty." I make a point of calling it Blighty. "I wonder," I + said, "if there is anything I can do for you?" He shook his + head. "What regiment?" I asked.' Here Mr. Willings very + properly lowers his voice to a whisper. '"Black Watch, 5th + Battalion," he said. "Name?" I asked. "Dowey," he said.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I declare. I do declare.' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS, showing how the thing was done, with the help + of a chair, 'I put my hand on his shoulder as it might be + thus. "Kenneth Dowey," I said, "I know your mother."' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, wetting her lips, 'What did he say to that?' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS. 'He was incredulous. Indeed, he seemed to think + I was balmy. But I offered to bring him straight to you. I + told him how much you had talked to me about him.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Bring him here!' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I wonder he needed to be brought.' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS. 'He had just arrived, and was bewildered by the + great city. He listened to me in the taciturn Scotch way, and + then he gave a curious laugh.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Laugh?' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS, whose wild life has brought him into contact + with the strangest people, 'The Scotch, Mrs. Twymley, express + their emotions differently from us. With them tears signify a + rollicking mood, while merriment denotes that they are + plunged in gloom. When I had finished he said at once, "Let + us go and see the old lady."' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, backing, which is the first movement she has made + since he began his tale, 'Is he—coming?' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS, gloriously, 'He has come. He is up there. I + told him I thought I had better break the joyful news to + you.' + </p> + <p> + Three women rush to the window. Mrs. Dowey looks at her + pantry door, but perhaps she remembers that it does not lock + on the inside. She stands rigid, though her face has gone + very grey. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Kindly get them to go away.' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS. 'Ladies, I think this happy occasion scarcely + requires you.' He is not the man to ask of woman a sacrifice + that he is not prepared to make himself. 'I also am going + instantly.' They all survey Mrs. Dowey, and + understand—or think they understand. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY, pail and mop in hand, 'I would thank none for + their company if my Alfred was at the door.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM, similarly burdened, 'The same from me. Shall + I send him down, Mrs. Dowey?' The old lady does not hear her. + She is listening, terrified, for a step on the stairs. 'Look + at the poor, joyous thing, sir. She has his letters in her + hand.' + </p> + <p> + The three women go. Mr. Willings puts a kind hand on Mrs. + Dowey's shoulder. He thinks he so thoroughly understands the + situation. + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS. 'A good son, Mrs. Dowey, to have written to you + so often.' + </p> + <p> + Our old criminal quakes, but she grips the letters more + tightly. Private Dowey descends. + </p> + <p> + 'Dowey, my friend, there she is, waiting for you, with your + letters in her hand.' + </p> + <p> + DOWEY, grimly, 'That's great.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Willings ascends the stair without one backward glance, + like the good gentleman he is; and the Doweys are left + together, with nearly the whole room between them. He is a + great rough chunk of Scotland, howked out of her not so much + neatly as liberally; and in his Black Watch uniform, all + caked with mud, his kit and nearly all his worldly + possessions on his back, he is an apparition scarcely less + fearsome (but so much less ragged) than those ancestors of + his who trotted with Prince Charlie to Derby. He stands + silent, scowling at the old lady, daring her to raise her + head; and she would like very much to do it, for she longs to + have a first glimpse of her son. When he does speak, it is to + jeer at her. + </p> + <p> + 'Do you recognise your loving son, missis?' ('Oh, the fine + Scotch tang of him,' she thinks.) 'I'm pleased I wrote so + often.' ('Oh, but he's <i>raized</i>,' she thinks.) He + strides towards her, and seizes the letters roughly, 'Let's + see them.' + </p> + <p> + There is a string round the package, and he unties it, and + examines the letters at his leisure with much curiosity. The + envelopes are in order, all addressed in pencil to Mrs. + Dowey, with the proud words 'Opened by Censor' on them. But + the letter paper inside contains not a word of writing. + </p> + <p> + 'Nothing but blank paper! Is this your writing in pencil on + the envelope?' She nods, and he gives the matter further + consideration. + </p> + <p> + 'The covey told me you were a charwoman; so I suppose you + picked the envelopes out of waste-paper baskets, or such + like, and then changed the addresses?' She nods again; still + she dare not look up, but she is admiring his legs. When, + however, he would cast the letters into the fire, she flames + up with sudden spirit. She clutches them. + </p> + <p> + 'Don't you burn them letters, mister.' + </p> + <p> + 'They're not real letters.' + </p> + <p> + 'They're all I have.' + </p> + <p> + He returns to irony. 'I thought you had a son?' + </p> + <p> + 'I never had a man nor a son nor anything. I just call myself + Missis to give me a standing.' + </p> + <p> + 'Well, it's past my seeing through.' + </p> + <p> + He turns to look for some explanation from the walls. She + gets a peep at him at last. Oh, what a grandly set-up man! + Oh, the stride of him. Oh, the noble rage of him. Oh, Samson + had been like this before that woman took him in hand. + </p> + <p> + He whirls round on her. 'What made you do it?' + </p> + <p> + 'It was everybody's war, mister, except mine.' She beats her + arms. 'I wanted it to be my war too.' + </p> + <p> + 'You'll need to be plainer. And yet I'm d——d if I + care to hear you, you lying old trickster.' + </p> + <p> + The words are merely what were to be expected, and so are + endurable; but he has moved towards the door. + </p> + <p> + 'You're not going already, mister?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, I just came to give you an ugly piece of my mind.' + </p> + <p> + She holds out her arms longingly. 'You haven't gave it to me + yet.' + </p> + <p> + 'You have a cheek!' + </p> + <p> + She gives further proof of it. 'You wouldn't drink some tea?' + </p> + <p> + 'Me! I tell you I came here for the one purpose of blazing + away at you.' + </p> + <p> + It is such a roaring negative that it blows her into a chair. + But she is up again in a moment, is this spirited old lady. + 'You could drink the tea while you was blazing away. There's + winkles.' + </p> + <p> + 'Is there?' He turns interestedly towards the table, but his + proud Scots character checks him, which is just as well, for + what she should have said was that there had been winkles. + 'Not me. You're just a common rogue.' He seats himself far + from the table. 'Now, then, out with it. Sit down!' She sits + meekly; there is nothing she would not do for him. 'As you + char, I suppose you are on your feet all day.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm more on my knees.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's where you should be to me.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, mister, I'm willing.' + </p> + <p> + 'Stop it. Go on, you accomplished liar.' + </p> + <p> + 'It's true that my name is Dowey.' + </p> + <p> + 'It's enough to make me change mine.' + </p> + <p> + 'I've been charring and charring and charring as far back as + I mind. I've been in London this twenty years.' + </p> + <p> + 'We'll skip your early days. I have an appointment.' + </p> + <p> + 'And then when I was old the war broke out.' + </p> + <p> + 'How could it affect you?' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, mister, that's the thing. It didn't affect me. It + affected everybody but me. The neighbours looked down on me. + Even the posters, on the walls, of the woman saying, "Go, my + boy," leered at me. I sometimes cried by myself in the dark. + You won't have a cup of tea?' + </p> + <p> + 'No.' + </p> + <p> + 'Sudden like the idea came to me to pretend I had a son.' + </p> + <p> + 'You depraved old limmer! But what in the name of Old Nick + made you choose me out of the whole British Army?' + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dowey giggles. There is little doubt that in her youth + she was an accomplished flirt. 'Maybe, mister, it was because + I liked you best.' + </p> + <p> + 'Now, now, woman.' + </p> + <p> + 'I read one day in the papers, "In which, he was assisted by + Private K. Dowey, 5th Battalion, Black Watch."' + </p> + <p> + Private K. Dowey is flattered, 'Did you, now! Well, I expect + that's the only time I was ever in the papers.' + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dowey tries it on again, 'I didn't choose you for that + alone. I read a history of the Black Watch first, to make + sure it was the best regiment in the world.' + </p> + <p> + 'Anybody could have told you that.' He is moving about now in + better humour, and, meeting the loaf in his stride, he cuts a + slice from it. He is hardly aware of this, but Mrs. Dowey + knows. 'I like the Scotch voice of you, woman. It drummles on + like a hill burn.' + </p> + <p> + 'Prosen Water runs by where I was born.' Flirting again, 'May + be it teached me to speak, mister.' + </p> + <p> + 'Canny, woman, canny.' + </p> + <p> + 'I read about the Black Watch's ghostly piper that plays + proudly when the men of the Black Watch do well, and prouder + when they fall.' + </p> + <p> + 'There's some foolish story of that kind.' He has another + careless slice off the loaf. 'But you couldn't have been + living here at that time or they would have guessed. I + suppose you flitted?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, it cost me eleven and sixpence.' + </p> + <p> + 'How did you guess the <i>K</i> in my name stood for + Kenneth?' + </p> + <p> + 'Does it?' + </p> + <p> + 'Umpha.' + </p> + <p> + 'An angel whispered it to me in my sleep.' + </p> + <p> + 'Well, that's the only angel in the whole black business.' He + chuckles. + </p> + <p> + 'You little thought I would turn up!' Wheeling suddenly on + her. 'Or did you?' + </p> + <p> + 'I was beginning to weary for a sight of you, Kenneth.' + </p> + <p> + 'What word was that?' + </p> + <p> + 'Mister.' + </p> + <p> + He helps himself to butter, and she holds out the jam pot to + him, but he haughtily rejects it. Do you think she gives in + now? Not a bit of it. + </p> + <p> + He returns to sarcasm, 'I hope you're pleased with me now you + see me.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm very pleased. Does your folk live in Scotland?' + </p> + <p> + 'Glasgow.' + </p> + <p> + 'Both living?' + </p> + <p> + 'Ay.' + </p> + <p> + 'Is your mother terrible proud of you?' + </p> + <p> + 'Naturally.' + </p> + <p> + 'You'll be going to them?' + </p> + <p> + 'After I've had a skite in London first.' + </p> + <p> + The old lady sniffs, 'So she is in London!' + </p> + <p> + 'Who?' + </p> + <p> + 'Your young lady.' + </p> + <p> + 'Are you jealyous?' + </p> + <p> + 'Not me.' + </p> + <p> + 'You needna be. She's a young thing.' + </p> + <p> + 'You surprises me. A beauty, no doubt?' + </p> + <p> + 'You may be sure.' He tries the jam. 'She's a titled person. + She is equally popular as maid, wife and munition-worker.' + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dowey remembers Lady Dolly Kanister, so familiar to + readers of fashionable gossip, and a very leery expression + indeed comes into her face. + </p> + <p> + 'Tell me more about her, man.' + </p> + <p> + 'She has sent me a lot of things, especially cakes, and a + worsted waistcoat, with a loving message on the enclosed + card.' + </p> + <p> + The old lady is now in a quiver of excitement. She loses + control of her arms, which jump excitedly this way and that. + </p> + <p> + 'You'll try one of my cakes, mister?' + </p> + <p> + 'Not me.' + </p> + <p> + 'They're of my own making.' + </p> + <p> + 'No, I thank you.' + </p> + <p> + But with a funny little run she is in the pantry and back + again. She planks down a cake before him, at sight of which + he gapes. + </p> + <p> + 'What's the matter? Tell me, oh, tell me, mister.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's exactly the kind of cake that her ladyship sends me.' + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dowey is now a very glorious old character indeed. + </p> + <p> + 'Is the waistcoat right, mister? I hope the Black Watch + colours pleased you.' + </p> + <p> + 'Wha——t! Was it you?' + </p> + <p> + 'I daredna give my own name, you see, and I was always + reading hers in the papers.' + </p> + <p> + The badgered man looms over her, terrible for the last time. + </p> + <p> + 'Woman, is there no getting rid of you!' + </p> + <p> + 'Are you angry?' + </p> + <p> + He sits down with a groan. + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, hell! Give me some tea.' + </p> + <p> + She rushes about preparing a meal for him, every bit of her + wanting to cry out to every other bit, 'Oh, glory, glory, + glory!' For a moment she hovers behind his chair. 'Kenneth'! + she murmurs. 'What?' he asks, no longer aware that she is + taking a liberty. 'Nothing,' she says, 'just Kenneth,' and is + off gleefully for the tea-caddy. But when his tea is poured + out, and he has drunk a saucerful, the instinct of + self-preservation returns to him between two bites. + </p> + <p> + 'Don't you be thinking, missis, for one minute that you have + got me.' + </p> + <p> + 'No, no.' + </p> + <p> + On that understanding he unbends. + </p> + <p> + 'I have a theatre to-night, followed by a randy-dandy.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oho! Kenneth, this is a queer first meeting!' + </p> + <p> + 'It is, woman, oh, it is,' guardedly, 'and it's also a last + meeting.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, yes.' + </p> + <p> + 'So here's to you—you old mop and pail. <i>Ave atque + vale</i>.' + </p> + <p> + 'What's that?' + </p> + <p> + 'That means Hail and Farewell.' + </p> + <p> + 'Are you a scholar?' + </p> + <p> + 'Being Scotch, there's almost nothing I don't know.' + </p> + <p> + 'What was you to trade?' + </p> + <p> + 'Carter, glazier, orraman, any rough jobs.' + </p> + <p> + 'You're a proper man to look at.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm generally admired.' + </p> + <p> + 'She's an enviable woman.' + </p> + <p> + 'Who?' + </p> + <p> + 'Your mother.' + </p> + <p> + 'Eh? Oh, that was just protecting myself from you. I have + neither father nor mother nor wife nor grandmama.' Bitterly, + 'This party never even knew who his proud parents were.' + </p> + <p> + 'Is that'—gleaming—'is that true?' + </p> + <p> + 'It's gospel.' + </p> + <p> + 'Heaven be praised!' + </p> + <p> + 'Eh? None of that! I was a fool to tell you. But don't think + you can take advantage of it. Pass the cake.' + </p> + <p> + 'I daresay it's true we'll never meet again, Kenneth, + but—but if we do, I wonder where it will be?' + </p> + <p> + 'Not in this world.' + </p> + <p> + 'There's no telling'—leering ingratiatingly—'It + might be at Berlin.' + </p> + <p> + 'Tod, if I ever get to Berlin, I believe I'll find you there + waiting for me!' + </p> + <p> + 'With a cup of tea for you in my hand.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, and'—heartily—'very good tea too.' + </p> + <p> + He has partaken heavily, he is now in high good humour. + </p> + <p> + 'Kenneth, we could come back by Paris!' + </p> + <p> + 'All the ladies,' slapping his knees, 'likes to go to Paris.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, if just once before I die I could be + fitted for a Paris gown with dreamy corsage!' + </p> + <p> + 'You're all alike, old covey. We have a song about it.' He + sings: + </p> + <pre> + 'Mrs. Gill is very ill, + Nothing can improve her + But to see the Tuileries + And waddle through the Louvre.' +</pre> + <p> + No song ever had a greater success. Mrs. Dowey is doubled up + with mirth. When she comes to, when they both come to, for + there are a pair of them, she cries: + </p> + <p> + 'You must learn me that,' and off she goes in song also: + </p> + <pre> + 'Mrs. Dowey's very ill, + Nothing can improve her.' +</pre> + <p> + 'Stop!' cries clever Kenneth, and finishes the verse: + </p> + <pre> + 'But dressed up in a Paris gown + To waddle through the Louvre.' +</pre> + <p> + They fling back their heads, she points at him, he points at + her. She says ecstatically: + </p> + <p> + 'Hairy legs!' + </p> + <p> + A mad remark, which brings him to his senses; he remembers + who and what she is. + </p> + <p> + 'Mind your manners!' Rising, 'Well, thank you for my tea. I + must be stepping.' + </p> + <p> + Poor Mrs. Dowey, he is putting on his kit. + </p> + <p> + 'Where are you living?' + </p> + <p> + He sighs. + </p> + <p> + 'That's the question. But there's a place called The Hut, + where some of the 2nd Battalion are. They'll take me in. + Beggars,' bitterly, 'can't be choosers.' + </p> + <p> + 'Beggars?' + </p> + <p> + 'I've never been here before. If you knew'—a shadow + coming over him—'what it is to be in such a place + without a friend. I was crazy with glee, when I got my leave, + at the thought of seeing London at last, but after wandering + its streets for four hours, I would almost have been glad to + be back in the trenches.' + </p> + <p> + 'If you knew,' he has said, but indeed the old lady knows. + </p> + <p> + 'That's my quandorum too, Kenneth.' + </p> + <p> + He nods sympathetically. + </p> + <p> + 'I'm sorry for you, you poor old body,' shouldering his kit. + 'But I see no way out for either of us.' + </p> + <p> + A cooing voice says, 'Do you not?' + </p> + <p> + 'Are you at it again!' + </p> + <p> + She knows that it must be now or never. She has left her + biggest guns for the end. In her excitement she is rising up + and down on her toes. + </p> + <p> + 'Kenneth, I've heard that the thing a man on leave longs for + more than anything else is a bed with sheets, and a bath.' + </p> + <p> + 'You never heard anything truer.' + </p> + <p> + 'Go into that pantry, Kenneth Dowey, and lift the + dresser-top, and tell me what you see.' + </p> + <p> + He goes. There is an awful stillness. He returns, impressed. + </p> + <p> + 'It's a kind of a bath!' + </p> + <p> + 'You could do yourself there pretty, half at a time.' + </p> + <p> + 'Me?' + </p> + <p> + 'There's a woman through the wall that would be very willing + to give me a shakedown till your leave is up.' + </p> + <p> + He snorts. + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, is there!' + </p> + <p> + She has not got him yet, but there is still one more gun. + </p> + <p> + 'Kenneth, look!' + </p> + <p> + With these simple words she lets down the bed. She says no + more; an effect like this would be spoilt by language. + Fortunately he is not made of stone. He thrills. + </p> + <p> + 'My word! That's the dodge we need in the trenches.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's your bed, Kenneth.' + </p> + <p> + 'Mine?' He grins at her. 'You queer old divert. What can make + you so keen to be burdened by a lump like me?' + </p> + <p> + 'He! he! he! he!' + </p> + <p> + 'I tell you, I'm the commonest kind of man.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm just the commonest kind of old wifie myself.' + </p> + <p> + 'I've been a kick-about all my life, and I'm no great shakes + at the war.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, you are. How many Germans have you killed?' + </p> + <p> + 'Just two for certain, and there was no glory in it. It was + just because they wanted my shirt.' + </p> + <p> + 'Your shirt?' + </p> + <p> + 'Well, they said it was their shirt.' + </p> + <p> + 'Have you took prisoners?' + </p> + <p> + 'I once took half a dozen, but that was a poor affair too.' + </p> + <p> + 'How could one man take half a dozen?' + </p> + <p> + 'Just in the usual way. I surrounded them.' + </p> + <p> + 'Kenneth, you're just my ideal.' + </p> + <p> + 'You're easily pleased.' + </p> + <p> + He turns again to the bed, 'Let's see how the thing works.' + He kneads the mattress with his fist, and the result is so + satisfactory that he puts down his kit. + </p> + <p> + 'Old lady, if you really want me, I'll bide.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh! oh! oh! oh!' + </p> + <p> + Her joy is so demonstrative that he has to drop a word of + warning. + </p> + <p> + 'But, mind you, I don't accept you as a relation. For your + personal glory, you can go on pretending to the neighbours; + but the best I can say for you is that you're on your + probation. I'm a cautious character, and we must see how + you'll turn out.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, Kenneth.' + </p> + <p> + 'And now, I think, for that bath. My theatre begins at + six-thirty. A cove I met on a 'bus is going with me.' + </p> + <p> + She is a little alarmed. + </p> + <p> + 'You're sure you'll come back?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, yes,' handsomely, 'I leave my kit in pledge.' + </p> + <p> + 'You won't liquor up too freely, Kenneth?' + </p> + <p> + 'You're the first,' chuckling, 'to care whether I do or not.' + Nothing she has said has pleased the lonely man so much as + this. 'I promise. Tod, I'm beginning to look forward to being + wakened in the morning by hearing you cry, "Get up, you lazy + swine." I've kind of envied men that had womenfolk with the + right to say that.' + </p> + <p> + He is passing to the bathroom when a diverting notion strikes + him. + </p> + <p> + 'What is it, Kenneth?' + </p> + <p> + 'The theatre. It would be showier if I took a lady.' + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dowey feels a thumping at her breast. + </p> + <p> + 'Kenneth, tell me this instant what you mean. Don't keep me + on the jumps.' + </p> + <p> + He turns her round. + </p> + <p> + 'No, It couldn't be done.' + </p> + <p> + 'Was it me you were thinking of?' + </p> + <p> + 'Just for the moment,' regretfully, 'but you have no style.' + </p> + <p> + She catches hold of him by the sleeve. + </p> + <p> + 'Not in this, of course. But, oh, Kenneth, if you saw me in + my merino! It's laced up the back in the very latest.' + </p> + <p> + 'Hum,' doubtfully; 'but let's see it.' + </p> + <p> + It is produced from a drawer, to which the old lady runs with + almost indecent haste. The connoisseur examines it + critically. + </p> + <p> + 'Looks none so bad. Have you a bit of chiffon for the neck? + It's not bombs nor Kaisers nor Tipperary that men in the + trenches think of, it's chiffon.' + </p> + <p> + 'I swear I have, Kenneth, And I have a bangle, and a muff, + and gloves.' + </p> + <p> + 'Ay, ay.' He considers. 'Do you think you could give your + face less of a homely look?' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm sure I could.' + </p> + <p> + 'Then you can have a try. But, mind you, I promise nothing. + All will depend on the effect.' + </p> + <p> + He goes into the pantry, and the old lady is left alone. Not + alone, for she is ringed round by entrancing hopes and + dreadful fears. They beam on her and jeer at her, they pull + her this way and that; with difficulty she breaks through + them and rushes to her pail, hot water, soap, and a + looking-glass. Our last glimpse of her for this evening shows + her staring (not discontentedly) at her soft old face, + licking her palm, and pressing it to her hair. Her eyes are + sparkling. + </p> + <hr> + <p> + One evening a few days later Mrs. Twymley and Mrs. Mickleham + are in Mrs. Dowey's house, awaiting that lady's return from + some fashionable dissipation. They have undoubtedly been + discussing the war, for the first words we catch are: + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I tell you flat, Amelia, I bows no knee to + junkerdom.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Sitting here by the fire, you and me, as one + to another, what do you think will happen after the war? Are + we to go back to being as we were?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Speaking for myself, Amelia, not me. The war + has wakened me up to a understanding of my own importance + that is really astonishing.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Same here. Instead of being the poor worms the + like of you and me thought we was, we turns out to be visible + departments of a great and haughty empire.' + </p> + <p> + They are well under weigh, and with a little luck we might + now hear their views on various passing problems of the day, + such as the neglect of science in our public schools. But in + comes the Haggerty Woman, and spoils everything. She is + attired, like them, in her best, but the effect of her is + that her clothes have gone out for a walk, leaving her at + home. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM, with deep distaste, 'Here's that submarine + again.' + </p> + <p> + The Haggerty Woman cringes to them, but gets no + encouragement. + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'It's a terrible war.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Is that so?' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I wonder what will happen when it ends?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I have no idea.' + </p> + <p> + The intruder produces her handkerchief, but does not use it. + After all, she is in her best. + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Are they not back yet?' + </p> + <p> + Perfect ladies must reply to a direct question. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'No,' icily. 'We have been waiting this half + hour. They are at the theatre again.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'You tell me! I just popped in with an + insignificant present for him, as his leave is up.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'The same errand brought us.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'My present is cigarettes.' + </p> + <p> + They have no intention of telling her what their presents + are, but the secret leaps from them. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'So is mine.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Mine too.' + </p> + <p> + Triumph of the Haggerty Woman. But it is short-lived. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Mine has gold tips.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'So has mine.' + </p> + <p> + The Haggerty Woman need not say a word. You have only to look + at her to know that her cigarettes are not gold-tipped. She + tries to brazen it out, which is so often a mistake. + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'What care I? Mine is Exquisytos.' + </p> + <p> + No wonder they titter. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Excuse us, Mrs. Haggerty (if that's your + name), but the word is Exquiseetos.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Much obliged' (weeps). + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I think I heard a taxi.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'It will be her third this week.' + </p> + <p> + They peer through the blind. They are so excited that rank is + forgotten. + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'What is she in?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'A new astrakhan jacket he gave her, with + Venus sleeves.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Has she sold her gabardine coat?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Not her! She has them both at the theatre, + warm night though it is. She's wearing the astrakhan, and + carrying the gabardine, flung careless-like over her arm.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I saw her strutting about with him + yesterday, looking as if she thought the two of them made a + procession.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Hsh!' peeping, 'Strike me dead, if she's not + coming mincing down the stair, hooked on his arm!' + </p> + <p> + Indeed it is thus that Mrs. Dowey enters. Perhaps she had + seen shadows lurking on the blind, and at once hooked on to + Kenneth to impress the visitors. She is quite capable of it. + </p> + <p> + Now we see what Kenneth saw that afternoon five days ago when + he emerged from the bathroom and found the old trembler + awaiting his inspection. Here are the muff and the gloves and + the chiffon, and such a kind old bonnet that it makes you + laugh at once; I don't know how to describe it, but it is + trimmed with a kiss, as bonnets should be when the wearer is + old and frail. We must take the merino for granted until she + steps out of the astrakhan. She is dressed up to the nines, + there is no doubt about it. Yes, but is her face less homely? + Above all, has she style? The answer is in a stout + affirmative. Ask Kenneth. He knows. Many a time he has had to + go behind a door to roar hilariously at the old lady. He has + thought of her as a lark to tell his mates about by and by; + but for some reason that he cannot fathom, he knows now that + he will never do that. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Kenneth,' affecting surprise, 'we have + visitors!' + </p> + <p> + DOWEY. 'Your servant, ladies.' + </p> + <p> + He is no longer mud-caked and dour. A very smart figure is + this Private Dowey, and he winks engagingly at the visitors, + like one who knows that for jolly company you cannot easily + beat charwomen. The pleasantries that he and they have + exchanged this week! The sauce he has given them. The wit of + Mrs. Mickleham's retorts. The badinage of Mrs. Twymley. The + neat giggles of the Haggerty Woman. There has been nothing + like it since you took the countess in to dinner. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'We should apologise. We're not meaning to + stay.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'You are very welcome. Just wait'—the + ostentation of this!—'till I get out of my + astrakhan—and my muff—and my gloves—and' + (it is the bonnet's turn now) 'my Excelsior.' + </p> + <p> + At last we see her in the merino (a triumph). + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'You've given her a glory time, Mr. Dowey.' + </p> + <p> + DOWEY. 'It's her that has given it to me, missis.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Hey! hey! hey! hey! He just pampers me,' + waggling her fists. 'The Lord forgive us, but this being the + last night, we had a sit-down supper at a restaurant!' + Vehemently: 'I swear by God that we had champagny wine.' + There is a dead stillness, and she knows very well what it + means, she has even prepared for it: 'And to them as doubts + my word—here's the cork.' + </p> + <p> + She places the cork, in its lovely gold drapery, upon the + table. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I'm sure!' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I would thank you, Mrs. Dowey, not to say a + word against my Alfred.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Me!' + </p> + <p> + DOWEY. 'Come, come, ladies,' in the masterful way that is so + hard for women to resist; 'if you say another word, I'll kiss + the lot of you.' + </p> + <p> + There is a moment of pleased confusion. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Really, them sodgers!' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'The kilties is the worst!' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I'm sure,' heartily, 'we don't grudge you your + treats, Mrs. Dowey; and sorry we are that this is the end.' + </p> + <p> + DOWEY. 'Yes, it's the end,' with a troubled look at his old + lady; 'I must be off in ten minutes.' + </p> + <p> + The little soul is too gallant to break down in company. She + hurries into the pantry and shuts the door. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Poor thing! But we must run, for you'll be + having some last words to say to her.' + </p> + <p> + DOWEY. 'I kept her out long on purpose so as to have less + time to say them in.' + </p> + <p> + He more than half wishes that he could make a bolt to a + public-house. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'It's the best way.' In the important affairs + of life there is not much that any one can teach a charwoman. + 'Just a mere nothing, to wish you well, Mr. Dowey.' + </p> + <p> + All three present him with the cigarettes. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'A scraping, as one might say.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'The heart,' enigmatically, 'is warm + though it may not be gold-tipped.' + </p> + <p> + DOWEY. 'You bricks!' + </p> + <p> + THE LADIES. 'Good luck, cocky.' + </p> + <p> + DOWEY. 'The same to you. And if you see a sodger man up there + in a kilt, he is one that is going back with me. Tell him not + to come down, but—but to give me till the last minute, + and then to whistle.' + </p> + <p> + It is quite a grave man who is left alone, thinking what to + do next. He tries a horse laugh, but that proves of no help. + He says 'Hell!' to himself, but it is equally ineffective. + Then he opens the pantry door and calls. + </p> + <p> + 'Old lady.' + </p> + <p> + She comes timidly to the door, her hand up as if to ward off + a blow. + </p> + <p> + 'Is it time?' + </p> + <p> + An encouraging voice answers her. + </p> + <p> + 'No, no, not yet. I've left word for Dixon to whistle when go + I must.' + </p> + <p> + 'All is ended.' + </p> + <p> + 'Now, then, you promised to be gay. We were to help one + another.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, Kenneth.' + </p> + <p> + 'It's bad for me, but it's worse for you.' + </p> + <p> + 'The men have medals to win, you see.' + </p> + <p> + 'The women have their medals, too.' He knows she likes him to + order her about, so he tries it again. + </p> + <p> + 'Come here. No, I'll come to you.' He stands gaping at her + wonderingly. He has no power of words, nor does he quite know + what he would like to say. 'God!' + </p> + <p> + 'What is it, Kenneth?' + </p> + <p> + 'You're a woman.' + </p> + <p> + 'I had near forgot it.' + </p> + <p> + He wishes he was at the station with Dixon. Dixon is sure to + have a bottle in his pocket. They will be roaring a song + presently. But in the meantime—there is that son + business. Blethers, the whole thing, of course—or + mostly blethers. But it's the way to please her. + </p> + <p> + 'Have you noticed you have never called me son?' + </p> + <p> + 'Have I noticed it! I was feared, Kenneth. You said I was on + probation.' + </p> + <p> + 'And so you were. Well, the probation's ended.' He laughs + uncomfortably. + 'The like of me! But if you want me you can have me.' + </p> + <p> + 'Kenneth, will I do?' + </p> + <p> + 'Woman,' artfully gay, 'don't be so forward. Wait till I have + proposed.' + </p> + <p> + 'Propose for a mother?' + </p> + <p> + 'What for no?' In the grand style, 'Mrs. Dowey, you queer + carl, you spunky tiddy, have I your permission to ask you the + most important question a neglected orphan can ask of an old + lady?' + </p> + <p> + She bubbles with mirth. Who could help it, the man has such a + way with him. + </p> + <p> + 'None of your sauce, Kenneth.' + </p> + <p> + 'For a long time, Mrs. Dowey, you cannot have been unaware of + my sonnish feelings for you.' + </p> + <p> + 'Wait till I get my mop to you!' + </p> + <p> + 'And if you're not willing to be my mother, I swear I'll + never ask another.' + </p> + <p> + The old divert pulls him down to her and strokes his hair. + </p> + <p> + 'Was I a well-behaved infant, mother?' + </p> + <p> + 'Not you, sonny, you were a rampaging rogue.' + </p> + <p> + 'Was I slow in learning to walk?' + </p> + <p> + 'The quickest in our street. He! he! he!' She starts up. 'Was + that the whistle?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, no. See here. In taking me over you have, in a manner of + speaking, joined the Black Watch.' + </p> + <p> + 'I like to think that, Kenneth.' + </p> + <p> + 'Then you must behave so that the ghost piper can be proud of + you. 'Tion!' She stands bravely at attention. 'That's the + style. Now listen, I've sent in your name as being my nearest + of kin, and your allowance will be coming to you weekly in + the usual way.' + </p> + <p> + 'Hey! hey! hey! Is it wicked, Kenneth?' + </p> + <p> + 'I'll take the responsibility for it in both worlds. You see, + I want you to be safeguarded in case anything hap—' + </p> + <p> + 'Kenneth!' + </p> + <p> + ''Tion! Have no fear. I'll come back, covered with mud and + medals. Mind you have that cup of tea waiting for me.' He is + listening for the whistle. He pulls her on to his knee. + </p> + <p> + 'Hey! hey! hey! hey!' + </p> + <p> + 'What fun we'll have writing to one another! Real letters + this time!' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes.' + </p> + <p> + 'It would be a good plan if you began the first letter as + soon as I've gone.' + </p> + <p> + 'I will.' + </p> + <p> + 'I hope Lady Dolly will go on sending me cakes.' + </p> + <p> + 'You may be sure.' + </p> + <p> + He ties his scarf round her neck. + </p> + <p> + 'You must have been a bonny thing when you were young.' + </p> + <p> + 'Away with you!' + </p> + <p> + 'That scarf sets you fine.' + </p> + <p> + 'Blue was always my colour.' + </p> + <p> + The whistle sounds. + </p> + <p> + 'Old lady, you are what Blighty means to me now.' + </p> + <p> + She hides in the pantry again. She is out of sight to us, but + she does something that makes Private Dowey take off his + bonnet. Then he shoulders his equipment and departs. That is + he laughing coarsely with Dixon. + </p> + <p> + We have one last glimpse of the old lady—a month or two + after Kenneth's death in action. It would be rosemary to us + to see her in her black dress, of which she is very proud; + but let us rather peep at her in the familiar garments that + make a third to her mop and pail. It is early morning, and + she is having a look at her medals before setting off on the + daily round. They are in a drawer, with the scarf covering + them, and on the scarf a piece of lavender. First, the black + frock, which she carries in her arms like a baby. Then her + War Savings Certificates, Kenneth's bonnet, a thin packet of + real letters, and the famous champagne cork. She kisses the + letters, but she does not blub over them. She strokes the + dress, and waggles her head over the certificates and presses + the bonnet to her cheeks, and rubs the tinsel of the cork + carefully with her apron. She is a tremulous old 'un; yet she + exults, for she owns all these things, and also the penny + flag on her breast. She puts them away in the drawer, the + scarf over them, the lavender on the scarf. Her air of + triumph well becomes her. She lifts the pail and the mop, and + slouches off gamely to the day's toil. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_2"><!-- RULE4 2 --></a> + <h2> + THE NEW WORD + </h2> + <p> + Any room nowadays must be the scene, for any father and any + son are the <i>dramatis personae</i>. We could pick them up + in Mayfair, in Tooting, on the Veldt, in rectories or in + grocers' back parlours, dump them down on our toy stage and + tell them to begin. It is a great gathering to choose from, + but our needs are small. Let the company shake hands, and all + go away but two. + </p> + <p> + The two who have remained (it is discovered on inquiry) are + Mr. Torrance and his boy; so let us make use of them. + Torrance did not linger in order to be chosen, he was + anxious, like all of them, to be off; but we recognised him, + and sternly signed to him to stay. Not that we knew him + personally, but the fact is, we remembered him (we never + forget a face) as the legal person who reads out the names of + the jury before the court opens, and who brushes aside your + reasons for wanting to be let off. It pleases our humour to + tell Mr. Torrance that we cannot let him off. + </p> + <p> + He does not look so formidable as when last we saw him, and + this is perhaps owing to our no longer being hunched with + others on those unfeeling benches. It is not because he is + without a wig, for we saw him, on the occasion to which we + are so guardedly referring, both in a wig and out of it; he + passed behind a screen without it, and immediately (as + quickly as we write) popped out in it, giving it a finishing + touch rather like the butler's wriggle to his coat as he goes + to the door. There are the two kinds of learned brothers, + those who use the screen, and those who (so far as the jury + knows) sleep in their wigs. The latter are the swells, and + include the judges; whom, however, we have seen in the public + thoroughfares without their wigs, a horrible sight that has + doubtless led many an onlooker to crime. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance, then, is no great luminary; indeed, when we + accompany him to his house, as we must, in order to set our + scene properly, we find that it is quite a suburban affair, + only one servant kept, and her niece engaged twice a week to + crawl about the floors. There is no fire in the drawing-room, + so the family remain on after dinner in the dining-room, + which rather gives them away. There is really no one in the + room but Roger. That is the truth of it, though to the + unseeing eye all the family are there except Roger. They + consist of Mr., Mrs., and Miss Torrance. Mr. Torrance is + enjoying his evening paper and a cigar, and every line of him + is insisting stubbornly that nothing unusual is happening in + the house. In the home circle (and now that we think of it, + even in court) he has the reputation of being a somewhat + sarcastic gentleman; he must be dogged, too, otherwise he + would have ceased long ago to be sarcastic to his wife, on + whom wit falls like pellets on sandbags; all the dents they + make are dimples. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Torrance is at present exquisitely employed; she is + listening to Roger's step overhead. You, know what a + delightful step the boy has. And what is more remarkable is + that Emma is listening to it too, Emma who is seventeen, and + who has been trying to keep Roger in his place ever since he + first compelled her to bowl to him. Things have come to a + pass when a sister so openly admits that she is only number + two in the house. + </p> + <p> + Remarks well worthy of being recorded fall from these two + ladies as they gaze upward. 'I think—didn't I, Emma?' + is the mother's contribution, while it is Emma who replies in + a whisper, 'No, not yet!' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance calmly reads, or seems to read, for it is not + possible that there can be anything in the paper as good as + this. Indeed, he occasionally casts a humorous glance at his + women-folk. Perhaps he is trying to steady them. Let us hope + he has some such good reason for breaking in from time to + time on their entrancing occupation. + </p> + <p> + 'Listen to this, dear. It is very important. The paper says, + upon apparently good authority, that love laughs at + locksmiths.' + </p> + <p> + His wife answers without lowering her eyes. 'Did you speak, + John? I am listening.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, I was telling you that the Hidden Hand has at last been + discovered in a tub in Russell Square.' + </p> + <p> + 'I hear, John. How thoughtful.' + </p> + <p> + 'And so they must have been made of margarine, my love.' + </p> + <p> + 'I shouldn't wonder, John.' + </p> + <p> + 'Hence the name Petrograd.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, was that the reason?' + </p> + <p> + 'You will be pleased to hear, Ellen, that the honourable + gentleman then resumed his seat.' + </p> + <p> + 'That was nice of him.' + </p> + <p> + 'As I,' good-naturedly, 'now resume mine, having made my + usual impression.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, John.' + </p> + <p> + Emma slips upstairs to peep through a keyhole, and it strikes + her mother that John has been saying something. They are on + too good terms to make an apology necessary. She observes + blandly, 'John, I haven't heard a word you said.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm sure you haven't, woman.' + </p> + <p> + 'I can't help being like this, John.' + </p> + <p> + 'Go on being like yourself, dear.' + </p> + <p> + 'Am I foolish?' + </p> + <p> + 'Um.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, but, John, how can you be so calm—with him up + there?' + </p> + <p> + 'He has been up there a good deal, you know, since we + presented him to an astounded world nineteen years ago.' + </p> + <p> + 'But he—he is not going to be up there much longer, + John.' She sits on the arm of his chair, so openly to wheedle + him that it is not worth his while to smile. Her voice is + tremulous; she is a woman who can conceal nothing. 'You will + be nice to him—to-night—won't you, John?' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance is a little pained. 'Do I just begin to-night, + Ellen?' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh no, no; but I think he is rather—shy of you at + times.' + </p> + <p> + 'That,' he says a little wryly, 'is because he is my son, + Ellen.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes—it's strange; but—yes.' + </p> + <p> + With a twinkle that is not all humorous, 'Did it ever strike + you, Ellen, that I am a bit—shy of him?' + </p> + <p> + She is indeed surprised. 'Of Rogie!' + </p> + <p> + 'I suppose it is because I am his father.' + </p> + <p> + She presumes that this is his sarcasm again, and lets it pass + at that. It reminds her of what she wants to say. + </p> + <p> + 'You are so sarcastic,' she has never quite got the meaning + of this word, 'to Rogie at times. Boys don't like that, + John.' + </p> + <p> + 'Is that so, Ellen?' + </p> + <p> + 'Of course I don't mind your being sarcastic to + <i>me</i>—' + </p> + <p> + 'Much good,' groaning, 'my being sarcastic to you! You are so + seldom aware of it.' + </p> + <p> + 'I am not asking you to be a mother to him, John.' + </p> + <p> + 'Thank you, my dear.' + </p> + <p> + She does not know that he is sarcastic again. 'I quite + understand that a man can't think all the time about his son + as a mother does.' + </p> + <p> + 'Can't he, Ellen? What makes you so sure of that?' + </p> + <p> + 'I mean that a boy naturally goes to his mother with his + troubles rather than to his father. Rogie tells me + everything.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance is stung. 'I daresay he might tell me things he + wouldn't tell you.' + </p> + <p> + She smiles at this. It is very probably sarcasm. + </p> + <p> + 'I want you to be serious just now. Why not show more warmth + to him, John?' + </p> + <p> + With an unspoken sigh, 'It would terrify him, Ellen. Two men + show warmth to each other! Shame, woman!' + </p> + <p> + 'Two men!' indignantly. 'John, he is only nineteen.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's all,' patting her hand. 'Ellen, it is the great age + to be to-day, nineteen.' + </p> + <p> + Emma darts in. + </p> + <p> + 'Mother, he has unlocked the door! He is taking a last look + at himself in the mirror before coming down!' + </p> + <p> + Having made the great announcement, she is off again. + </p> + <p> + 'You won't be sarcastic, John?' + </p> + <p> + 'I give you my word—if you promise not to break down.' + </p> + <p> + Rashly, 'I promise.' She hurries to the door and back again. + 'John, I'll contrive to leave you and him alone together for + a little.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance is as alarmed as if the judge had looked over + the bench and asked where he was. 'For God's sake, woman, + don't do that! Father and son! He'll bolt; or if he doesn't, + I will.' + </p> + <p> + Emma Torrance flings open the door grandly, and we learn what + all the to-do is about. + </p> + <p> + EMMA. 'Allow me to introduce 2nd Lieutenant Torrance of the + Royal Sussex. Father—your son; 2nd Lieutenant + Torrance—your father. Mother—your little Rogie.' + </p> + <p> + Roger, in uniform, walks in, strung up for the occasion. Or + the uniform comes forward with Roger inside it. He has been a + very ordinary nice boy up to now, dull at his 'books'; by an + effort Mr. Torrance had sent him to an obscure + boarding-school, but at sixteen it was evident that an office + was the proper place for Roger. Before the war broke out he + was treasurer of the local lawn tennis club, and his golf + handicap was seven; he carried his little bag daily to and + from the city, and his highest relaxation was giggling with + girls or about them. Socially he had fallen from the + standards of the home; even now that he is in his uniform the + hasty might say something clever about 'temporary gentlemen.' + </p> + <p> + But there are great ideas buzzing in Roger's head, which + would never have been there save for the war. At present he + is chiefly conscious of his clothes. His mother embraces him + with cries of rapture, while Mr. Torrance surveys him + quizzically over the paper; and Emma, rushing to the piano, + which is of such an old-fashioned kind that it can also be + used as a sideboard, plays 'See the Conquering Hero Comes.' + </p> + <p> + ROGER, in an agony, 'Mater, do stop that chit making an ass + of me.' + </p> + <p> + He must be excused for his 'mater.' That was the sort of + school; and his mother is rather proud of the phrase, though + it sometimes makes his father wince. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'Emma, please, don't. But I'm sure you deserve + it, my darling. Doesn't he, John?' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE, missing his chance, 'Hardly yet, you know. + Can't be exactly a conquering hero the first night you put + them on, can you, Roger?' + </p> + <p> + ROGER, hotly, 'Did I say I was?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'Oh, John! Do turn round, Rogie. I never + did—I never did!' + </p> + <p> + EMMA. 'Isn't he a pet!' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'Shut up, Emma.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE, challenging the world, 'Though I say it who + shouldn't—and yet, why shouldn't I?' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'In any case you will—so go ahead, + "mater."' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'I knew he would look splendid; but I—of + course I couldn't know that he would look quite so splendid + as this.' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'I know I look a bally ass. That is why I was such a + time in coming down.' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'We thought we heard you upstairs strutting + about.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'John! Don't mind him, Rogie.' + </p> + <p> + ROGER, haughtily, 'I don't.' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'Oh!' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'But I wasn't strutting.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'That dreadful sword! No, I would prefer you + not to draw it, dear—not till necessity makes you.' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'Come, come, Ellen; that's rather hard lines on + the boy. If he isn't to draw it here, where is he to draw + it?' + </p> + <p> + EMMA, with pride, 'At the Front, father.' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'I thought they left them at home nowadays, + Roger?' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'Yes, mater; you see, they are a bit in the way.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE, foolishly, 'Not when you have got used to + them.' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'That isn't what Roger means.' (His son + glares.) + </p> + <p> + EMMA, who, though she has not formerly thought much of Roger, + is now proud to trot by his side and will henceforth count + the salutes, 'I know what he means. If you carry a sword the + snipers know you are an officer, and they try to pick you + off.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'It's no wonder they are called Huns. Fancy a + British sniper doing that! Roger, you will be very careful, + won't you, in the trenches?' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'Honour bright, mater.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'Above all, don't look up.' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'The trenches ought to be so deep that they + can't look up.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'What a good idea, John.' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'He's making game of you, mater.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE, unruffled, 'Is he, my own?—very likely. + Now about the question of provisions—' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'Oh, lummy, you talk as if I was going off to-night! I + mayn't go for months and months.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'I know—and, of course, there is a + chance that you may not be needed at all.' + </p> + <p> + ROGER, poor boy, 'None of that, mater.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'There is something I want to ask you, + John—How long do you think the war is likely to last?' + Her John resumes his paper. 'Rogie, I know you will laugh at + me, but there are some things that I could not help getting + for you.' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'You know, you have knitted enough things already to + fit up my whole platoon.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE, proud almost to tears, 'His platoon.' + </p> + <p> + EMMA. 'Have you noticed how fine all the words in -oon are? + Platoon! Dragoon!' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'Spitoon!' + </p> + <p> + EMMA. 'Colonel is good, but rather papaish; Major is nosey; + Admiral of the Fleet is scrumptious, but Marechal de + France—that is the best of all.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'I think there is nothing so nice as 2nd + Lieutenant.' Gulping, 'Lot of little boys.' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'Mater!' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'I mean, just think of their cold feet.' She + produces many parcels and displays their strange contents. + 'Those are for putting inside your socks. Those are for + outside your socks. I am told that it is also advisable to + have straw in your boots.' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'Have you got him some straw?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'I thought, John, he could get it there. But + if you think—' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'He's making fun of you again, mater.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'I shouldn't wonder. Here are some overalls. + One is leather and one fur, and this one is waterproof. The + worst of it is that they are from different shops, and each + says that the others keep the damp in, or draw the feet. They + have such odd names, too. There are new names for everything + nowadays. Vests are called cuirasses. Are you laughing at me, + Rogie?' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE, sharply, 'If he is laughing, he ought to be + ashamed of himself.' + </p> + <p> + ROGER, barking, 'Who was laughing?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'John!' + </p> + <p> + Emma cuffs her father playfully. + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'All very well, Emma, but it's past your + bedtime.' + </p> + <p> + EMMA, indignantly, 'You can't expect me to sleep on a night + like this.' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'You can try.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. '2nd Lieutenant! 2nd Lieutenant!' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE, alarmed, 'Ellen, don't break down. You + promised.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'I am not going to break down; but—but + there is a photograph of Rogie when he was very small—' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'Go to bed!' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'I happen—to have it in my + pocket—' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'Don't bring it out, mater.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'If I break down, John, it won't be owing to + the picture itself so much as because of what is written on + the back.' + </p> + <p> + She produces it dolefully. + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'Then don't look at the back.' + </p> + <p> + He takes it from her. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE, not very hopeful of herself, 'But I know what + is written on the back, "Roger John Torrance, aged two years + four months, and thirty-three pounds."' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'Correct.' She weeps softly. 'There, there, + woman.' He signs imploringly to Emma. + </p> + <p> + EMMA, kissing him, 'I'm going to by-by. 'Night, mammy. + 'Night, Rog.' She is about to offer him her cheek, then + salutes instead, and rushes off, with Roger in pursuit. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'I shall leave you together, John.' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE, half liking it, but nervous, 'Do you think it's + wise?' With a groan, 'You know what I am.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'Do be nice to him, dear.' Roger's return + finds her very artful indeed, 'I wonder where I put my + glasses?' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'I'll look for them.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'No, I remember now. They are upstairs in such + a funny place that I must go myself. Do you remember, Rogie, + that I hoped they would reject you on account of your eyes?' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'I suppose you couldn't help it.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE, beaming on her husband, 'Did you believe I + really meant it, John?' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE, curious, 'Did <i>you</i>, Roger?' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'Of course. Didn't you, father?' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'No! I knew the old lady better.' + </p> + <p> + He takes her hand. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE, sweetly, 'I shouldn't have liked it, Rogie + dear. I'll tell you something. You know your brother Harry + died when he was seven. To you, I suppose, it is as if he had + never been. You were barely five. + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'I don't remember him, mater.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'No—no. But I do, Rogie. He would be + twenty-one now; but though you and Emma grew up I have always + gone on seeing him as just seven. Always till the war broke + out. And now I see him a man of twenty-one, dressed in khaki, + fighting for his country, same as you. I wouldn't have had + one of you stay at home, though I had had a dozen. That is, + if it is the noble war they all say it is. I'm not clever, + Rogie, I have to take it on trust. Surely they wouldn't + deceive mothers. I'll get my glasses.' + </p> + <p> + She goes away, leaving the father and son somewhat moved. It + is Mr. Torrance who speaks first, gruffly. + </p> + <p> + 'Like to change your mother, Roger?' + </p> + <p> + The answer is also gruff. 'What do <i>you</i> think?' + </p> + <p> + Then silence falls. These two are very conscious of being + together, without so much as the tick of a clock to help + them. The father clings to his cigar, sticks his knife into + it, studies the leaf, tries crossing his legs another way. + The son examines the pictures on the walls as if he had never + seen them before, and is all the time edging toward the door. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance wets his lips; it must be now or never, 'Not + going, Roger?' + </p> + <p> + Roger counts the chairs. 'Yes, I thought—' + </p> + <p> + 'Won't you—sit down and—have a chat?' + </p> + <p> + Roger is bowled over. 'A what? You and me!' + </p> + <p> + 'Why not?' rather truculently. + </p> + <p> + 'Oh—oh, all right,' sitting uncomfortably. + </p> + <p> + The cigar gets several more stabs. + </p> + <p> + 'I suppose you catch an early train to-morrow?' + </p> + <p> + 'The 5.20. I have flag-signalling at half-past six.' + </p> + <p> + 'Phew! Hours before I shall be up.' + </p> + <p> + 'I suppose so.' + </p> + <p> + 'Well, you needn't dwell on it, Roger.' + </p> + <p> + Indignantly. 'I didn't.' He starts up. 'Good-night, father.' + </p> + <p> + 'Good-night. Damn. Come back. My fault. Didn't I say I wanted + to have a chat with you?' + </p> + <p> + 'I thought we had had it.' + </p> + <p> + Gloomingly, 'No such luck.' + </p> + <p> + There is another pause. A frightened ember in the fire makes + an appeal to some one to say something. Mr. Torrance rises. + It is now he who is casting eyes at the door. He sits again, + ashamed of himself. + </p> + <p> + 'I like your uniform, Roger,' he says pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + Roger wriggles. 'Haven't you made fun of me enough?' + </p> + <p> + Sharply, 'I'm not making fun of you. Don't you see I'm trying + to tell you that I'm proud of you?' + </p> + <p> + Roger is at last aware of it, with a sinking. He appeals, + 'Good lord, father, <i>you</i> are not going to begin now.' + </p> + <p> + The father restrains himself. + </p> + <p> + 'Do you remember, Roger, my saying that I didn't want you to + smoke till you were twenty?' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, it's that, is it?' Shutting his mouth tight, 'I never + promised.' + </p> + <p> + Almost with a shout, 'It's not that.' Then kindly, 'Have a + cigar, my boy?' + </p> + <p> + 'Me?' + </p> + <p> + A rather shaky hand, passes him a cigar case. Roger selects + from it and lights up nervously. He is now prepared for the + worst. + </p> + <p> + 'Have you ever wondered, Roger, what sort of a fellow I am?' + </p> + <p> + Guardedly, 'Often.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance casts all sense of decency to the winds; such is + one of the effects of war. + </p> + <p> + 'I have often wondered what sort of fellow you are, Roger. We + have both been at it on the sly. I suppose that is what makes + a father and son so uncomfortable in each other's presence.' + </p> + <p> + Roger is not yet prepared to meet him half-way, but he casts + a line. + </p> + <p> + 'Do you feel the creeps when you are left alone with me?' + </p> + <p> + 'Mortally, Roger. My first instinct is to slip away.' + </p> + <p> + 'So is mine,' with deep feeling. + </p> + <p> + 'You don't say so!' with such surprise that the father + undoubtedly goes up a step in the son's estimation. 'I always + seem to know what you are thinking, Roger.' + </p> + <p> + 'Do you? Same here.' + </p> + <p> + 'As a consequence it is better, it is right, it is only + decent that you and I should be very chary of confidences + with each other.' + </p> + <p> + Roger is relieved. 'I'm dashed glad you see it in that way.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, quite. And yet, Roger, if you had to answer this + question on oath, "Whom do you think you are most like in + this world?" I don't mean superficially, but deep down in + your vitals, what would you say? Your mother, your uncle, one + of your friends on the golf links?' + </p> + <p> + 'No.' + </p> + <p> + 'Who?' + </p> + <p> + Darkly, 'You.' + </p> + <p> + 'Just how I feel.' + </p> + <p> + There is such true sympathy in the manly avowal that Roger + cannot but be brought closer to his father. + </p> + <p> + 'It's pretty ghastly, father.' + </p> + <p> + 'It is. I don't know which it is worse for.' + </p> + <p> + They consider each other without bitterness. + </p> + <p> + 'You are a bit of a wag at times, Roger.' + </p> + <p> + 'You soon shut me up.' + </p> + <p> + 'I have heard that you sparkle more freely in my absence.' + </p> + <p> + 'They say the same about you.' + </p> + <p> + 'And now that you mention it, I believe it is true; and yet, + isn't it a bigger satisfaction to you to catch me relishing + your jokes than any other person?' + </p> + <p> + Roger's eyes open wide. 'How did you know that?' + </p> + <p> + 'Because I am so bucked if I see you relishing mine.' + </p> + <p> + '<i>Are</i> you?' Roger's hold on the certain things in life + are slipping. 'You don't show it.' + </p> + <p> + 'That is because of our awkward relationship.' + </p> + <p> + Roger lapses into gloom. 'We have got to go through with it.' + </p> + <p> + His father kicks the coals. 'There's no way out.' + </p> + <p> + 'No.' + </p> + <p> + 'We have, as it were, signed a compact, Roger, never to let + on that we care for each other. As gentlemen we must stick to + it.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes. What are you getting at, father?' + </p> + <p> + 'There is a war on, Roger.' + </p> + <p> + 'That needn't make any difference.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, it does. Roger, be ready; I hate to hit you without + warning. I'm going to cast a grenade into the middle of you. + It's this, I'm fond of you, my boy.' + </p> + <p> + Roger squirms. 'Father, if any one were to hear you!' + </p> + <p> + 'They won't. The door is shut, Amy is gone to bed, and all is + quiet in our street. Won't you—won't you say something + civil to me in return, Roger?' + </p> + <p> + Roger looks at him and away from him. 'I + sometimes—bragged about you at school.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance is absurdly pleased. 'Did you? What sort of + things, Roger?' + </p> + <p> + 'I—I forget.' + </p> + <p> + 'Come on, Roger.' + </p> + <p> + 'Is this fair, father?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, I suppose it isn't.' Mr. Torrance attacks the coals + again. 'You and your mother have lots of confidences, haven't + you?' + </p> + <p> + 'I tell her a good deal. Somehow—' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, somehow one can.' With the artfulness that comes of + years, 'I'm glad you tell her everything.' + </p> + <p> + Roger looks down his cigar. 'Not everything, father. There + are things—about oneself—' + </p> + <p> + 'Aren't there, Roger!' + </p> + <p> + 'Best not to tell her.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes—yes. If there are any of them you would care to + tell me instead—just if you want to, mind—just if + you are in a hole or anything?' + </p> + <p> + 'No thanks,' very stiffly. + </p> + <p> + 'Any little debts, for instance?' + </p> + <p> + 'That's all right now. Mother—' + </p> + <p> + 'She did?' + </p> + <p> + Roger is ready to jump at him. 'I was willing to speak to you + about them, but—' + </p> + <p> + 'She said, "Not worth while bothering father."' + </p> + <p> + 'How did you know?' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, I have met your mother before, you see. Nothing else?' + </p> + <p> + 'No.' + </p> + <p> + 'Haven't been an ass about a girl or anything of that sort?'' + </p> + <p> + 'Good lord, father!' + </p> + <p> + 'I shouldn't have said it. In my young days we + sometimes—It's all different now.' + </p> + <p> + 'I don't know, I could tell you things that would surprise + you.' + </p> + <p> + 'No! Not about yourself?' + </p> + <p> + 'No. At least—' + </p> + <p> + 'Just as you like, Roger.' + </p> + <p> + 'It blew over long ago.' + </p> + <p> + 'Then there's no need?' + </p> + <p> + 'No—oh no. It was just—you know—the old, + old story.' + </p> + <p> + He eyes his father suspiciously, but not a muscle in Mr. + Torrance's countenance is out of place. + </p> + <p> + 'I see. It hasn't—left you bitter about the sex, Roger, + I hope?' + </p> + <p> + 'Not now. She—you know what women are.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, yes.' + </p> + <p> + 'You needn't mention it to mother.' + </p> + <p> + 'I won't.' Mr. Torrance is elated to share a secret with + Roger about which mother is not to know. 'Think your mother + and I are an aged pair, Roger?' + </p> + <p> + 'I never—of course you are not young.' + </p> + <p> + 'How long have you known that? I mean, it's true—but I + didn't know it till quite lately.' + </p> + <p> + 'That you're old?' + </p> + <p> + 'Hang it, Roger, not so bad as that—elderly. This will + stagger you; but I assure you that until the other day I + jogged along thinking of myself as on the whole still one of + the juveniles.' He makes a wry face. 'I crossed the bridge, + Roger, without knowing it.' + </p> + <p> + 'What made you know?' + </p> + <p> + 'What makes us know all the new things, Roger?—the war. + I'll tell you a secret. When we realised in August of 1914 + that myriads of us were to be needed, my first thought wasn't + that I had a son, but that I must get fit myself.' + </p> + <p> + 'You!' + </p> + <p> + 'Funny, isn't it?' says Mr. Torrance quite nastily. 'But, as + I tell you, I didn't know I had ceased to be young, I went + into Regent's Park and tried to run a mile.' + </p> + <p> + 'Lummy, you might have killed yourself.' + </p> + <p> + 'I nearly did—especially as I had put a weight on my + shoulders to represent my kit. I kept at it for a week, but I + knew the game was up. The discovery was pretty grim, Roger.' + </p> + <p> + 'Don't you bother about that part of it. You are doing your + share, taking care of mother and Emma.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance emits a laugh of self-contempt. 'I am not taking + care of them. It is you who are taking care of them. My + friend, you are the head of the house now.' + </p> + <p> + 'Father!' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, we have come back to hard facts, and the defender of + the house is the head of it.' + </p> + <p> + 'Me? Fudge.' + </p> + <p> + 'It's true. The thing that makes me wince most is that some + of my contemporaries have managed to squeeze back: back into + youth, Roger, though I guess they were a pretty tight fit in + the turnstile. There is Coxon; he is in khaki now, with his + hair dyed, and when he and I meet at the club we know that we + belong to different generations. I'm a decent old fellow, but + I don't really count any more, while Coxon, lucky dog, is + being damned daily on parade.' + </p> + <p> + 'I hate your feeling it in that way, father.' + </p> + <p> + 'I don't say it is a palatable draught, but when the war is + over we shall all shake down to the new conditions. No fear + of my being sarcastic to you then, Roger. I'll have to be + jolly respectful.' + </p> + <p> + 'Shut up, father!' + </p> + <p> + 'You've begun, you see. Don't worry, Roger. Any rawness I + might feel in having missed the chance of seeing whether I + was a man—like Coxon, confound him!—is swallowed + up in the pride of giving the chance to you. I'm in a shiver + about you, but—It's all true, Roger, what your mother + said about 2nd Lieutenants. Till the other day we were so + little of a military nation that most of us didn't know there + <i>were</i> 2nd Lieutenants. And now, in thousands of homes + we feel that there is nothing else. 2nd Lieutenant! It is + like a new word to us—one, I daresay, of many that the + war will add to our language. We have taken to it, Roger. If + a son of mine were to tarnish it—' + </p> + <p> + 'I'll try not to,' Roger growls. + </p> + <p> + 'If you did, I should just know that there had been something + wrong about me.' + </p> + <p> + Gruffly, 'You're all right.' + </p> + <p> + 'If I am, you are.' It is a winning face that Mr. Torrance + turns on his son. 'I suppose you have been asking yourself of + late, what if you were to turn out to be a funk!' + </p> + <p> + 'Father, how did you know?' + </p> + <p> + 'I know because you are me. Because ever since there was talk + of this commission I have been thinking and thinking what + were you thinking—so as to help you.' + </p> + <p> + This itself is a help. Roger's hand—but he withdraws it + hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + 'They all seem to be so frightfully brave, father,' he says + wistfully. + </p> + <p> + 'I expect, Roger, that the best of them had the same qualms + as you before their first engagement.' + </p> + <p> + 'I—I kind of think, father, that I won't be a funk.' + </p> + <p> + 'I kind of think so too, Roger.' Mr. Torrance forgets + himself. 'Mind you don't be rash, my boy; and for God's sake, + keep your head down in the trenches.' + </p> + <p> + Roger has caught him out. He points a gay finger at his + anxious father. + </p> + <p> + 'You know you laughed at mother for saying that!' + </p> + <p> + 'Did I? Roger, your mother thinks that I have an unfortunate + manner with you.' + </p> + <p> + The magnanimous Roger says, 'Oh, I don't know. It's just the + father-and-son complication.' + </p> + <p> + 'That is really all it is. But she thinks I should show my + affection for you more openly.' + </p> + <p> + Roger wriggles again. Earnestly, 'I wouldn't do that.' + Nicely, 'Of course for this once—but in a general way I + wouldn't do that. <i>We</i> know, you and I.' + </p> + <p> + 'As long as we know, it's no one else's affair, is it?' + </p> + <p> + 'That's the ticket, father.' + </p> + <p> + 'Still—' It is to be feared that Mr. Torrance is now + taking advantage of his superior slyness. 'Still, before your + mother—to please her—eh?' + </p> + <p> + Faltering, 'I suppose it would.' + </p> + <p> + 'Well, what do you say?' + </p> + <p> + 'I know she would like it.' + </p> + <p> + 'Of course you and I know that display of that sort is all + bunkum—repellent even to our natures.' + </p> + <p> + 'Lord, yes!' + </p> + <p> + 'But to gratify her.' + </p> + <p> + 'I should be so conscious.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance is here quite as sincere as his son. 'So should + I.' + </p> + <p> + Roger considers it. 'How far would you go?' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, not far. Suppose I called you "Old Rogie"? There's not + much in that.' + </p> + <p> + 'It all depends on the way one says these things.' + </p> + <p> + 'I should be quite casual.' + </p> + <p> + 'Hum. What would you like me to call you?' + </p> + <p> + Severely, 'It isn't what would <i>I</i> like. But I daresay + your mother would beam if you called me "dear father"' + </p> + <p> + 'I don't think so?' + </p> + <p> + 'You know quite well that you think so, Roger.' + </p> + <p> + 'It's so effeminate.' + </p> + <p> + 'Not if you say it casually.' + </p> + <p> + With something very like a snort Roger asks, 'How does one + say a thing like that casually?' + </p> + <p> + 'Well, for instance, you could whistle while you said + it—or anything of that sort.' + </p> + <p> + 'Hum. Of course you—if we were to—be like that, + you wouldn't do anything.' + </p> + <p> + 'How do you mean?' + </p> + <p> + 'You wouldn't paw me?' + </p> + <p> + 'Roger,' with some natural indignation, 'you forget + yourself.' But apparently it is for him to continue. 'That + reminds me of a story I heard the other day of a French + general. He had asked for volunteers from his airmen for some + specially dangerous job—and they all stepped forward. + Pretty good that. Then three were chosen and got their orders + and saluted, and were starting off when he stopped them. + "Since when," he said, "have brave boys departing to the post + of danger omitted to embrace their father?" They did it then. + Good story?' + </p> + <p> + Roger lowers. 'They were French.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, I said so. Don't you think it's good?' + </p> + <p> + 'Why do you tell it to me?' + </p> + <p> + 'Because it's a good story.' + </p> + <p> + 'You are sure, father,' sternly, 'that there is no other + reason?' Mr. Torrance tries to brazen it out, but he looks + guilty. 'You know, father, that is barred.' + </p> + <p> + Just because he knows that he has been playing it low, Mr. + Torrance snaps angrily, 'What is barred?' + </p> + <p> + 'You know,' says his monitor. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance shouts. + </p> + <p> + 'I know that you are a young ass.' + </p> + <p> + 'Really, father—' + </p> + <p> + 'Hold your tongue.' + </p> + <p> + Roger can shout also. + </p> + <p> + 'I must say, father—' + </p> + <p> + 'Be quiet, I tell you.' + </p> + <p> + It is in the middle of this competition that the lady who + dotes on them both chooses to come back, still without her + spectacles. + </p> + <p> + 'Oh dear! And I had hoped—-Oh, John!' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance would like to kick himself. + </p> + <p> + 'My fault,' he says with a groan. + </p> + <p> + 'But whatever is the matter?' + </p> + <p> + 'Nothing, mater.' The war is already making Roger quite + smart. 'Only father wouldn't do as I told him.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance cannot keep pace with his son's growth. He raps + out, 'Why the dickens should I?' + </p> + <p> + Roger is imperturbable; this will be useful in France. 'You + see, mater, he said I was the head of the house.' + </p> + <p> + 'You, Rogie!' She goes to her husband's side. 'What + nonsense!' + </p> + <p> + Roger grins. 'Do you like my joke, father?' + </p> + <p> + The father smiles upon him and is at once uproariously happy. + He digs his boy boldly in the ribs. + </p> + <p> + 'Roger, you scoundrel!' + </p> + <p> + 'That's better,' says Mrs. Torrance at a venture. + </p> + <p> + Roger feels that things have perhaps gone far enough. 'I + think I'll go to my room now. You will come up, mater?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, dear. I shan't be five minutes, John.' + </p> + <p> + 'More like half an hour.' + </p> + <p> + She hesitates. 'There is nothing wrong, is there? I thought I + noticed a—a——' + </p> + <p> + 'A certain liveliness, my dear. No, we were only having a + good talk.' + </p> + <p> + 'What about, John?' wistfully. + </p> + <p> + 'About the war,' Roger breaks in hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + 'About tactics and strategy, wasn't it, Roger?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes.' + </p> + <p> + 'The fact is, Ellen, I have been helping Roger to take his + first trench.' With a big breath, 'And we took it too, + together, didn't we, Roger?' + </p> + <p> + 'You bet,' says Roger valiantly. + </p> + <p> + 'Though I suppose,' sighing, 'it is one of those trenches + that the enemy retake during the night.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, I—I don't know, father.' + </p> + <p> + The lady asks, 'Whatever are you two talking about?' + </p> + <p> + 'Aha,' says Mr. Torrance in high feather, patting her, but + unable to resist a slight boast, 'it is very private. + <i>We</i> don't tell you everything, you know, Ellen.' + </p> + <p> + She beams, though she does not understand. + </p> + <p> + 'Come on, mater, it's only his beastly sarcasm again. 'Night, + father; I won't see you in the morning.' + </p> + <p> + ''Night,' says Mr. Torrance. + </p> + <p> + But Roger has not gone yet. He seems to be looking for + something—a book, perhaps. Then he begins to + whistle—casually. + </p> + <p> + 'Good-night, dear father.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. John Torrance is left alone, rubbing his hands. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_3"><!-- RULE4 3 --></a> + <h2> + BARBARA'S WEDDING + </h2> + <p> + The Colonel is in the sitting-room of his country cottage, + staring through the open windows at his pretty garden. He is + a very old man, and is sometimes bewildered nowadays. He + calls to Dering, the gardener, who is on a ladder, pruning. + Dering, who comes to him, is a rough, capable young fellow + with fingers that are already becoming stumpy because he so + often uses his hands instead of a spade. This is a sign that + Dering will never get on in the world. His mind is in the + same condition as his fingers, working back to clods. He will + get a rise of one and sixpence in a year or two, and marry on + it and become duller and heavier; and, in short, the clever + ones could already write his epitaph. + </p> + <hr> + <p> + 'A beautiful morning, Dering.' + </p> + <p> + 'Too much sun, sir. The roses be complaining, and, to make + matters worse, Miss Barbara has been watering of + them—in the heat of the day.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel is a very gentle knight nowadays. 'Has she? She + means well.' But that is not what is troubling him. He + approaches the subject diffidently. 'Dering, you heard it, + didn't you?' He is longing to be told that Dering heard it. + </p> + <p> + 'What was that, sir?' + </p> + <p> + 'The thunderstorm—early this morning.' + </p> + <p> + 'There was no thunderstorm, sir.' + </p> + <p> + Dispirited, 'That is what they all say.' The Colonel is too + courteous to contradict any one, but he tries again; there is + about him the insistence of one who knows that he is right. + 'It was at four o'clock. I got up and looked out at the + window. The evening primroses were very beautiful.' + </p> + <p> + Dering is equally dogged. 'I don't hold much with evening + primroses, sir; but I was out and about at four; there was no + thunderstorm.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel still thinks that there was a thunderstorm, but + he wants to placate Dering. 'I suppose I just thought there + was one. Perhaps it was some thunderstorm of long ago that I + heard. They do come back, you know.' + </p> + <p> + Heavily, 'Do they, sir?' + </p> + <p> + 'I am glad to see you moving about in the garden, Dering, + with everything just as usual.' + </p> + <p> + There is a cautious slyness about this, as if the Colonel was + fishing for information; but it is too clever for Dering, who + is going with a 'Thank you, sir.' + </p> + <p> + 'No, don't go.' The old man lowers his voice and makes a + confession reluctantly, 'I am—a little troubled, + Dering.' + </p> + <p> + Dering knows that his master has a wandering mind, and he + answers nicely, 'Everything be all right, sir.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm glad of that,' the Colonel says with relief. 'It is + pleasant to see that you have come back, Dering. Why did you + go away for such a long time?' + </p> + <p> + 'Me, sir?' Dering is a little aggrieved. 'I haven't had a day + off since Christmas.' + </p> + <p> + 'Haven't you? I thought—' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel tries to speak casually, but there is a trembling + eagerness in his voice. 'Is everything just as usual, + Dering?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, sir. There never were a place less changed than this.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's true.' The Colonel is appeased. 'Thank you, Dering, + for saying that.' But next moment he has lowered his voice + again. 'Dering, there is nothing wrong, is there? Is anything + happening that I am not being told about?' + </p> + <p> + 'Not that I know of, sir.' + </p> + <p> + 'That is what they all say, but—I don't know.' He + stares at his old sword which is hanging on the wall. + 'Dering, I feel as if I was needed somewhere. I don't know + where it is. No one will tell me. Where is every one?' + </p> + <p> + 'They're all about, sir. There's a cricket match on at the + village green.' + </p> + <p> + 'Is there?' + </p> + <p> + 'If the wind had a bit of south in it you could hear their + voices. You were a bit of a nailer at cricket yourself, sir.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel sees himself standing up to fast ones. He is + gleeful over his reminiscences. + </p> + <p> + 'Ninety-nine against Mallowfield, and then bowled off my + pads. Biggest score I ever made. Mallowfield wanted to add + one to make it the hundred, but I wouldn't let them. I was + pretty good at steering them through the slips, Dering! Do + you remember my late cut? It didn't matter where point stood, + I got past him. You used to stand at point, Dering.' + </p> + <p> + 'That was my grandfather, sir. If he was to be believed, he + used to snap you regular at point.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel is crestfallen, but he has a disarming smile. + 'Did he? I daresay he did. I can't play now, but I like to + watch it still.' He becomes troubled again. 'Dering, there is + no cricket on the green to-day. I have been down to look. I + don't understand it, Dering. When I got there the green was + all dotted with them—it's the prettiest sight and + sound in England. But as I watched them they began to go + away, one and two at a time; they weren't given out, you + know, they went as if they had been called away. Some of the + little shavers stayed on—and then they went off, as if + they had been called away too. The stumps were left lying + about. Why is it?' + </p> + <p> + 'It's just fancy, sir,' Dering says soothingly, 'I saw Master + Will oiling his bat yesterday.' + </p> + <p> + 'Did you?' avidly. 'I should have liked to see that. I have + often oiled their bats for them. Careless lads, they always + forget. Was that nice German boy with him?' + </p> + <p> + 'Mr. Karl? Not far off, sir. He was sitting by the bank of + the stream playing on his flute; and Miss Barbara, she had + climbed one of my apple-trees,—she says they are your + trees.' He lowers. + </p> + <p> + 'They are, you know, Dering,' the Colonel says meekly. + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, sir, in a sense,' brushing the spurious argument aside, + 'but I don't like any of you to meddle with them. And there + she sat, pelting the two of them with green apples.' + </p> + <p> + 'How like her!' The Colonel shakes his head indulgently. 'I + don't know how we are to make a demure young lady of her.' + </p> + <p> + Dering smirks. 'They say in the village, sir, that Master + Will would like to try.' + </p> + <p> + To the Colonel this is wit of a high order. + </p> + <p> + 'Ha! ha! he is just a colt himself.' But the laughter breaks + off. He seems to think that he will get the truth if Dering + comes closer, 'Who are all here now, Dering; in the house, I + mean? I sometimes forget. They grow old so quickly. They go + out at one door in the bloom of youth, and come back by + another, tired and grey. Haven't you noticed it?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, sir. The only visitors staying here are Miss Barbara and + Mr. Karl. There's just them and yourselves, sir, you and the + mistress and Master Will. That's all.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, that's all,' his master says, still unconvinced. 'Who + is the soldier, Dering?' + </p> + <p> + 'Soldier, sir? There is no soldier here except yourself.' + </p> + <p> + 'Isn't there? There was a nurse with him. Who is ill?' + </p> + <p> + 'No one, sir. There's no nurse.' Dering backs away from the + old man. 'Would you like me to call the mistress, sir?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, she has gone down to the village. She told me why, but I + forget. Miss Barbara is with her.' + </p> + <p> + 'Miss Barbara is down by the stream, sir.' + </p> + <p> + 'Is she? I think they said they were going to a wedding.' + With an old man's curiosity, 'Who is being married to-day, + Dering?' + </p> + <p> + 'I have heard of no wedding, sir. But here is Miss Barbara.' + </p> + <p> + It is perhaps the first time that Dering has been glad to see + Miss Barbara, who romps in, a merry hoyden, running over with + animal spirits. + </p> + <p> + 'Here's the tomboy!' the Colonel cries gaily. + </p> + <p> + Barbara looks suspiciously from one to the other. + </p> + <p> + 'Dering, I believe you are complaining to the Colonel about + my watering the flowers at the wrong time of day.' + </p> + <p> + 'Aha! Aha!' The Colonel thinks she is even wittier than + Dering, who is properly abashed. + </p> + <p> + 'I did just mention it, miss.' + </p> + <p> + 'You horrid!' Barbara shakes her mop of hair at the gardener. + 'Dear, don't mind him. And every time he says they are + <i>his</i> flowers and <i>his</i> apples, you tell me, and I + shall say to his face that they are <i>yours</i>.' + </p> + <p> + 'The courage of those young things!' says the happy Colonel. + </p> + <p> + Dering's underlip becomes very pronounced, but he goes off + into the garden. Barbara attempts to attend to the Colonel's + needs. + </p> + <p> + 'Let me make you comfy—the way granny does it.' + </p> + <p> + She arranges his cushions clumsily. + </p> + <p> + 'That is not quite the way she does it,' the Colonel says + softly, 'Do you call her granny, Barbara?' + </p> + <p> + 'She asked me to—for practice.' Barbara is curious. + 'Don't you remember why?' + </p> + <p> + Of course the Colonel remembers. + </p> + <p> + 'I know! Billy boy.' + </p> + <p> + 'You <i>are</i> quick to-day. Now, wait till I get your + cane.' + </p> + <p> + 'I don't need my cane while I'm sitting.' + </p> + <p> + 'You look so beau'ful, sitting holding your cane.' She knocks + over his cushions. 'Oh dear! I am a clumsy.' + </p> + <p> + Politely, 'Not at all, but perhaps if I were to do it for + myself.' He makes himself comfortable. 'That's better. Thank + you, Barbara, very much.' + </p> + <p> + '<i>I</i> didn't do it. I'm all thumbs. What a ghastly nurse + I should make.' + </p> + <p> + 'Nurse?' The Colonel's troubles return to him. 'Who is she, + Barbara?' + </p> + <p> + 'Who is who, dear?' + </p> + <p> + 'That nurse.' + </p> + <p> + 'There's no nurse here.' + </p> + <p> + 'Isn't there?' + </p> + <p> + Barbara feels that she is of less use than ever to-day. + 'Where is granny?' + </p> + <p> + 'She has gone down to the village to a wedding.' + </p> + <p> + 'There's no wedding. Who could be being married?' + </p> + <p> + 'I think it's people I know, but I can't remember who they + are. I thought you went too, Barbara.' + </p> + <p> + 'Not I. Catch me missing it if there had been a wedding!' + </p> + <p> + 'You and the nurse.' + </p> + <p> + 'Dear, you have just been imagining things again. Shall I + play to you, or sing?' She knocks over a chair, 'Oh dear, + everything catches in me. Would you like me to "Robin Adair," + dear?' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel is polite, but firm, 'No, thank you, Barbara.' + For a few moments he forgets her; his mind has gone wandering + again. 'Barbara, the house seems so empty. Where are Billy + and Karl?' + </p> + <p> + 'Billy is where Karl is, you may be sure.' + </p> + <p> + 'And where is Karl?' + </p> + <p> + 'He is where Billy boy is, you may be sure.' + </p> + <p> + 'And where are they both?' + </p> + <p> + 'Not far from where Barbara is, you bet.' She flutters to the + window and waves her hand. 'Do you hear Karl's flute? They + have been down all the morning at the pool where the alder + is, trying to catch that bull-trout.' + </p> + <p> + 'They didn't get him, I'll swear!' + </p> + <p> + 'You can ask them.' + </p> + <p> + 'I spent a lot of my youth trying to get that bull-trout. I + tumbled in there sixty years ago.' + </p> + <p> + 'I tumbled in sixty minutes ago! It can't be the same trout, + dear.' + </p> + <p> + 'Same old rascal!' + </p> + <p> + Billy and Karl come in by the window, leaving a fishing-rod + outside. They are gay, careless, attractive youths. + </p> + <p> + BARBARA, with her nose in the air, 'You muddy things!' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, gaily firing his dart, 'Did you get the bull-trout, + Billy boy?' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'He's a brute that.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'He is, you know.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'He came up several times and had a look at my fly. + Didn't flick it, or do anything as complimentary as that. + Just yawned and went down.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'Yawned, did he? Used to wink in my time. Did you + and Billy fish at Heidelberg, Karl?' + </p> + <p> + KARL. 'We were more worthily employed, sir, but we did unbend + at times. Billy, do you remember—' He begins a gay + dance. + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'Not I.' Then he joins in. + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'Young gentlemen, how disgraceful!' She joins in. + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'Harum-scarums!' + </p> + <p> + KARL. 'Does he know about you two?' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'He often forgets, I'll tell him again. Grandfather, + Barbara and I have something to say to you. It's this.' He + puts his arm round Barbara. + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, smiling, 'I know—I know. There's nothing like + it. I'm very glad, Barbara.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'You see, dear, I've loved Billy boy since the days + when he tried to catch the bull-trout with a string and a + bent pin, and I held on to his pinafore to prevent his + tumbling in. We used to play at school at marrying and giving + in marriage, and the girl who was my bridegroom had always to + take the name of Billy. "Do you, woman, take this man + Billy—" the clergyman in skirts began, and before I + could answer diffidently, some other girl was sure to shout, + "I should rather think she does."' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, in high good humour, 'Don't forget the ring, Billy. + You know, when I was married I think I couldn't find the + ring!' + </p> + <p> + KARL. 'Were you married here, sir?' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'Yes, at the village church.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'So were my father and mother.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, as his eyes wander to the garden, 'I remember + walking back with my wife and bringing her in here through + the window. She kissed some of the furniture.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'I suppose you would like a grander affair, Barbara?' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'No, just the same.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'I hoped you would say that.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'But, Billy, I'm to have such a dream of a wedding + gown. Granny is going with me to London, to choose + it'—laying her head on the Colonel's shoulder—'if + you can do without her for a day, dear.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, gallantly, 'I shall go with you, I couldn't trust + you and granny to choose the gown.' + </p> + <p> + KARL. 'You must often be pretty lonely, sir, when we are all + out and about enjoying ourselves.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'They all say that. But that is the time when I'm + not lonely, Karl. It's then I see things most + clearly—the past, I suppose. It all comes crowding back + to me—India, the Crimea, India again—and it's so + real, especially the people. They come and talk to me. I seem + to see them; I don't know they haven't been here, Billy, till + your granny tells me afterwards.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'Yes, I know, I wonder where granny is.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'It isn't often she leaves you for so long, dear.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'She told me she had to go out, but I forget where. + Oh, yes, she has gone down to the village to a wedding.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'A wedding?' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'It's curious how he harps on that.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'She said to me to listen and I would hear the + wedding bells.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'Not to-day, dear.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'Best not to worry him.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'But granny says we should try to make things clear + to him.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'Was any one with granny when she said she was going + to a wedding?' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, like one begging her to admit it, 'You were there, + Barbara.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'No, dear. He said that to me before. And something + about a nurse.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, obstinately, 'She was there, too.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'Any one else?' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'There was that soldier.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'A soldier also!' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'Just those three.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'But that makes four. Granny and Barbara and a nurse + and a soldier.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'They were all there; but there were only three.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'Odd.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA, soothingly, 'Never mind, dear, Granny will make it + all right. She is the one for you.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'She is the one for me.' + </p> + <p> + KARL. 'If there had been a wedding, wouldn't she have taken + the Colonel with her?' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'Of course she would.' + </p> + <p> + KARL. 'You are not too old to have a kind eye for a wedding, + sir.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, wagging his head, 'Aha, aha! You know, if I had + gone, very likely I should have kissed the bride. Brides look + so pretty on their wedding day. They are often not pretty at + other times, but they are all pretty on their wedding day.' + </p> + <p> + KARL. 'You have an eye for a pretty girl still, sir!' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'Yes, I have; yes, I have!' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'I do believe I see it all. Granny has been talking + to you about Billy boy and me, and you haven't been able to + wait; you have hurried on the wedding!' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'Bravo, Barbara, you've got it.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, doubtfully, 'That may be it. Because I am sure you + were to be there, Barbara.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'Our wedding, Billy!' + </p> + <p> + KARL. 'It doesn't explain those other people, though.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel moves about in agitation. + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'What is it, dear?' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'I can't quite remember, but I think that is why she + didn't take me. It is your wedding, Barbara, but I don't + think Billy boy is to be there, my love.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'Not at my wedding!' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'Grandfather!' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'There's something sad about it.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'There can't be anything sad about a wedding, dear. + Granny didn't say it was a sad wedding, did she?' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'She was smiling.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'Of course she was.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'But I think that was only to please the nurse.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'That nurse again! Dear, don't think any more about + it. There's no wedding.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, gently, though he wonders why they can go on + deceiving him, 'Is there not?' + </p> + <p> + The village wedding bells begin to ring. + </p> + <p> + The Colonel is triumphant. 'I told you! There is a wedding!' + </p> + <p> + The bells ring on gaily. Billy and Barbara take a step nearer + to each other, but can go no closer. The bells ring on, and + the three young people fade from the scene. + </p> + <p> + When they are gone and he is alone, the Colonel still + addresses them. 'It's Barbara's wedding. Billy boy, why are + you not at Barbara's wedding?' + </p> + <p> + Soon the bells stop. He knows that he is alone now, but he + does not understand it. The sun is shining brightly, but he + sits very cold in his chair. He shivers. He is very glad to + see his wife coming to him through the open window. She is a + dear old lady, and is dressed brightly, as becomes one who + has been to a wedding. Her face beams to match her gown. She + is really quite a happy woman again, for it is several years + since any deep sorrow struck her; and that is a long time. No + one, you know, understands the Colonel as she does, no one + can soothe him and bring him out of his imaginings as she + can. He hastens to her. He is no longer cold. That is her + great reward for all she does for him. + </p> + <p> + 'I have come back, John,' she says, smiling tranquilly on + him. 'It hasn't seemed very long, has it?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, not long, Ellen. Had you a nice walk?' + </p> + <p> + She continues to smile, but she is watching him closely. 'I + haven't been for a walk. Don't you remember where I told you + I was going, John?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, it was to a wedding.' + </p> + <p> + Rather tremulously, 'You haven't forgotten whose wedding, + have you?' + </p> + <p> + 'Tell me, Ellen.' He is no longer troubled. He knows that + Ellen will tell him. + </p> + <p> + 'I have been seeing Barbara married, John.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, it was Barbara's wedding. They wouldn't—Ellen, + why wasn't I there?' + </p> + <p> + Like one telling him amusing gossip, 'I thought you might be + a little troubled if you went, John. Sometimes your + mind—not often, but sometimes if you are + agitated—and then you think you see—people who + aren't here any longer. Oh dear, oh dear, help me with these + bonnet strings.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, I know. I'm all right when you are with me, Ellen. + Funny, isn't it?' + </p> + <p> + She raises her shoulders in a laugh. 'It <i>is</i> funny, + John. I ran back to you, John. I was thinking of you all the + time—even more than of Billy boy.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel is very gay. 'Tell me all about it, Ellen. Did + Billy boy lose the ring? We always said he would lose the + ring.' + </p> + <p> + She looks straight into his eyes. 'You have forgotten again, + John. Barbara isn't married to Billy boy.' + </p> + <p> + He draws himself up. 'Not marry Billy! I'll see about that.' + </p> + <p> + She presses him into his chair. 'Sit down, dear, and I'll + tell you something again. It is nothing to trouble you, + because your soldiering is done, John; and greatly done. My + dear, there is war again, and our old land is in it. Such a + war as my soldier never knew.' + </p> + <p> + He rises. He is a stern old man. 'A war! That's it, is it? So + now I know! Why wasn't I told? Why haven't I my marching + orders? I'm not too old yet.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, John, you are too old, and all you can do now is to sit + here and—and take care of me. You knew all about it + quite clearly this morning. We stood together upstairs by the + window listening to the aircraft guns.' + </p> + <p> + 'I remember! I thought it was a thunderstorm, Dering told me + he heard nothing.' + </p> + <p> + 'Dering?' + </p> + <p> + 'Our gardener, you know.' His voice becomes husky. 'Haven't I + been talking with him, Ellen?' + </p> + <p> + 'It is a long time since we had a gardener, John.' + </p> + <p> + 'Is it? So it is! A war! That is why there is no more cricket + on the green.' + </p> + <p> + 'They have all gone to the war, John.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's it; even the little shavers.' He whispers, 'Why isn't + Billy boy fighting, Ellen?' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, John!' + </p> + <p> + 'Is Billy boy dead?' She nods. 'Was he killed in action? Tell + me, tell me!' She nods again. 'Good for Billy boy. I knew + Billy boy was all right. Don't cry, Ellen. I'll take care of + you. All's well with Billy boy.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, I know, John.' + </p> + <p> + He hesitates before speaking again. 'Ellen, who is the + soldier? He comes here. He is a captain.' + </p> + <p> + 'He is a very gallant man, John. It is he who was married to + Barbara to-day.' + </p> + <p> + Bitterly, 'She has soon forgotten.' + </p> + <p> + His wife shakes her brave head. 'She hasn't forgotten, dear. + And it's nearly three years now since Billy died.' + </p> + <p> + 'So long! We have a medal he got, haven't we?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, John; he died before he could win any medals.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel moves about, 'Karl will be sorry. They were very + fond of each other, those two boys, Ellen.' + </p> + <p> + 'Karl fought against us, John. He died in the same + engagement. They may even have killed each other.' + </p> + <p> + 'They hadn't known, Ellen.' + </p> + <p> + She with, thin lips, 'I daresay they knew.' + </p> + <p> + 'Billy boy and Karl!' + </p> + <p> + She tells him some more gossip. 'John, I had Barbara married + from here because she has no people of her own. I think Billy + would have liked it.' + </p> + <p> + 'That was the thing to do, Ellen. Nice of you. I remember + everything now. It's Dering she has married. He was once my + gardener!' + </p> + <p> + 'The world is all being re-made, dear. He is worthy of her.' + </p> + <p> + He lets this pass. He has remembered something almost as + surprising, 'Ellen, is Barbara a nurse?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, John, and one of the staidest and most serene. Who + would have thought it of the merry madcap of other days! They + are coming here, John, to say good-bye to you. They have only + a few days' leave. She is in France, too, you know. She was + married in her nurse's uniform.' + </p> + <p> + 'Was she? She told me to-day that—no, it couldn't have + been to-day.' + </p> + <p> + 'You have been fancying you saw them, I suppose.' She grows + tremulous again. 'You will be nice to them, John, won't you, + and wish them luck? They have their trials before them.' + </p> + <p> + He says eagerly, 'Tell me what to do, Ellen.' + </p> + <p> + 'Don't say anything about Billy boy, John.' + </p> + <p> + 'No, no, let's pretend.' + </p> + <p> + 'And I wouldn't talk about the garden, John; just in case he + is a little touchy about that.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel is beginning to fancy himself as a tactician. + 'Not a word!' + </p> + <p> + She knows what is the way to put him on his mettle. 'You see, + I'm sure I would make a mess of it, so I'm trusting to you, + John.' + </p> + <p> + He is very pleased, 'Leave it all to me, Ellen. I'll be + frightfully sly. You just watch me.' + </p> + <p> + She goes to the window and calls to the married couple. + Captain Dering, in khaki, is a fine soldierly figure. + Barbara, in her Red Gross uniform, is quiet and resourceful. + An artful old boy greets them. 'Congratulations, Barbara. No, + no, none of your handshaking; you don't get past an old + soldier in that way. Excuse me, young man.' He kisses Barbara + and looks at his wife to make sure that she is admiring him, + 'And to you, Captain Dering—you have won a prize.' + </p> + <p> + A gallant gentleman answers, 'I know it; I'll try to show I + know it.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel is perturbed. 'I haven't given Barbara a wedding + present, Ellen, I should like——' + </p> + <p> + Barbara breaks in, 'Indeed you have, dear, and a lovely one. + You haven't forgotten?' + </p> + <p> + Granny signs to the Colonel and he immediately says, with + remarkable cunning, 'Oh—that! I was just quizzing you, + Barbara. I hope you will be as happy, dear, staid Barbara, as + if you had married——' He sees that he has nearly + given away the situation. He looks triumphantly at granny as + much as to say, 'Observe me; I'm not going to say a word + about him.' + </p> + <p> + Granny comes to his aid. 'Perhaps Captain Dering has some + little things to do: and you, too, Barbara. They are leaving + in an hour, John.' + </p> + <p> + For a moment the Colonel is again in danger. 'If you would + like to take Barbara into the garden, Captain + Dering——' He recovers himself instantly. 'No, not + the garden, you wouldn't know your way about in the garden.' + </p> + <p> + 'Wouldn't I, Colonel?' the Captain says, smiling. + </p> + <p> + The answer is quite decisive. 'No, certainly not. I'll show + it you some day.' + </p> + <p> + He makes gleeful signs to granny. 'But there is a nice meadow + just beyond the shrubbery. Barbara knows the way; she often + went there with—' He checks himself. Granny signs to + them to go, and Barbara, kisses both the Colonel's hands. + 'The Captain will be jealous, you know,' he says, twinkling. + </p> + <p> + 'Let me, dear,' says Barbara, arranging his cushions + professionally. + </p> + <p> + Granny nods. 'She is much better at it than I am now, John.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel has one last piece of advice to give. 'I wouldn't + go down by the stream, Barbara—not to the pool where + the alder is. There's—there's not a good view there, + sir; and a boy—a boy I knew, he often—nobody in + particular—just a boy who used to come about the + house—he is not here now—he is on duty. I don't + think you should go to the alder pool, Barbara.' + </p> + <p> + 'We won't go there, dear.' She and her husband go out, and + the Colonel scarcely misses them, he is so eager to hear what + his wife thinks of him. + </p> + <p> + 'Did I do all right, Ellen?' + </p> + <p> + 'Splendidly. I was proud of you.' + </p> + <p> + He exults. 'I put them completely off the scent! They haven't + a notion! I can be very sly, you know, at times. Ellen, I + think I should like to have that alder tree cut down. There + is no boy now, you see.' + </p> + <p> + 'I would leave it alone, John. There will be boys again. + Shall I read to you; you like that, don't you?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, read to me—something funny, if you please. About + Sam Weller! No, I expect Sam has gone to the wars. Read about + Mr. Pickwick. He is very amusing. I feel sure that if he had + tried to catch the bull-trout he would have fallen in. Just + as Barbara did this morning.' + </p> + <p> + 'Barbara?' + </p> + <p> + 'She is down at the alder pool. Billy is there with that nice + German boy. The noise they make, shouting and laughing!' + </p> + <p> + She gets from its shelf the best book for war-time. 'Which + bit shall I read?' + </p> + <p> + 'About Mr. Pickwick going into the lady's bedroom by + mistake.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, dear, though you almost know it by heart. You see, you + have begun to laugh already.' + </p> + <p> + 'You are laughing too, Ellen. I can't help it!' + </p> + <p> + She begins to read; they are both chuckling. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_4"><!-- RULE4 4 --></a> + <h2> + A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE + </h2> + <p> + Out of the darkness comes the voice of a woman speaking to + her dead son. + </p> + <p> + 'But that was against your wish, was it not? Was that against + your wish? Would you prefer me not to ask that question?' + </p> + <p> + The room is so dark that we cannot see her. All we know is + that she is one of four shapes gathered round a small table. + Beyond the darkness is a great ingle-nook, in which is seated + on a settle a man of fifty. Him we can discern fitfully by + the light of the fire. It is not sufficiently bright to + enable him to read, but an evening paper lies on his knee. He + seems wistful and meek. He is paying no attention to the + party round the table. When he hears their voices it is only + as empty sounds. + </p> + <p> + The mother continues. 'Perhaps I am putting the question in + the wrong way. Are you not able to tell us any more?' + </p> + <p> + A man's voice breaks in. 'There was a distinct movement that + time, but it is so irregular.' + </p> + <p> + 'I thought so, but please don't talk. Do you want to tell us + more? Is it that you can't hear me distinctly? He seems to + want to tell us more, but something prevents him.' + </p> + <p> + 'In any case, Mrs. Don, it is extraordinary. This is the + first seance I have ever taken part in, but I must believe + now.' + </p> + <p> + 'Of course, Major, these are the simplest manifestations. + They are only the first step. But if we are to go on, the + less we talk the better. Shall we go on? It is not agitating + you too much, Laura?' + </p> + <p> + A girl answers, 'There was a moment when I—but I wish I + was braver. I think it is partly the darkness. I suppose we + can't have a little light?' + </p> + <p> + 'Certainly we can, dear. Darkness is quite unnecessary, but I + think it helps one to concentrate.' + </p> + <p> + The Major lights a lamp, and though it casts shadows we see + now that the room is an artist's studio. The silent figure in + the ingle-nook is the artist. Mrs. Don is his wife, the two + men are Major Armitage and an older friend, Mr. Rogers. The + girl is Laura Bell. These four are sitting round the table, + their hands touching: they are endeavouring to commune with + one who has 'crossed the gulf.' + </p> + <p> + The Major and Mr. Rogers are but passing shadows in the play, + and even nice Laura is only to flit across its few pages for + a moment on her way to happier things. We scarcely notice + them in the presence of Mrs. Don, the gracious, the + beautiful, the sympathetic, whose magnetic force and charm + are such that we wish to sit at her feet at once. She is + intellectual, but with a disarming smile, religious, but so + charitable, masterful, and yet loved of all. None is perfect, + and there must be a flaw in her somewhere, but to find it + would necessitate such a rummage among her many adornments as + there is now no time for. Perhaps we may come upon it + accidentally in the course of the play. + </p> + <p> + She is younger than Mr. Don, who, despite her efforts for + many years to cover his deficiencies, is a man of no great + account in a household where the bigger personality of his + wife swallows him like an Aaron's rod. Mr. Don's + deficiencies! She used to try very hard, or fairly hard, to + conceal them from Dick; but Dick knew. His mother was his + chum. All the lovely things which happened in that house in + the days when Dick was alive were between him and her; those + two shut the door softly on old Don, always anxious not to + hurt his feelings, and then ran into each other's arms. + </p> + <p> + In the better light Mr. Don is now able to read his paper if + he chooses. If he has forgotten the party at the table, they + have equally forgotten him. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'You have not gone away, have you? We must be + patient. Are you still there?' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'I think I felt a movement.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'Don't talk, please. Are you still there?' + </p> + <p> + The table moves. + </p> + <p> + 'Yes! It is your mother who is speaking; do you understand + that?' + </p> + <p> + The table moves. + </p> + <p> + 'Yes. What shall I ask him now?' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'We leave it to you, Mrs. Don.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'Have you any message you want to send us? Yes. Is + it important? Yes. Are we to spell it out in the usual way? + Yes. Is the first letter of the first word A? Is it B?' + </p> + <p> + She continues through the alphabet to L, when the table + responds. Similarly she finds that the second letter is O. + </p> + <p> + 'Is the word <i>Love</i>? Yes. But I don't understand that + movement. You are not displeased with us, are you? No. Does + the second word begin with A?—with B? Yes.' + </p> + <p> + The second word is spelt out <i>Bade</i> and the third + <i>Me</i>. + </p> + <p> + 'Love Bade Me——If it is a quotation, I believe I + know it! Is the fourth word <i>Welcome</i>? Yes.' + </p> + <p> + LAURA. 'Love Bade Me Welcome.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'That movement again! Don't you want me to go on?' + </p> + <p> + LAURA. 'Let us stop.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'Not unless he wishes it. Why are those words so + important? Does the message end there? Is any one working + against you? Some one antagonistic? Yes. Not one of ourselves + surely? No. Is it any one we know? Yes. Can I get the name in + the usual way? Yes. Is the first letter of this person's name + A?—B?——' + </p> + <p> + It proves to be F. One begins to notice a quaint peculiarity + of Mrs. Don's. She is so accustomed to homage that she + expects a prompt response even from the shades. + </p> + <p> + 'Is the second letter A?' + </p> + <p> + The table moves. + </p> + <p> + 'FA. Fa——?' + </p> + <p> + She is suddenly enlightened. + </p> + <p> + 'Is the word Father? Yes.' + </p> + <p> + They all turn and look for the first time at Mr. Don. He has + heard, and rises apologetically. + </p> + <p> + MR. DON, distressed, 'I had no intention—Should I go + away, Grace?' + </p> + <p> + She answers sweetly without a trace of the annoyance she must + surely feel. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'Perhaps you had better, Robert.' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'I suppose it is because he is an unbeliever? He is + not openly antagonistic, is he?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON, sadly enough, 'I am afraid he is.' They tend to + discuss the criminal as if he was not present. + </p> + <p> + MAJOR. 'But he must admit that we do get messages.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON, reluctantly, 'He says we think we do. He says they + would not want to communicate with us if they had such + trivial things to say.' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'But we are only on the threshold, Don. This is just + a beginning.' + </p> + <p> + LAURA. 'Didn't you hear, Mr. Don—"Love Bade Me + Welcome"?' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON. 'Does that strike you as important, Laura?' + </p> + <p> + LAURA. 'He said it was.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'It might be very important to him, though we don't + understand why.' + </p> + <p> + She speaks gently, but there is an obstinacy in him, despite + his meekness. + </p> + <p> + MR. DON. 'I didn't mean to be antagonistic, Grace. I thought. + I wasn't thinking of it at all.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'Not thinking of Dick, Robert? And it was only five + months ago!' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON, who is somehow, without meaning it, always in the + wrong, 'I'll go.' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'A boy wouldn't turn his father out. Ask him.' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON, forlornly, 'As to that—as to + that——' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'I will ask him if you wish me to, Robert.' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON. 'No, don't.' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'It can't worry you as you are a disbeliever.' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON. 'No, but—I shouldn't like you to think that he + sent me away.' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'He won't. Will he, Mrs. Don?' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON, knowing what her silence implies, 'You see, Dick and + I were not very—no quarrel or anything of that + sort—but I, I didn't much matter to Dick. I'm too old, + perhaps.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON, gently, 'I won't ask him, Robert, if you would + prefer me not to.' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON. 'I'll go.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'I'm afraid it is too late now.' She turns away + from earthly things. 'Do you want me to break off?' + </p> + <p> + The table moves. + </p> + <p> + 'Yes. Do you send me your love, Dick? Yes. And to Laura? + Yes.' She raises her eyes to Don, and hesitates. 'Shall I ask + him——?' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON. 'No, no, don't.' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'It would be all right, Don.' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON. 'I don't know.' + </p> + <p> + They leave the table. + </p> + <p> + LAURA, a little agitated, 'May I go to my room, Mrs. Don? I + feel I—should like to be alone.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'Yes, yes, Laura dear. I shall come in and see + you.' + </p> + <p> + Laura bids them good-night and goes. She likes Mr. Don, she + strokes his hand when he holds it out to her, but she can't + help saying, 'Oh, Mr. Don, how could you?' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'I think we must all want to be alone after such an + evening. I shall say good-night, Mrs. Don.' + </p> + <p> + MAJOR. 'Same here. I go your way, Rogers, but you will find + me a silent companion. One doesn't want to talk ordinary + things to-night. Rather not. Thanks, awfully.' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'Good-night, Don. It's a pity, you know; a bit hard + on your wife.' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON. 'Good-night, Rogers. Good-night, Major.' + </p> + <p> + The husband and wife, left together, have not much to say to + each other. He is depressed because he has spoilt things for + her. She is not angry. She knows that he can't help being as + he is, and that there are fine spaces in her mind where his + thoughts can never walk with her. But she would forgive him + seventy times seven because he is her husband. She is + standing looking at a case of fishing-rods against the wall. + There is a Jock Scott still sticking in one of them. Mr. Don + says, as if somehow they were evidence against him: + </p> + <p> + 'Dick's fishing-rods.' + </p> + <p> + She says forgivingly, 'I hope you don't mind my keeping them + in the studio, Robert. They are sacred things to <i>me</i>.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's all right, Grace.' + </p> + <p> + 'I think I shall go to Laura now.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes,' in his inexpressive way. + </p> + <p> + 'Poor child!' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm afraid I hurt her.' + </p> + <p> + 'Dick wouldn't have liked it—but Dick's gone.' She looks + a little wonderingly at him. After all these years, she can + sometimes wonder a little still. 'I suppose you will resume + your evening paper!' + </p> + <p> + He answers quietly, but with the noble doggedness which is + the reason why we write this chapter in his life. 'Why not, + Grace?' + </p> + <p> + She considers, for she is so sure that she must know the + answer better than he. 'I suppose it is just that a son is so + much more to a mother than to a father.' + </p> + <p> + 'I daresay.' + </p> + <p> + A little gust of passion shakes her. 'How you can read about + the war nowadays!' + </p> + <p> + He says firmly to her—he has had to say it a good many + times to himself, 'I'm not going to give in.' But he adds, 'I + am so sorry I was in the way, Grace. I wasn't scouting you, + or anything of that sort. It's just that I can't believe in + it.' + </p> + <p> + 'Ah, Robert, you would believe if Dick had been to you what + he was to me.' + </p> + <p> + 'I don't know.' + </p> + <p> + 'In a sense you may be glad that you don't miss him in the + way I do.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, perhaps.' + </p> + <p> + 'Good-night, Robert.' + </p> + <p> + 'Good-night, dear.' + </p> + <p> + He is alone now. He stands fingering the fishing-rods + tenderly, then wanders back into the ingle-nook. In the room + we could scarcely see him, for it has gone slowly dark there, + a grey darkness, as if the lamp, though still burning, was + becoming unable to shed light. Through the greyness we see + him very well beyond it in the glow of the fire. He sits on + the settle and tries to read his paper. He breaks down. He is + a pitiful lonely man. + </p> + <p> + In the silence something happens. A well-remembered voice + says, 'Father.' Mr. Don looks into the greyness from which + this voice comes, and he sees his son. We see no one, but we + are to understand that, to Mr. Don, Dick is standing there in + his habit as he lived. He goes to his boy. + </p> + <p> + 'Dick!' + </p> + <p> + 'I have come to sit with you for a bit, father.' + </p> + <p> + It is the gay, young, careless voice. + </p> + <p> + 'It's you, Dick; it's you!' + </p> + <p> + 'It's me all right, father. I say, don't be startled, or + anything of that kind. We don't like that.' + </p> + <p> + 'My boy!' + </p> + <p> + Evidently Dick is the taller, for Mr. Don has to look up to + him. He puts his hands on the boy's shoulders. + </p> + <p> + 'How am I looking, father?' + </p> + <p> + 'You haven't altered, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Rather not. It's jolly to see the old studio again!' In a + cajoling voice, 'I say, father, don't fuss. Let us be our + ordinary selves, won't you?' + </p> + <p> + 'I'll try, I'll try. You didn't say you had come to sit with + <i>me</i>, Dick? Not with <i>me</i>!' + </p> + <p> + 'Rather!' + </p> + <p> + 'But your mother——' + </p> + <p> + 'It's you I want.' + </p> + <p> + 'Me?' + </p> + <p> + 'We can only come to one, you see.' + </p> + <p> + 'Then why me?' + </p> + <p> + 'That's the reason.' He is evidently moving about, looking + curiously at old acquaintances. 'Hello, here's your old + jacket, greasier than ever!' + </p> + <p> + 'Me? But, Dick, it is as if you had forgotten. It was your + mother who was everything to you. It can't be you if you have + forgotten that. I used to feel so out of it; but, of course, + you didn't know.' + </p> + <p> + 'I didn't know it till lately, father; but heaps of things + that I didn't know once are clear to me now. I didn't know + that you were the one who would miss me most; but I know + now.' + </p> + <p> + Though the voice is as boyish as ever, there is a new note in + it of which his father is aware. Dick may not have grown much + wiser, but whatever he does know now he seems to know for certain. + </p> + <p> + '<i>Me</i> miss you most? Dick, I try to paint just as before. I + go to the club. Dick, I have been to a dinner-party. I said I + wouldn't give in.' + </p> + <p> + 'We like that.' + </p> + <p> + 'But, my boy——' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don's arms have gone out to him again. Dick evidently + wriggles away from them. He speaks coaxingly. + </p> + <p> + 'I say, father, let's get away from that sort of thing.' + </p> + <p> + 'That is so like you, Dick! I'll do anything you ask.' + </p> + <p> + 'Then keep a bright face.' + </p> + <p> + 'I've tried to.' + </p> + <p> + 'Good man! I say, put on your old greasy; you are looking so + beastly clean.' + </p> + <p> + The old greasy is the jacket, and Mr. Don obediently gets + into it. + </p> + <p> + 'Anything you like. No, that's the wrong sleeve. Thanks, + Dick.' + </p> + <p> + They are in the ingle-nook now, and the mischievous boy + catches his father by the shoulders. + </p> + <p> + 'Here, let me shove you into your old seat.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don is propelled on to the settle. + </p> + <p> + 'How's that, umpire!' + </p> + <p> + 'Dick,' smiling, 'that's just how you used to butt me into it + long ago!' + </p> + <p> + Dick is probably standing with his back to the fire, + chuckling. + </p> + <p> + 'When I was a kid.' + </p> + <p> + 'With the palette in my hand.' + </p> + <p> + 'Or sticking to your trousers.' + </p> + <p> + 'The mess we made of ourselves, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'I sneaked behind the settle and climbed up it.' + </p> + <p> + 'Till you fell off.' + </p> + <p> + 'On top of you and the palette.' + </p> + <p> + It is good fun for a father and son; and the crafty boy has + succeeded in making the father laugh. But soon, + </p> + <p> + 'Ah, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + The son frowns. He is not going to stand any nonsense. + </p> + <p> + 'Now then, behave! What did I say about that face?' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don smiles at once, obediently. + </p> + <p> + 'That's better. I'll sit here.' + </p> + <p> + We see from his father's face which is smiling with + difficulty that Dick has plopped into the big chair on the + other side of the ingle-nook. His legs are probably dangling + over one of its arms. + </p> + <p> + Rather sharply, 'Got your pipe?' + </p> + <p> + 'I don't—I don't seem to care to smoke nowadays, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Rot! Just because I am dead! You that pretend to be plucky! + I won't have it, you know. You get your pipe, and look slippy + about it.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, Dick,' the old man says obediently. He fills his pipe + from a jar on the mantelshelf. We may be sure that Dick is + watching closely to see that he lights it properly. + </p> + <p> + 'Now, then, burn your thumb with the match—you always + did, you know. That's the style. You've forgotten to cock + your head to the side. Not so bad. That's you. Like it?' + </p> + <p> + 'It's rather nice, Dick. Dick, you and me by the fire!' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, but sit still. How often we might have been like this, + father, and weren't.' + </p> + <p> + 'Ah!' + </p> + <p> + 'Face. How is Fido?' + </p> + <p> + 'Never a dog missed her master more.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh,' frowning. 'She doesn't want to go and sit on my grave, + or any of that tosh, does she? As if I were there!' + </p> + <p> + 'No, no,' hastily; 'she goes ratting, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Good old Fido!' + </p> + <p> + 'Dick, here's a good one. We oughtn't to keep a dog at all + because we are on rations now; but what do you think Fido ate + yesterday?' + </p> + <p> + 'Let me guess. The joint?' + </p> + <p> + 'Almost worse than that. She ate all the cook's meat + tickets.' + </p> + <p> + They laugh, together, but when Dick says light-heartedly, + 'That dog will be the death of me.' his father shivers. Dick + does not notice this; his eyes have drawn him to the + fishing-rods. + </p> + <p> + 'Hullo!' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, those are your old fishing-rods.' + </p> + <p> + 'Here's the little hickory! Do you remember, father, how I + got the seven-pounder on a burn-trout cast? No, you weren't + there. That was a day. It was really only six and + three-quarters. I put a stone in its mouth the second time we + weighed it!' + </p> + <p> + 'You loved fishing, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Didn't I? Why weren't you oftener with me? I'll tell you a + funny thing, When I went a soldiering I used to + pray—just standing up, you know—that I shouldn't + lose my right arm, because it would be so awkward for + casting.' He cogitates as he returns to the ingle-nook. + 'Somehow I never thought I should be killed. Lots of fellows + thought that about themselves, but I never did. It was quite + a surprise to me.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, Dick!' + </p> + <p> + 'What's the matter? Oh, I forgot. Face!' He is apparently + looking down at his father wonderingly. 'Haven't you got over + it yet, father? I got over it so long ago. I wish you people + would understand what a little thing it is.' + </p> + <p> + 'Tell me,' very humbly; 'tell me, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'All right.' He is in the chair again. + </p> + <p> + 'Mind, I can't tell you where I was killed; it's against the + regulations.' + </p> + <p> + 'I know where.' + </p> + <p> + Curiously, 'You got a wire, I suppose?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes.' + </p> + <p> + 'There's always a wire for officers, even for 2nd + Lieutenants. It's jolly decent of them.' + </p> + <p> + 'Tell me, Dick, about the—the veil. I mean the veil + that is drawn between the living and the——.' + </p> + <p> + 'The dead? Funny how you jib at that word.' + </p> + <p> + 'I suppose the veil is like a mist?' + </p> + <p> + 'The veil's a rummy thing, father. Yes, like a mist. But when + one has been at the Front for a bit, you can't think how thin + the veil seems to get; just one layer of it. I suppose it + seems thin to you out there because one step takes you + through it. We sometimes mix up those who have gone through + with those who haven't. I daresay if I were to go back to my + old battalion the living chaps would just nod to me.' + </p> + <p> + 'Dick!' + </p> + <p> + 'Where's that pipe? Death? Well, to me, before my day came, + it was like some part of the line I had heard a lot about but + never been in. I mean, never been in to stay, because, of + course, one often popped in and out.' + </p> + <p> + 'Dick, the day that you——' + </p> + <p> + 'My day? I don't remember being hit, you know. I don't + remember anything till the quietness came. When you have been + killed it suddenly becomes very quiet; quieter even than you + have ever known it at home. Sunday used to be a pretty quiet + day at my tutor's, when Trotter and I flattened out on the + first shady spot up the river; but it is quieter than that. I + am not boring you, am I?' + </p> + <p> + 'My boy!' + </p> + <p> + 'When I came to, the veil was so thin that I couldn't see it + at all; and my first thought was, Which side of it have I + come out on? The living ones lying on the ground were asking + that about themselves, too. There we were, all sitting up and + asking whether we were alive or dead; and some were one, and + some were the other. Sort of fluke, you know.' + </p> + <p> + 'I—I—oh, Dick!' + </p> + <p> + 'As soon as each had found out about himself he wondered how + it had gone with his chums, I halloo'd to Johnny Randall, and + he halloo'd back that he was dead, but that Trotter was + living. That's the way of it. A good deal of chaff, of + course. By that time the veil was there, and getting thicker, + and we lined up on our right sides. Then I could only see the + living ones in shadow and hear their voices from a distance. + They sang out to us for a while; but just at first, father, + it was rather lonely when we couldn't hear their tread any + longer. What are you fidgeting about? You needn't worry; that + didn't last long; we were heaps more interested in ourselves + than in them. You should have heard the gabbling! It was all + so frightfully novel, you see; and no one quite knew what to + do next, whether all to start off together, or wait for some + one to come for us. I say, what a lot I'm talking!' + </p> + <p> + 'What happened, Dick?' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh!' a proud ring coming into the voice, 'Ockley came for + us. He used to be alive, you know—the Ockley who was + keeper of the fives in my first half. I once pointed him out + to mother. I was jolly glad he was the one who came for us. + As soon as I saw it was Ockley I knew we should be all + right.' + </p> + <p> + 'Dick, I like that Ockley.' + </p> + <p> + 'Rather. I wish I could remember something funny to tell you + though. There are lots of jokes, but I am such a one for + forgetting them.' + </p> + <p> + He laughs boisterously. We may be sure that he flings back + his head. You remember how Dick used to fling back his head + when he laughed?—No, you didn't know him. + </p> + <p> + 'Father, do you remember little Wantage who was at my private + and came on to Ridley's house in my third half? His mother + was the one you called Emily.' + </p> + <p> + 'Emily Wantage's boy.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's the card. We used to call him Jemima, because he and + his mother were both caught crying when lock-up struck, and + she had to clear out.' + </p> + <p> + 'She was very fond of him, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, I expect no end. Tell her he's killed.' + </p> + <p> + 'She knows.' + </p> + <p> + 'She had got a wire. That isn't the joke, though. You see he + got into a hopeless muddle about which side of the veil he + had come out on; and he went off with the other ones, and + they wouldn't have him, and he got lost in the veil, running + up and down it, calling to us; and just for the lark we + didn't answer.' He chuckles, 'I expect he has become a + ghost!' With sudden consideration, 'Best not tell his mother + that.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don rises, wincing, and Dick also is at once on his feet, + full of compunction. + </p> + <p> + 'Was that shabby of me? Sorry, father. We are all pretty + young, you know, and we can't help having our fun still.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm glad you still have your fun,' the father says, once + more putting his hands on Dick's shoulders. 'Let me look at + you again, Dick. There is such a serenity about you now.' + </p> + <p> + 'Serenity, that's the word! None of us could remember what + the word was. It's a ripping good thing to have. I should be + awfully bucked if you would have it, too.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'll try.' + </p> + <p> + 'I say, how my tongue runs on! But, after all, it was my + show. Now, you tell me some things.' + </p> + <p> + 'What about, Dick? The war?' + </p> + <p> + 'No,' almost in a shout. 'We have a fine for speaking about + the war. And you know, those fellows we were fighting—I + forget who they were?' + </p> + <p> + 'The Germans.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh yes. Some of them were on the same side of the veil with + us, and they were rather decent; so we chummed up in the end + and Ockley took us all away together. They were jolly lucky + in getting Ockley. There I go again! Come on, it's your turn. + Has the bathroom tap been mended yet?' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm afraid it is—just tied up with that string still, + Dick. It works all right.' + </p> + <p> + 'It only needs two screw-nails, you know.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'll see to it.' + </p> + <p> + 'Do you know whether any one at my tutors got his fives + choice this half?' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm sorry, Dick, but——' + </p> + <p> + 'Or who is the captain of the boats?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, I——' + </p> + <p> + 'Whatever have you been doing?' He is moving about the room. + 'Hullo, here's mother's work-box! Is mother all right?' + </p> + <p> + 'Very sad about you, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, I say, that isn't fair. Why doesn't she cheer up?' + </p> + <p> + 'It isn't so easy, my boy.' + </p> + <p> + 'It's pretty hard lines on me, you know.' + </p> + <p> + 'How is that?' + </p> + <p> + 'If you are sad, I have to be sad. That's how we have got to + work it off. You can't think how we want to be bright.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'll always remember that, and I'll tell your mother. Ah, + but she won't believe me, Dick; you will have to tell her + yourself.' + </p> + <p> + 'I can't do that, father. I can only come to one.' + </p> + <p> + 'She should have been the one; she loved you best, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, I don't know. Do you ever,' with a slight hesitation, + 'see Laura now?' + </p> + <p> + 'She is staying with us at present.' + </p> + <p> + 'Is she? I think I should like to see her.' + </p> + <p> + 'If Laura were to see you——' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, she wouldn't see me. She is not dressed in black, is + she?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, in white.' + </p> + <p> + 'Good girl! I suppose mother is in black?' + </p> + <p> + 'Surely, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'It's too bad, you know.' + </p> + <p> + 'You weren't exactly—engaged to Laura, were you, Dick?' + A bold question from a father, but the circumstances were + unusual. Apologetically, 'I never rightly knew.' + </p> + <p> + 'No!' Dick has flung back his head again. Confidentially, + 'Father, I sometimes thought of it, but it rather scared me! + I expect that is about how it was with her, too.' + </p> + <p> + 'She is very broken about you now.' + </p> + <p> + Irritated, 'Oh, hang!' + </p> + <p> + 'Would you like her to forget you, Dick?' + </p> + <p> + 'Rather not. But she might help a fellow a bit. Hullo!' + </p> + <p> + What calls forth this exclamation, is the little table at + which the seance had taken place. The four chairs are still + standing round it, as if they were guarding something. + </p> + <p> + 'Here's something new, father; this table.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, It is usually in the drawing-room.' + </p> + <p> + 'Of course. I remember.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don sets his teeth. 'Does that table suggest anything to + you, Dick?' + </p> + <p> + 'To me? Let me think. Yes, I used to play backgammon on it. + What is it doing here?' + </p> + <p> + 'Your mother brought it in.' + </p> + <p> + 'To play games on? Mother!' + </p> + <p> + 'I don't—know that it was a game, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'But to play anything! I'm precious glad she can do that. Was + Laura playing with her?' + </p> + <p> + 'She was helping her.' + </p> + <p> + 'Good for Laura.' He is looking at some slips of paper on the + table. 'Are those pieces of paper used in the game? There is + writing on them: "The first letter is H—the second + letter is A—the third letter is R." What does it mean?' + </p> + <p> + 'Does it convey no meaning to you, Dick?' + </p> + <p> + 'To me? No; why should it?' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don is enjoying no triumph. 'Let us go back to the fire, + my boy.' + </p> + <p> + Dick follows him into the ingle-nook. 'But, why should it + convey a meaning to me? I was never much of a hand at indoor + games.' Brightly, 'I bet you Ockley would be good at it.' + After a joyous ramble, 'Ockley's nickname still sticks to + him!' + </p> + <p> + 'I don't think I know it.' + </p> + <p> + 'He was a frightful swell, you know. Keeper of the field, and + played against Harrow the same year. I suppose it did go just + a little to his head.' + </p> + <p> + They are back in their old seats, and Mr. Don leans forward + in gleeful anticipation. Probably Dick is leaning forward in + the same way, and this old father is merely copying him. + </p> + <p> + 'What did you nickname him, Dick?' + </p> + <p> + 'It was his fags that did it!' + </p> + <p> + 'I should like to know it. I say, do tell me, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'He is pretty touchy about it now, you know.' + </p> + <p> + 'I won't tell any one. Come on, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'His fags called him K.C.M.G.' + </p> + <p> + 'Meaning, meaning, Dick?' + </p> + <p> + 'Meaning "Kindly Call Me God!"' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don flings back his head; so we know what Dick is doing. + They are a hilarious pair, perhaps too noisy, for suddenly + Mr. Don looks at the door. + </p> + <p> + 'I think I heard some one, Dick!' + </p> + <p> + 'Perhaps it's mother!' + </p> + <p> + 'She may,' nervously, 'have heard the row.' + </p> + <p> + Dick's eyes must be twinkling. 'I say, father, you'll catch + it!' + </p> + <p> + 'I can't believe, Dick,' gazing wistfully into the chair, + 'that she won't see you.' + </p> + <p> + It is a sadder voice than his own for the moment that + answers, 'Only one may see me.' + </p> + <p> + 'You will speak to her, Dick. Let her hear your voice.' + </p> + <p> + 'Only one may hear me. I could make her the one; but it would + mean your losing me.' + </p> + <p> + 'I can't give you up, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Don comes in, as beautiful as ever, but a little + aggrieved. + </p> + <p> + 'I called to you, Robert.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, I thought—I was just going to——' + </p> + <p> + He has come from the ingle-nook to meet her. He looks from + her to Dick, whom he sees so clearly, standing now by the + fire. An awe falls upon Mr. Don. He says her name, meaning, + 'See, Grace, who is with us.' + </p> + <p> + Her eyes follow his, but she sees nothing, not even two arms + outstretched to her. 'What is it, Robert? What is the + matter?' + </p> + <p> + She does not hear a voice say, 'Mother!' + </p> + <p> + 'I heard you laughing, Robert; what on earth at?' + </p> + <p> + The father cannot speak. + </p> + <p> + 'Now you're in a hole, father!' says a mischievous, voice. + </p> + <p> + 'Can I not be told, Robert?' + </p> + <p> + 'Something in the paper,' the voice whispers. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don lifts the paper feebly, and his wife understands. + 'Oh, a newspaper joke! Please, I don't want to hear it.' + </p> + <p> + 'Was it my laughing that brought you back, Grace?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, that would only have made me shut my door. If Dick + thought you could laugh!' She goes to the little table. 'I + came back for these slips of paper.' She lifts them and + presses them to her breast. 'These precious slips of paper!' + </p> + <p> + Dick was always a curious boy, and forgetting that she cannot + hear him, he blurts out, 'How do you mean, mother? Why are + they precious?' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don forgets also and looks to her for an answer. + </p> + <p> + 'What is it, Robert?' + </p> + <p> + 'Didn't you—hear anything, Grace?' + </p> + <p> + 'No. Perhaps Laura was calling; I left her on the stair.' + </p> + <p> + 'I wish,' Mr. Don is fighting for Dick now, 'I wish Laura + would come back and say good-night to me.' + </p> + <p> + 'I daresay she will.' + </p> + <p> + 'And,' valiantly, 'if she could be—rather brighter, + Grace.' + </p> + <p> + 'Robert!' + </p> + <p> + 'I think Dick would like it.' + </p> + <p> + Her fine eyes reproach him mutely, but she says, ever + forgiving, 'Is that how you look at it, Robert? Very well, + laugh your fill—if you can. But if Dick were to appear + before me to-night——' + </p> + <p> + In his distress Mr. Don cries aloud to the figure by the + fire, 'Dick, if you can appear to your mother, do it.' + </p> + <p> + There is a pause in which anything may happen, but nothing + happens. Yes, something happened: Dick has stuck to his + father. + </p> + <p> + 'Really, Robert!' Mrs. Don says, and, without a word of + reproach, she goes away. Evidently Dick comes to his father, + who has sank into a chair, and puts a loving hand on him. Mr. + Don clasps it without looking up. + </p> + <p> + 'Father, that was top-hole of you! Poor mother, I should have + liked to hug her; but I can't.' + </p> + <p> + 'You should have gone to her, Dick; you shouldn't have minded + me.' + </p> + <p> + The wiser boy says, 'Mother's a darling, but she doesn't need + me as much as you do.' + </p> + <p> + 'I don't know.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's all right. I'm glad she's so keen about that game, + though.' + </p> + <p> + He has returned to the ingle-nook when Laura comes in, eager + to make amends to Dick's father if she hurt him when she went + out. + </p> + <p> + Softly, 'I have come to say good-night, Mr. Don.' + </p> + <p> + 'It's nice of you, Laura,' taking both her hands. + </p> + <p> + Dick speaks. 'I want her to come nearer to the fire; I can't + see her very well there.' + </p> + <p> + For a moment Mr. Don is caught out again; but Laura has heard + nothing. He becomes quite cunning in Dick's interests. + </p> + <p> + 'Your hands are cold, Laura; go over to the fire. I want to + look at you.' + </p> + <p> + She sits on the hearthstone by Dick's feet. + </p> + <p> + Shyly, 'Am I all right?' + </p> + <p> + It is Dick who answers. 'You're awfully pretty, Laura. You + are even prettier than I thought. I remember I used to think, + she can't be quite as pretty as I think her; and then when + you came you were just a little prettier.' + </p> + <p> + She has been warming her hands. 'Why don't you say anything?' + she asks Mr. Don. + </p> + <p> + 'I was thinking of you and Dick, Laura.' + </p> + <p> + 'What a pretty soul she has, father,' says the boy; 'I can + see right down into it now.' + </p> + <p> + 'If Dick had lived, Laura, do you think that you and + he—?' + </p> + <p> + With shining eyes, 'I think—if he had wanted it very + much.' + </p> + <p> + 'I expect he would, my dear.' + </p> + <p> + There is an odd candour about Dick's contribution. 'I think + so, too, but I never was quite sure.' They are a very young + pair. + </p> + <p> + Laura is trembling a little. 'Mr. Don—' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, Laura?' + </p> + <p> + 'I think there is something wicked about me. I sometimes feel + quite light-hearted—though Dick has gone.' + </p> + <p> + 'Perhaps, nowadays, the fruit trees have that sort of shame + when they blossom, Laura; but they can't help doing it. I + hope you are yet to be a happy woman, a happy wife.' + </p> + <p> + 'It seems so heartless to Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Not a bit; it's what I should like,' Dick says. + </p> + <p> + 'It's what he would like, Laura.' + </p> + <p> + 'Do you remember, Laura,' Dick goes on, 'I kissed you once. + It was under a lilac in the Loudon Woods. I knew at the time + that you were angry, and I should have apologised. I'm sorry, + Laura.' + </p> + <p> + His sweetheart has risen, tasting something bitter-sweet. + 'What is it, Laura?' Mr. Don asks. + </p> + <p> + 'Somehow—I don't know how—but, for a moment I + seemed to feel the smell of lilac. Dick was once—nice + to me under a lilac. Oh, Mr. Don—' She goes to him like + a child, and he soothes and pets her. + </p> + <p> + 'There, there! That will be all right, quite all right.' He + takes her to the door. 'Good-night, my dear.' + </p> + <p> + 'Good-night, Mr. Don.' + </p> + <p> + 'Good-bye, Laura,' says the third voice. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don is looking so glum that the moment they are alone + Dick has to cry warningly, 'Face!' He is probably looking + glum himself, for he says candidly, 'Pretty awful things, + these partings. Father, don't feel hurt though I dodge the + good-bye business when I leave you.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's so like you, Dick!' + </p> + <p> + 'I'll have to go soon.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, Dick! Can't you—' + </p> + <p> + 'There's something I want not to miss, you see.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm glad of that.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm not going yet; but I mean that when I do I'll just slip + away.' + </p> + <p> + 'What I am afraid of is that you won't come back.' + </p> + <p> + 'I will—honest Injun—if you keep bright.' + </p> + <p> + 'But, if I do that, Dick, you might think I wasn't missing + you so much.' + </p> + <p> + 'We know better than that. You see, if you're bright, I'll + get a good mark for it.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'll be bright.' + </p> + <p> + Dick pops him into the settle again. + </p> + <p> + 'Remember your pipe.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Do you still go to that swimming-bath, and do your dumb-bell + exercises?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, I—' + </p> + <p> + 'You must.' + </p> + <p> + 'All right, Dick, I will.' + </p> + <p> + 'And I want you to be smarter next time. Your hair's awful.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'll get it cut, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Are you hard at work over your picture of those three + Graces?' + </p> + <p> + 'No. I put that away. I'm just doing little things nowadays. + I can't—' + </p> + <p> + 'Look here, sonny, you've got to go on with it. You don't + seem to know how interested I am in your future.' + </p> + <p> + 'Very well, Dick; I'll bring it out again.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don hesitates. + </p> + <p> + 'Dick, there is something I have wanted to ask you all the + time.' + </p> + <p> + Some fear seems to come into the boy's voice. 'Don't ask it, + father.' + </p> + <p> + 'I shall go on worrying about it if I don't—but just as + you like, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Go ahead, father; ask me.' + </p> + <p> + 'It is this. Would you rather be—here—than + there?' + </p> + <p> + After a pause the boy says, 'Not always.' + </p> + <p> + 'What is the great difference, Dick?' + </p> + <p> + 'Well, down here one knows he has risks to run.' + </p> + <p> + 'And you miss that?' + </p> + <p> + 'It must be rather jolly.' + </p> + <p> + 'Did you know that was what I was to ask?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes. But, remember, I'm young at it.' + </p> + <p> + 'And your gaiety, Dick; is it all real, or only put on to + help me?' + </p> + <p> + 'It's—it's half and half, father.' + </p> + <p> + 'Face!' he cries, next moment. Then cajolingly, 'Father, + K.C.M.G.!' + </p> + <p> + 'When will you come again, Dick?' + </p> + <p> + 'There's no saying. One can't always get through. They keep + changing the password.' His voice grows troubled. 'It's + awfully difficult to get the password.' + </p> + <p> + 'What was it to-night?' + </p> + <p> + 'Love Bade Me Welcome.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don rises; he stares at his son. + </p> + <p> + 'How did you get it, Dick?' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm not sure.' Dick seems to go closer to his father, as if + for protection. 'There are lots of things I don't understand + yet.' + </p> + <p> + 'There are things I don't understand either. Dick, did you + ever try to send messages—from there—-to us?' + </p> + <p> + 'Me? No.' + </p> + <p> + 'Or get messages from us?' + </p> + <p> + 'No. How could we?' + </p> + <p> + 'Is there anything in it?' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don is not speaking to his son. He goes to the little + table and looks long at it. Has it taken on a sinister + aspect? Those chairs, are they guarding a secret? + </p> + <p> + 'Dick, this table—your mother—how could + they——' + </p> + <p> + He turns, to find that Dick has gone. + </p> + <p> + 'Dick! My boy! Dick!' + </p> + <p> + The well-remembered voice leaves a message behind it. + </p> + <p> + 'Be bright, father.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don sits down by the fire to think it all out. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Echoes of the War, by J. M. 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Barrie + +Posting Date: November 3, 2011 [EBook #9617] +Release Date: January, 2006 +First Posted: October 10, 2003 +Last Updated: December 13, 2004 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ECHOES OF THE WAR *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, David Garcia +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + + + + +ECHOES OF THE WAR + +BY J. M. BARRIE + + + +1918 + + + +CONTENTS + + + THE OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS + + THE NEW WORD + + BARBARA'S WEDDING + + A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE + + + + + + +THE OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS + + +Three nice old ladies and a criminal, who is even nicer, are discussing +the war over a cup of tea. The criminal, who is the hostess, calls it a +dish of tea, which shows that she comes from Caledonia; but that is not +her crime. + +They are all London charwomen, but three of them, including the hostess, +are what are called professionally 'charwomen _and_' or simply +'ands.' An 'and' is also a caretaker when required; her name is entered +as such in ink in a registry book, financial transactions take place +across a counter between her and the registrar, and altogether she is of +a very different social status from one who, like Mrs. Haggerty, is a +charwoman but nothing else. Mrs. Haggerty, though present, is not at the +party by invitation; having seen Mrs. Dowey buying the winkles, she +followed her downstairs, so has shuffled into the play and sat down in +it against our wish. We would remove her by force, or at least print her +name in small letters, were it not that she takes offence very readily +and says that nobody respects her. So, as you have slipped in, you sit +there, Mrs. Haggerty; but keep quiet. + +There is nothing doing at present in the caretaking way for Mrs. Dowey, +our hostess; but this does not damp her, caretaking being only to such +as she an extra financially and a halo socially. If she had the honour +of being served with an income-tax paper she would probably fill in one +of the nasty little compartments with the words, 'Trade--charring; +Profession (if any)--caretaking.' This home of hers (from which, to look +after your house, she makes occasionally temporary departures in great +style, escorting a barrow) is in one of those what-care-I streets that +you discover only when you have lost your way; on discovering them, your +duty is to report them to the authorities, who immediately add them to +the map of London. That is why we are now reporting Friday Street. We +shall call it, in the rough sketch drawn for to-morrow's press, 'Street +in which the criminal resided'; and you will find Mrs. Dowey's home +therein marked with a X. + +Her abode really consists of one room, but she maintains that there are +two; so, rather than argue, let us say that there are two. The other one +has no window, and she could not swish her old skirts in it without +knocking something over; its grandest display is of tin pans and +crockery on top of a dresser which has a lid to it; you have but to whip +off the utensils and raise the lid, and, behold, a bath with hot and +cold. Mrs. Dowey is very proud of this possession, and when she shows it +off, as she does perhaps too frequently, she first signs to you with +closed fist (funny old thing that she is) to approach softly. She then +tiptoes to the dresser and pops off the lid, as if to take the bath +unawares. Then she sucks her lips, and is modest if you have the grace +to do the exclamations. + +In the real room is a bed, though that is putting the matter too +briefly. The fair way to begin, if you love Mrs. Dowey, is to say to her +that it is a pity she has no bed. If she is in her best form she will +chuckle, and agree that the want of a bed tries her sore; she will keep +you on the hooks, so to speak, as long as she can; and then, with that +mouse-like movement again, she will suddenly spring the bed on you. You +thought it was a wardrobe, but she brings it down from the wall; and lo, +a bed. There is nothing else in her abode (which we now see to contain +four rooms--kitchen, pantry, bedroom, and bathroom) that is absolutely +a surprise; but it is full of 'bits,' every one of which has been paid +ready money for, and gloated over and tended until it has become part of +its owner. Genuine Doweys, the dealers might call them, though there is +probably nothing in the place except the bed that would fetch +half-a-crown. + +Her home is in the basement, so that the view is restricted to the lower +half of persons passing overhead beyond the area stairs. Here at the +window Mrs. Dowey sometimes sits of a summer evening gazing, not +sentimentally at a flower-pot which contains one poor bulb, nor +yearningly at some tiny speck of sky, but with unholy relish at holes in +stockings, and the like, which are revealed to her from her point of +vantage. You, gentle reader, may flaunt by, thinking that your finery +awes the street, but Mrs. Dowey can tell (and does) that your soles are +in need of neat repair. + +Also, lower parts being as expressive as the face to those whose view is +thus limited, she could swear to scores of the passers-by in a court of +law. + +These four lively old codgers are having a good time at the tea-table, +and wit is flowing free. As you can see by their everyday garments, and +by their pails and mops (which are having a little tea-party by +themselves in the corner), it is not a gathering by invitations +stretching away into yesterday, it is a purely informal affair; so much +more attractive, don't you think? than banquets elaborately prearranged. +You know how they come about, especially in war-time. Very likely Mrs. +Dowey met Mrs. Twymley and Mrs. Mickleham quite casually in the street, +and meant to do no more than the time of day; then, naturally enough, +the word camouflage was mentioned, and they got heated, but in the end +Mrs. Twymley apologised; then, in the odd way in which one thing leads +to another, the winkle man appeared, and Mrs. Dowey remembered that she +had that pot of jam and that Mrs. Mickleham had stood treat last time; +and soon they were all three descending the area stairs, followed +cringingly by the Haggerty Woman. + +They have been extremely merry, and never were four hard-worked old +ladies who deserved it better. All a woman can do in war-time they do +daily and cheerfully. Just as their men-folk are doing it at the Front; +and now, with the mops and pails laid aside, they sprawl gracefully at +ease. There is no intention on their part to consider peace terms until +a decisive victory has been gained in the field (Sarah Ann Dowey), until +the Kaiser is put to the right-about (Emma Mickleham), and singing very +small (Amelia Twymley). + +At this tea-party the lady who is to play the part of Mrs. Dowey is sure +to want to suggest that our heroine has a secret sorrow, namely, the +crime; but you should see us knocking that idea out of her head! Mrs. +Dowey knows she is a criminal, but, unlike the actress, she does not +know that she is about to be found out; and she is, to put it bluntly in +her own Scotch way, the merriest of the whole clanjamfry. She presses +more tea on her guests, but they wave her away from them in the pretty +manner of ladies who know that they have already had more than enough. + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Just one more winkle, Mrs. Mickleham?' Indeed there is only +one more. + +But Mrs. Mickleham indicates politely that if she took this one it would +have to swim for it. (The Haggerty Woman takes it long afterwards when +she thinks, erroneously, that no one is looking.) + +Mrs. Twymley is sulking. Evidently some one has contradicted her. +Probably the Haggerty Woman. + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I say it is so.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I say it may be so.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I suppose I ought to know: me that has a son a prisoner +in Germany.' She has so obviously scored that all good feeling seems to +call upon her to end here. But she continues rather shabbily, 'Being the +only lady present that has that proud misfortune.' The others are stung. + +MRS. DOWEY. 'My son is fighting in France.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Mine is wounded in two places.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Mine is at Salonaiky.' + +The absurd pronunciation of this uneducated person moves the others to +mirth. + +MRS. DOWEY. 'You'll excuse us, Mrs. Haggerty, but the correct +pronunciation is Salonikky.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, to cover her confusion. 'I don't think.' She feels +that even this does not prove her case. 'And I speak as one that has War +Savings Certificates.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'We all have them.' + +The Haggerty Woman whimpers, and the other guests regard her with +unfeeling disdain. + +MRS. DOWEY, to restore cheerfulness, 'Oh, it's a terrible war.' + +ALL, brightening, 'It is. You may say so.' + +MRS. DOWEY, encouraged, 'What I say is, the men is splendid, but I'm +none so easy about the staff. That's your weak point, Mrs. Mickleham.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM, on the defence, but determined to reveal nothing that +might be of use to the enemy, 'You may take it from me, the staff's all +right.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'And very relieved I am to hear you say it.' + +It is here that the Haggerty Woman has the remaining winkle. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'You don't understand properly about trench warfare. If +I had a map----' + +MRS. DOWEY, wetting her finger to draw lines on the table. 'That's the +river Sommy. Now, if we had barrages here----' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Very soon you would be enfilided. Where's your supports, +my lady?' Mrs. Dowey is damped. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'What none of you grasps is that this is a artillery +war----' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, strengthened by the winkle, 'I say that the word is +Salonaiky.' + +The others purse their lips. + +MRS. TWYMLEY, with terrible meaning, 'We'll change the subject. Have you +seen this week's _Fashion Chat_?' She has evidently seen and +devoured it herself, and even licked up the crumbs. 'The gabardine with +accordion pleats has quite gone out.' + +MRS. DOWEY, her old face sparkling. 'My sakes! You tell me?' + +MRS. TWYMLEY, with the touch of haughtiness that comes of great topics, +'The plain smock has come in again, with silk lacing, giving that +charming chic effect.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Oho!' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I must say I was always partial to the straight +line'--thoughtfully regarding the want of line in Mrs. Twymley's +person--'though trying to them as is of too friendly a figure.' + +It is here that the Haggerty Woman's fingers close unostentatiously upon +a piece of sugar. + +MRS. TWYMLEY, sailing into the Empyrean, 'Lady Dolly Kanister was seen +conversing across the railings in a dainty _de jou_.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Fine would I have liked to see her.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'She is equally popular as maid, wife, and +munition-worker. Her two children is inset. Lady Pops Babington was +married in a tight tulle.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'What was her going-away dress?' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'A champagny cream velvet with dreamy corsage. She's +married to Colonel the Hon. Chingford--"Snubs," they called him at +Eton.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, having disposed of the sugar, 'Very likely he'll be +sent to Salonaiky.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Wherever he is sent, she'll have the same tremors as +the rest of us. She'll be as keen to get the letters wrote with pencils +as you or me.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Them pencil letters!' + +MRS. DOWEY, in her sweet Scotch voice, timidly, afraid she may be going +too far, 'And women in enemy lands gets those pencil letters and then +stop getting them, the same as ourselves. Let's occasionally think of +that.' + +She has gone too far. Chairs are pushed back. + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I ask you!' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'That's hardly language, Mrs. Dowey.' + +MRS. DOWEY, scared, 'Kindly excuse. I swear to death I'm none of your +pacifists.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Freely granted.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I've heard of females that have no male relations, and so +they have no man-party at the wars. I've heard of them, but I don't mix +with them.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'What can the likes of us have to say to them? It's not +their war.' + +MRS. DOWEY, wistfully, 'They are to be pitied.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'But the place for them, Mrs. Dowey, is within doors +with the blinds down.' + +MRS. DOWEY, hurriedly, 'That's the place for them.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I saw one of them to-day buying a flag. I thought it +was very impudent of her.' + +MRS. DOWEY, meekly, 'So it was.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM, trying to look modest with indifferent success, 'I had +a letter from my son, Percy, yesterday.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Alfred sent me his photo.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Letters from Salonaiky is less common.' + +Three bosoms heave, but not, alas, Mrs. Dowey's. Nevertheless she +doggedly knits her lips. + +MRS. DOWEY, the criminal, 'Kenneth writes to me every week.' There are +exclamations. The dauntless old thing holds aloft a packet of letters. +'Look at this. All his.' + +The Haggerty Woman whimpers. + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Alfred has little time for writing, being a bombardier.' + +MRS. DOWEY, relentlessly, 'Do your letters begin "Dear mother"?' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Generally.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Invariable.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Every time.' + +MRS. DOWEY, delivering the knock-out blow, 'Kenneth's begin "Dearest +mother.'" + +No one can think of the right reply. + +MRS. TWYMLEY, doing her best, 'A short man, I should say, judging by +yourself.' + +She ought to have left it alone. + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Six feet two-and a half.' + +The gloom deepens. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM, against her better judgment, 'A kilty, did you tell me?' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Most certainly. He's in the famous Black Watch.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, producing her handkerchief, 'The Surrey Rifles is +the famousest.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'There you and the King disagrees, Mrs. Haggerty. His +choice is the Buffs, same as my Percy's.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY, magnanimously, 'Give me the R.H.A. and you can keep all +the rest.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'I'm sure I have nothing to say against the Surreys and the +R.H.A. and the Buffs; but they are just breeches regiments, I +understand.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'We can't all be kilties.' + +MRS. DOWEY, crushingly, 'That's very true.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. It is foolish of her, but she can't help saying it. 'Has +your Kenneth great hairy legs?' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Tremendous.' + +The wicked woman: but let us also say 'Poor Sarah Ann Dowey.' For at +this moment, enter Nemesis. In other words, the less important part of +a clergyman appears upon the stair. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'It's the reverent gent!' + +MRS. DOWEY, little knowing what he is bringing her, 'I see he has had +his boots heeled.' + +It may be said of Mr. Willings that his happy smile always walks in +front of him. This smile makes music of his life, it means that once +again he has been chosen, in his opinion, as the central figure in +romance. No one can well have led a more drab existence, but he will +never know it; he will always think of himself, humbly though elatedly, +as the chosen of the gods. Of him must it have been originally written +that adventures are for the adventurous. He meets them at every street +corner. For instance, he assists an old lady off a bus, and asks her if +he can be of any further help. She tells him that she wants to know the +way to Maddox the butcher's. Then comes the kind, triumphant smile; it +always comes first, followed by its explanation, 'I was there +yesterday!' This is the merest sample of the adventures that keep Mr. +Willings up to the mark. + +Since the war broke out, his zest for life has become almost terrible. +He can scarcely lift a newspaper and read of a hero without remembering +that he knows some one of the name. The Soldiers' Rest he is connected +with was once a china emporium, and (mark my words), he had bought his +tea service at it. Such is life when you are in the thick of it. +Sometimes he feels that he is part of a gigantic spy drama. In the +course of his extraordinary comings and goings he meets with Great +Personages, of course, and is the confidential recipient of secret news. +Before imparting the news he does not, as you might expect, first smile +expansively; on the contrary, there comes over his face an awful +solemnity, which, however, means the same thing. When divulging the +names of the personages, he first looks around to make sure that no +suspicious character is about, and then, lowering his voice, tells you, +'I had that from Mr. Farthing himself--he is the secretary of the +Bethnal Green Branch,--h'sh!' + +There is a commotion about finding a worthy chair for the reverent, and +there is also some furtive pulling down of sleeves, but he stands +surveying the ladies through his triumphant smile. This amazing man +knows that he is about to score again. + +MR. WILLINGS, waving aside the chairs, 'I thank you. But not at all. +Friends, I have news.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'News?' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'From the Front?' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'My Alfred, sir?' + +They are all grown suddenly anxious--all except the hostess, who knows +that there can never be any news from the Front for her. + +MR. WILLINGS. 'I tell you at once that all is well. The news is for Mrs. +Dowey.' + +She stares. + +MRS. DOWEY. 'News for me?' + +MR. WILLINGS. 'Your son, Mrs. Dowey--he has got five days' leave.' She +shakes her head slightly, or perhaps it only trembles a little on its +stem. 'Now, now, good news doesn't kill.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'We're glad, Mrs. Dowey.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'You're sure?' + +MR. WILLINGS. 'Quite sure. He has arrived.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'He is in London?' + +MR. WILLINGS. 'He is. I have spoken to him.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'You lucky woman.' + +They might see that she is not looking lucky, but experience has told +them how differently these things take people. + +MR. WILLINGS, marvelling more and more as he unfolds his tale, 'Ladies, +it is quite a romance, I was in the----' he looks around cautiously, but +he knows that they are all to be trusted--'in the Church Army quarters +in Central Street, trying to get on the track of one or two of our +missing men. Suddenly my eyes--I can't account for it--but suddenly my +eyes alighted on a Highlander seated rather drearily on a bench, with +his kit at his feet.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'A big man?' + +MR. WILLINGS. 'A great brawny fellow.' The Haggerty Woman groans. '"My +friend," I said at once, "welcome back to Blighty." I make a point of +calling it Blighty. "I wonder," I said, "if there is anything I can do +for you?" He shook his head. "What regiment?" I asked.' Here Mr. +Willings very properly lowers his voice to a whisper. '"Black Watch, 5th +Battalion," he said. "Name?" I asked. "Dowey," he said.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I declare. I do declare.' + +MR. WILLINGS, showing how the thing was done, with the help of a chair, +'I put my hand on his shoulder as it might be thus. "Kenneth Dowey," I +said, "I know your mother."' + +MRS. DOWEY, wetting her lips, 'What did he say to that?' + +MR. WILLINGS. 'He was incredulous. Indeed, he seemed to think I was +balmy. But I offered to bring him straight to you. I told him how much +you had talked to me about him.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Bring him here!' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I wonder he needed to be brought.' + +MR. WILLINGS. 'He had just arrived, and was bewildered by the great +city. He listened to me in the taciturn Scotch way, and then he gave +a curious laugh.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Laugh?' + +MR. WILLINGS, whose wild life has brought him into contact with the +strangest people, 'The Scotch, Mrs. Twymley, express their emotions +differently from us. With them tears signify a rollicking mood, while +merriment denotes that they are plunged in gloom. When I had finished he +said at once, "Let us go and see the old lady."' + +MRS. DOWEY, backing, which is the first movement she has made since he +began his tale, 'Is he--coming?' + +MR. WILLINGS, gloriously, 'He has come. He is up there. I told him I +thought I had better break the joyful news to you.' + +Three women rush to the window. Mrs. Dowey looks at her pantry door, but +perhaps she remembers that it does not lock on the inside. She stands +rigid, though her face has gone very grey. + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Kindly get them to go away.' + +MR. WILLINGS. 'Ladies, I think this happy occasion scarcely requires +you.' He is not the man to ask of woman a sacrifice that he is not +prepared to make himself. 'I also am going instantly.' They all survey +Mrs. Dowey, and understand--or think they understand. + +MRS. TWYMLEY, pail and mop in hand, 'I would thank none for their +company if my Alfred was at the door.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM, similarly burdened, 'The same from me. Shall I send him +down, Mrs. Dowey?' The old lady does not hear her. She is listening, +terrified, for a step on the stairs. 'Look at the poor, joyous thing, +sir. She has his letters in her hand.' + +The three women go. Mr. Willings puts a kind hand on Mrs. Dowey's +shoulder. He thinks he so thoroughly understands the situation. + +MR. WILLINGS. 'A good son, Mrs. Dowey, to have written to you so often.' + +Our old criminal quakes, but she grips the letters more tightly. Private +Dowey descends. + +'Dowey, my friend, there she is, waiting for you, with your letters in +her hand.' + +DOWEY, grimly, 'That's great.' + +Mr. Willings ascends the stair without one backward glance, like the +good gentleman he is; and the Doweys are left together, with nearly the +whole room between them. He is a great rough chunk of Scotland, howked +out of her not so much neatly as liberally; and in his Black Watch +uniform, all caked with mud, his kit and nearly all his worldly +possessions on his back, he is an apparition scarcely less fearsome (but +so much less ragged) than those ancestors of his who trotted with Prince +Charlie to Derby. He stands silent, scowling at the old lady, daring her +to raise her head; and she would like very much to do it, for she longs +to have a first glimpse of her son. When he does speak, it is to jeer at +her. + +'Do you recognise your loving son, missis?' ('Oh, the fine Scotch tang +of him,' she thinks.) 'I'm pleased I wrote so often.' ('Oh, but he's +_raized_,' she thinks.) He strides towards her, and seizes the +letters roughly, 'Let's see them.' + +There is a string round the package, and he unties it, and examines the +letters at his leisure with much curiosity. The envelopes are in order, +all addressed in pencil to Mrs. Dowey, with the proud words 'Opened by +Censor' on them. But the letter paper inside contains not a word of +writing. + +'Nothing but blank paper! Is this your writing in pencil on the +envelope?' She nods, and he gives the matter further consideration. + +'The covey told me you were a charwoman; so I suppose you picked the +envelopes out of waste-paper baskets, or such like, and then changed the +addresses?' She nods again; still she dare not look up, but she is +admiring his legs. When, however, he would cast the letters into the +fire, she flames up with sudden spirit. She clutches them. + +'Don't you burn them letters, mister.' + +'They're not real letters.' + +'They're all I have.' + +He returns to irony. 'I thought you had a son?' + +'I never had a man nor a son nor anything. I just call myself Missis to +give me a standing.' + +'Well, it's past my seeing through.' + +He turns to look for some explanation from the walls. She gets a peep at +him at last. Oh, what a grandly set-up man! Oh, the stride of him. Oh, +the noble rage of him. Oh, Samson had been like this before that woman +took him in hand. + +He whirls round on her. 'What made you do it?' + +'It was everybody's war, mister, except mine.' She beats her arms. +'I wanted it to be my war too.' + +'You'll need to be plainer. And yet I'm d----d if I care to hear you, +you lying old trickster.' + +The words are merely what were to be expected, and so are endurable; but +he has moved towards the door. + +'You're not going already, mister?' + +'Yes, I just came to give you an ugly piece of my mind.' + +She holds out her arms longingly. 'You haven't gave it to me yet.' + +'You have a cheek!' + +She gives further proof of it. 'You wouldn't drink some tea?' + +'Me! I tell you I came here for the one purpose of blazing away at you.' + +It is such a roaring negative that it blows her into a chair. But she is +up again in a moment, is this spirited old lady. 'You could drink the +tea while you was blazing away. There's winkles.' + +'Is there?' He turns interestedly towards the table, but his proud Scots +character checks him, which is just as well, for what she should have +said was that there had been winkles. 'Not me. You're just a common +rogue.' He seats himself far from the table. 'Now, then, out with it. +Sit down!' She sits meekly; there is nothing she would not do for him. +'As you char, I suppose you are on your feet all day.' + +'I'm more on my knees.' + +'That's where you should be to me.' + +'Oh, mister, I'm willing.' + +'Stop it. Go on, you accomplished liar.' + +'It's true that my name is Dowey.' + +'It's enough to make me change mine.' + +'I've been charring and charring and charring as far back as I mind. +I've been in London this twenty years.' + +'We'll skip your early days. I have an appointment.' + +'And then when I was old the war broke out.' + +'How could it affect you?' + +'Oh, mister, that's the thing. It didn't affect me. It affected +everybody but me. The neighbours looked down on me. Even the posters, on +the walls, of the woman saying, "Go, my boy," leered at me. I sometimes +cried by myself in the dark. You won't have a cup of tea?' + +'No.' + +'Sudden like the idea came to me to pretend I had a son.' + +'You depraved old limmer! But what in the name of Old Nick made you +choose me out of the whole British Army?' + +Mrs. Dowey giggles. There is little doubt that in her youth she was an +accomplished flirt. 'Maybe, mister, it was because I liked you best.' + +'Now, now, woman.' + +'I read one day in the papers, "In which, he was assisted by Private K. +Dowey, 5th Battalion, Black Watch."' + +Private K. Dowey is flattered, 'Did you, now! Well, I expect that's the +only time I was ever in the papers.' + +Mrs. Dowey tries it on again, 'I didn't choose you for that alone. I +read a history of the Black Watch first, to make sure it was the best +regiment in the world.' + +'Anybody could have told you that.' He is moving about now in better +humour, and, meeting the loaf in his stride, he cuts a slice from it. He +is hardly aware of this, but Mrs. Dowey knows. 'I like the Scotch voice +of you, woman. It drummles on like a hill burn.' + +'Prosen Water runs by where I was born.' Flirting again, 'May be it +teached me to speak, mister.' + +'Canny, woman, canny.' + +'I read about the Black Watch's ghostly piper that plays proudly when +the men of the Black Watch do well, and prouder when they fall.' + +'There's some foolish story of that kind.' He has another careless slice +off the loaf. 'But you couldn't have been living here at that time or +they would have guessed. I suppose you flitted?' + +'Yes, it cost me eleven and sixpence.' + +'How did you guess the _K_ in my name stood for Kenneth?' + +'Does it?' + +'Umpha.' + +'An angel whispered it to me in my sleep.' + +'Well, that's the only angel in the whole black business.' He chuckles. + +'You little thought I would turn up!' Wheeling suddenly on her. 'Or did +you?' + +'I was beginning to weary for a sight of you, Kenneth.' + +'What word was that?' + +'Mister.' + +He helps himself to butter, and she holds out the jam pot to him, but he +haughtily rejects it. Do you think she gives in now? Not a bit of it. + +He returns to sarcasm, 'I hope you're pleased with me now you see me.' + +'I'm very pleased. Does your folk live in Scotland?' + +'Glasgow.' + +'Both living?' + +'Ay.' + +'Is your mother terrible proud of you?' + +'Naturally.' + +'You'll be going to them?' + +'After I've had a skite in London first.' + +The old lady sniffs, 'So she is in London!' + +'Who?' + +'Your young lady.' + +'Are you jealyous?' + +'Not me.' + +'You needna be. She's a young thing.' + +'You surprises me. A beauty, no doubt?' + +'You may be sure.' He tries the jam. 'She's a titled person. She is +equally popular as maid, wife and munition-worker.' + +Mrs. Dowey remembers Lady Dolly Kanister, so familiar to readers of +fashionable gossip, and a very leery expression indeed comes into her +face. + +'Tell me more about her, man.' + +'She has sent me a lot of things, especially cakes, and a worsted +waistcoat, with a loving message on the enclosed card.' + +The old lady is now in a quiver of excitement. She loses control of +her arms, which jump excitedly this way and that. + +'You'll try one of my cakes, mister?' + +'Not me.' + +'They're of my own making.' + +'No, I thank you.' + +But with a funny little run she is in the pantry and back again. She +planks down a cake before him, at sight of which he gapes. + +'What's the matter? Tell me, oh, tell me, mister.' + +'That's exactly the kind of cake that her ladyship sends me.' + +Mrs. Dowey is now a very glorious old character indeed. + +'Is the waistcoat right, mister? I hope the Black Watch colours pleased +you.' + +'Wha----t! Was it you?' + +'I daredna give my own name, you see, and I was always reading hers in +the papers.' + +The badgered man looms over her, terrible for the last time. + +'Woman, is there no getting rid of you!' + +'Are you angry?' + +He sits down with a groan. + +'Oh, hell! Give me some tea.' + +She rushes about preparing a meal for him, every bit of her wanting +to cry out to every other bit, 'Oh, glory, glory, glory!' For a moment +she hovers behind his chair. 'Kenneth'! she murmurs. 'What?' he asks, +no longer aware that she is taking a liberty. 'Nothing,' she says, +'just Kenneth,' and is off gleefully for the tea-caddy. But when his +tea is poured out, and he has drunk a saucerful, the instinct of +self-preservation returns to him between two bites. + +'Don't you be thinking, missis, for one minute that you have got me.' + +'No, no.' + +On that understanding he unbends. + +'I have a theatre to-night, followed by a randy-dandy.' + +'Oho! Kenneth, this is a queer first meeting!' + +'It is, woman, oh, it is,' guardedly, 'and it's also a last meeting.' + +'Yes, yes.' + +'So here's to you--you old mop and pail. _Ave atque vale_.' + +'What's that?' + +'That means Hail and Farewell.' + +'Are you a scholar?' + +'Being Scotch, there's almost nothing I don't know.' + +'What was you to trade?' + +'Carter, glazier, orraman, any rough jobs.' + +'You're a proper man to look at.' + +'I'm generally admired.' + +'She's an enviable woman.' + +'Who?' + +'Your mother.' + +'Eh? Oh, that was just protecting myself from you. I have neither father +nor mother nor wife nor grandmama.' Bitterly, 'This party never even +knew who his proud parents were.' + +'Is that'--gleaming--'is that true?' + +'It's gospel.' + +'Heaven be praised!' + +'Eh? None of that! I was a fool to tell you. But don't think you can +take advantage of it. Pass the cake.' + +'I daresay it's true we'll never meet again, Kenneth, but--but if we do, +I wonder where it will be?' + +'Not in this world.' + +'There's no telling'--leering ingratiatingly--'It might be at Berlin.' + +'Tod, if I ever get to Berlin, I believe I'll find you there waiting +for me!' + +'With a cup of tea for you in my hand.' + +'Yes, and'--heartily--'very good tea too.' + +He has partaken heavily, he is now in high good humour. + +'Kenneth, we could come back by Paris!' + +'All the ladies,' slapping his knees, 'likes to go to Paris.' + +'Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, if just once before I die I could be fitted for +a Paris gown with dreamy corsage!' + +'You're all alike, old covey. We have a song about it.' He sings: + + 'Mrs. Gill is very ill, + Nothing can improve her + But to see the Tuileries + And waddle through the Louvre.' + +No song ever had a greater success. Mrs. Dowey is doubled up with mirth. +When she comes to, when they both come to, for there are a pair of them, +she cries: + +'You must learn me that,' and off she goes in song also: + + 'Mrs. Dowey's very ill, + Nothing can improve her.' + + +'Stop!' cries clever Kenneth, and finishes the verse: + + 'But dressed up in a Paris gown + To waddle through the Louvre.' + + +They fling back their heads, she points at him, he points at her. She +says ecstatically: + +'Hairy legs!' + +A mad remark, which brings him to his senses; he remembers who and what +she is. + +'Mind your manners!' Rising, 'Well, thank you for my tea. I must be +stepping.' + +Poor Mrs. Dowey, he is putting on his kit. + +'Where are you living?' + +He sighs. + +'That's the question. But there's a place called The Hut, where some of +the 2nd Battalion are. They'll take me in. Beggars,' bitterly, 'can't be +choosers.' + +'Beggars?' + +'I've never been here before. If you knew'--a shadow coming over +him--'what it is to be in such a place without a friend. I was crazy +with glee, when I got my leave, at the thought of seeing London at last, +but after wandering its streets for four hours, I would almost have been +glad to be back in the trenches.' + +'If you knew,' he has said, but indeed the old lady knows. + +'That's my quandorum too, Kenneth.' + +He nods sympathetically. + +'I'm sorry for you, you poor old body,' shouldering his kit. 'But I see +no way out for either of us.' + +A cooing voice says, 'Do you not?' + +'Are you at it again!' + +She knows that it must be now or never. She has left her biggest guns +for the end. In her excitement she is rising up and down on her toes. + +'Kenneth, I've heard that the thing a man on leave longs for more than +anything else is a bed with sheets, and a bath.' + +'You never heard anything truer.' + +'Go into that pantry, Kenneth Dowey, and lift the dresser-top, and tell +me what you see.' + +He goes. There is an awful stillness. He returns, impressed. + +'It's a kind of a bath!' + +'You could do yourself there pretty, half at a time.' + +'Me?' + +'There's a woman through the wall that would be very willing to give me +a shakedown till your leave is up.' + +He snorts. + +'Oh, is there!' + +She has not got him yet, but there is still one more gun. + +'Kenneth, look!' + +With these simple words she lets down the bed. She says no more; an +effect like this would be spoilt by language. Fortunately he is not +made of stone. He thrills. + +'My word! That's the dodge we need in the trenches.' + +'That's your bed, Kenneth.' + +'Mine?' He grins at her. 'You queer old divert. What can make you so +keen to be burdened by a lump like me?' + +'He! he! he! he!' + +'I tell you, I'm the commonest kind of man.' + +'I'm just the commonest kind of old wifie myself.' + +'I've been a kick-about all my life, and I'm no great shakes at the +war.' + +'Yes, you are. How many Germans have you killed?' + +'Just two for certain, and there was no glory in it. It was just because +they wanted my shirt.' + +'Your shirt?' + +'Well, they said it was their shirt.' + +'Have you took prisoners?' + +'I once took half a dozen, but that was a poor affair too.' + +'How could one man take half a dozen?' + +'Just in the usual way. I surrounded them.' + +'Kenneth, you're just my ideal.' + +'You're easily pleased.' + +He turns again to the bed, 'Let's see how the thing works.' He kneads +the mattress with his fist, and the result is so satisfactory that he +puts down his kit. + +'Old lady, if you really want me, I'll bide.' + +'Oh! oh! oh! oh!' + +Her joy is so demonstrative that he has to drop a word of warning. + +'But, mind you, I don't accept you as a relation. For your personal +glory, you can go on pretending to the neighbours; but the best I can +say for you is that you're on your probation. I'm a cautious character, +and we must see how you'll turn out.' + +'Yes, Kenneth.' + +'And now, I think, for that bath. My theatre begins at six-thirty. A +cove I met on a 'bus is going with me.' + +She is a little alarmed. + +'You're sure you'll come back?' + +'Yes, yes,' handsomely, 'I leave my kit in pledge.' + +'You won't liquor up too freely, Kenneth?' + +'You're the first,' chuckling, 'to care whether I do or not.' Nothing +she has said has pleased the lonely man so much as this. 'I promise. +Tod, I'm beginning to look forward to being wakened in the morning by +hearing you cry, "Get up, you lazy swine." I've kind of envied men that +had womenfolk with the right to say that.' + +He is passing to the bathroom when a diverting notion strikes him. + +'What is it, Kenneth?' + +'The theatre. It would be showier if I took a lady.' + +Mrs. Dowey feels a thumping at her breast. + +'Kenneth, tell me this instant what you mean. Don't keep me on the +jumps.' + +He turns her round. + +'No, It couldn't be done.' + +'Was it me you were thinking of?' + +'Just for the moment,' regretfully, 'but you have no style.' + +She catches hold of him by the sleeve. + +'Not in this, of course. But, oh, Kenneth, if you saw me in my merino! +It's laced up the back in the very latest.' + +'Hum,' doubtfully; 'but let's see it.' + +It is produced from a drawer, to which the old lady runs with almost +indecent haste. The connoisseur examines it critically. + +'Looks none so bad. Have you a bit of chiffon for the neck? It's not +bombs nor Kaisers nor Tipperary that men in the trenches think of, it's +chiffon.' + +'I swear I have, Kenneth, And I have a bangle, and a muff, and gloves.' + +'Ay, ay.' He considers. 'Do you think you could give your face less of +a homely look?' + +'I'm sure I could.' + +'Then you can have a try. But, mind you, I promise nothing. All will +depend on the effect.' + +He goes into the pantry, and the old lady is left alone. Not alone, for +she is ringed round by entrancing hopes and dreadful fears. They beam on +her and jeer at her, they pull her this way and that; with difficulty +she breaks through them and rushes to her pail, hot water, soap, and +a looking-glass. Our last glimpse of her for this evening shows her +staring (not discontentedly) at her soft old face, licking her palm, +and pressing it to her hair. Her eyes are sparkling. + + * * * * * + +One evening a few days later Mrs. Twymley and Mrs. Mickleham are in Mrs. +Dowey's house, awaiting that lady's return from some fashionable +dissipation. They have undoubtedly been discussing the war, for the +first words we catch are: + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I tell you flat, Amelia, I bows no knee to junkerdom.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Sitting here by the fire, you and me, as one to another, +what do you think will happen after the war? Are we to go back to being +as we were?' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Speaking for myself, Amelia, not me. The war has +wakened me up to a understanding of my own importance that is really +astonishing.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Same here. Instead of being the poor worms the like of +you and me thought we was, we turns out to be visible departments of +a great and haughty empire.' + +They are well under weigh, and with a little luck we might now hear +their views on various passing problems of the day, such as the neglect +of science in our public schools. But in comes the Haggerty Woman, and +spoils everything. She is attired, like them, in her best, but the +effect of her is that her clothes have gone out for a walk, leaving her +at home. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM, with deep distaste, 'Here's that submarine again.' + +The Haggerty Woman cringes to them, but gets no encouragement. + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'It's a terrible war.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Is that so?' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I wonder what will happen when it ends?' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I have no idea.' + +The intruder produces her handkerchief, but does not use it. After all, +she is in her best. + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Are they not back yet?' + +Perfect ladies must reply to a direct question. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'No,' icily. 'We have been waiting this half hour. They +are at the theatre again.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'You tell me! I just popped in with an insignificant +present for him, as his leave is up.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'The same errand brought us.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'My present is cigarettes.' + +They have no intention of telling her what their presents are, but the +secret leaps from them. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'So is mine.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Mine too.' + +Triumph of the Haggerty Woman. But it is short-lived. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Mine has gold tips.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'So has mine.' + +The Haggerty Woman need not say a word. You have only to look at her to +know that her cigarettes are not gold-tipped. She tries to brazen it +out, which is so often a mistake. + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'What care I? Mine is Exquisytos.' + +No wonder they titter. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Excuse us, Mrs. Haggerty (if that's your name), but the +word is Exquiseetos.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Much obliged' (weeps). + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I think I heard a taxi.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'It will be her third this week.' + +They peer through the blind. They are so excited that rank is forgotten. + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'What is she in?' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'A new astrakhan jacket he gave her, with Venus +sleeves.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Has she sold her gabardine coat?' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Not her! She has them both at the theatre, warm night +though it is. She's wearing the astrakhan, and carrying the gabardine, +flung careless-like over her arm.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I saw her strutting about with him yesterday, +looking as if she thought the two of them made a procession.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Hsh!' peeping, 'Strike me dead, if she's not coming +mincing down the stair, hooked on his arm!' + +Indeed it is thus that Mrs. Dowey enters. Perhaps she had seen shadows +lurking on the blind, and at once hooked on to Kenneth to impress the +visitors. She is quite capable of it. + +Now we see what Kenneth saw that afternoon five days ago when he emerged +from the bathroom and found the old trembler awaiting his inspection. +Here are the muff and the gloves and the chiffon, and such a kind old +bonnet that it makes you laugh at once; I don't know how to describe it, +but it is trimmed with a kiss, as bonnets should be when the wearer is +old and frail. We must take the merino for granted until she steps out +of the astrakhan. She is dressed up to the nines, there is no doubt +about it. Yes, but is her face less homely? Above all, has she style? +The answer is in a stout affirmative. Ask Kenneth. He knows. Many a time +he has had to go behind a door to roar hilariously at the old lady. He +has thought of her as a lark to tell his mates about by and by; but for +some reason that he cannot fathom, he knows now that he will never do +that. + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Kenneth,' affecting surprise, 'we have visitors!' + +DOWEY. 'Your servant, ladies.' + +He is no longer mud-caked and dour. A very smart figure is this Private +Dowey, and he winks engagingly at the visitors, like one who knows that +for jolly company you cannot easily beat charwomen. The pleasantries +that he and they have exchanged this week! The sauce he has given them. +The wit of Mrs. Mickleham's retorts. The badinage of Mrs. Twymley. The +neat giggles of the Haggerty Woman. There has been nothing like it since +you took the countess in to dinner. + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'We should apologise. We're not meaning to stay.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'You are very welcome. Just wait'--the ostentation of +this!--'till I get out of my astrakhan--and my muff--and my gloves--and' +(it is the bonnet's turn now) 'my Excelsior.' + +At last we see her in the merino (a triumph). + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'You've given her a glory time, Mr. Dowey.' + +DOWEY. 'It's her that has given it to me, missis.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Hey! hey! hey! hey! He just pampers me,' waggling her +fists. 'The Lord forgive us, but this being the last night, we had a +sit-down supper at a restaurant!' Vehemently: 'I swear by God that we +had champagny wine.' There is a dead stillness, and she knows very well +what it means, she has even prepared for it: 'And to them as doubts my +word--here's the cork.' + +She places the cork, in its lovely gold drapery, upon the table. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I'm sure!' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I would thank you, Mrs. Dowey, not to say a word against +my Alfred.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Me!' + +DOWEY. 'Come, come, ladies,' in the masterful way that is so hard for +women to resist; 'if you say another word, I'll kiss the lot of you.' + +There is a moment of pleased confusion. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Really, them sodgers!' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'The kilties is the worst!' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I'm sure,' heartily, 'we don't grudge you your treats, +Mrs. Dowey; and sorry we are that this is the end.' + +DOWEY. 'Yes, it's the end,' with a troubled look at his old lady; 'I +must be off in ten minutes.' + +The little soul is too gallant to break down in company. She hurries +into the pantry and shuts the door. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Poor thing! But we must run, for you'll be having some +last words to say to her.' + +DOWEY. 'I kept her out long on purpose so as to have less time to say +them in.' + +He more than half wishes that he could make a bolt to a public-house. + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'It's the best way.' In the important affairs of life +there is not much that any one can teach a charwoman. 'Just a mere +nothing, to wish you well, Mr. Dowey.' + +All three present him with the cigarettes. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'A scraping, as one might say.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'The heart,' enigmatically, 'is warm though it may +not be gold-tipped.' + +DOWEY. 'You bricks!' + +THE LADIES. 'Good luck, cocky.' + +DOWEY. 'The same to you. And if you see a sodger man up there in a kilt, +he is one that is going back with me. Tell him not to come down, +but--but to give me till the last minute, and then to whistle.' + +It is quite a grave man who is left alone, thinking what to do next. He +tries a horse laugh, but that proves of no help. He says 'Hell!' to +himself, but it is equally ineffective. Then he opens the pantry door +and calls. + +'Old lady.' + +She comes timidly to the door, her hand up as if to ward off a blow. + +'Is it time?' + +An encouraging voice answers her. + +'No, no, not yet. I've left word for Dixon to whistle when go I must.' + +'All is ended.' + +'Now, then, you promised to be gay. We were to help one another.' + +'Yes, Kenneth.' + +'It's bad for me, but it's worse for you.' + +'The men have medals to win, you see.' + +'The women have their medals, too.' He knows she likes him to order her +about, so he tries it again. + +'Come here. No, I'll come to you.' He stands gaping at her wonderingly. +He has no power of words, nor does he quite know what he would like to +say. 'God!' + +'What is it, Kenneth?' + +'You're a woman.' + +'I had near forgot it.' + +He wishes he was at the station with Dixon. Dixon is sure to have a +bottle in his pocket. They will be roaring a song presently. But in +the meantime--there is that son business. Blethers, the whole thing, +of course--or mostly blethers. But it's the way to please her. + +'Have you noticed you have never called me son?' + +'Have I noticed it! I was feared, Kenneth. You said I was on probation.' + +'And so you were. Well, the probation's ended.' He laughs uncomfortably. +'The like of me! But if you want me you can have me.' + +'Kenneth, will I do?' + +'Woman,' artfully gay, 'don't be so forward. Wait till I have proposed.' + +'Propose for a mother?' + +'What for no?' In the grand style, 'Mrs. Dowey, you queer carl, you +spunky tiddy, have I your permission to ask you the most important +question a neglected orphan can ask of an old lady?' + +She bubbles with mirth. Who could help it, the man has such a way with +him. + +'None of your sauce, Kenneth.' + +'For a long time, Mrs. Dowey, you cannot have been unaware of my sonnish +feelings for you.' + +'Wait till I get my mop to you!' + +'And if you're not willing to be my mother, I swear I'll never ask +another.' + +The old divert pulls him down to her and strokes his hair. + +'Was I a well-behaved infant, mother?' + +'Not you, sonny, you were a rampaging rogue.' + +'Was I slow in learning to walk?' + +'The quickest in our street. He! he! he!' She starts up. 'Was that the +whistle?' + +'No, no. See here. In taking me over you have, in a manner of speaking, +joined the Black Watch.' + +'I like to think that, Kenneth.' + +'Then you must behave so that the ghost piper can be proud of you. +'Tion!' She stands bravely at attention. 'That's the style. Now listen, +I've sent in your name as being my nearest of kin, and your allowance +will be coming to you weekly in the usual way.' + +'Hey! hey! hey! Is it wicked, Kenneth?' + +'I'll take the responsibility for it in both worlds. You see, I want you +to be safeguarded in case anything hap--' + +'Kenneth!' + +''Tion! Have no fear. I'll come back, covered with mud and medals. Mind +you have that cup of tea waiting for me.' He is listening for the +whistle. He pulls her on to his knee. + +'Hey! hey! hey! hey!' + +'What fun we'll have writing to one another! Real letters this time!' + +'Yes.' + +'It would be a good plan if you began the first letter as soon as I've +gone.' + +'I will.' + +'I hope Lady Dolly will go on sending me cakes.' + +'You may be sure.' + +He ties his scarf round her neck. + +'You must have been a bonny thing when you were young.' + +'Away with you!' + +'That scarf sets you fine.' + +'Blue was always my colour.' + +The whistle sounds. + +'Old lady, you are what Blighty means to me now.' + +She hides in the pantry again. She is out of sight to us, but she +does something that makes Private Dowey take off his bonnet. Then +he shoulders his equipment and departs. That is he laughing coarsely +with Dixon. + +We have one last glimpse of the old lady--a month or two after Kenneth's +death in action. It would be rosemary to us to see her in her black +dress, of which she is very proud; but let us rather peep at her in the +familiar garments that make a third to her mop and pail. It is early +morning, and she is having a look at her medals before setting off on +the daily round. They are in a drawer, with the scarf covering them, and +on the scarf a piece of lavender. First, the black frock, which she +carries in her arms like a baby. Then her War Savings Certificates, +Kenneth's bonnet, a thin packet of real letters, and the famous +champagne cork. She kisses the letters, but she does not blub over them. +She strokes the dress, and waggles her head over the certificates and +presses the bonnet to her cheeks, and rubs the tinsel of the cork +carefully with her apron. She is a tremulous old 'un; yet she exults, +for she owns all these things, and also the penny flag on her breast. +She puts them away in the drawer, the scarf over them, the lavender on +the scarf. Her air of triumph well becomes her. She lifts the pail and +the mop, and slouches off gamely to the day's toil. + + + + + + +THE NEW WORD + + +Any room nowadays must be the scene, for any father and any son are the +_dramatis personae_. We could pick them up in Mayfair, in Tooting, +on the Veldt, in rectories or in grocers' back parlours, dump them down +on our toy stage and tell them to begin. It is a great gathering to +choose from, but our needs are small. Let the company shake hands, and +all go away but two. + +The two who have remained (it is discovered on inquiry) are Mr. Torrance +and his boy; so let us make use of them. Torrance did not linger in +order to be chosen, he was anxious, like all of them, to be off; but we +recognised him, and sternly signed to him to stay. Not that we knew him +personally, but the fact is, we remembered him (we never forget a face) +as the legal person who reads out the names of the jury before the court +opens, and who brushes aside your reasons for wanting to be let off. It +pleases our humour to tell Mr. Torrance that we cannot let him off. + +He does not look so formidable as when last we saw him, and this is +perhaps owing to our no longer being hunched with others on those +unfeeling benches. It is not because he is without a wig, for we saw +him, on the occasion to which we are so guardedly referring, both in a +wig and out of it; he passed behind a screen without it, and immediately +(as quickly as we write) popped out in it, giving it a finishing touch +rather like the butler's wriggle to his coat as he goes to the door. +There are the two kinds of learned brothers, those who use the screen, +and those who (so far as the jury knows) sleep in their wigs. The latter +are the swells, and include the judges; whom, however, we have seen in +the public thoroughfares without their wigs, a horrible sight that has +doubtless led many an onlooker to crime. + +Mr. Torrance, then, is no great luminary; indeed, when we accompany him +to his house, as we must, in order to set our scene properly, we find +that it is quite a suburban affair, only one servant kept, and her niece +engaged twice a week to crawl about the floors. There is no fire in the +drawing-room, so the family remain on after dinner in the dining-room, +which rather gives them away. There is really no one in the room but +Roger. That is the truth of it, though to the unseeing eye all the +family are there except Roger. They consist of Mr., Mrs., and Miss +Torrance. Mr. Torrance is enjoying his evening paper and a cigar, and +every line of him is insisting stubbornly that nothing unusual is +happening in the house. In the home circle (and now that we think of it, +even in court) he has the reputation of being a somewhat sarcastic +gentleman; he must be dogged, too, otherwise he would have ceased long +ago to be sarcastic to his wife, on whom wit falls like pellets on +sandbags; all the dents they make are dimples. + +Mrs. Torrance is at present exquisitely employed; she is listening to +Roger's step overhead. You, know what a delightful step the boy has. And +what is more remarkable is that Emma is listening to it too, Emma who is +seventeen, and who has been trying to keep Roger in his place ever since +he first compelled her to bowl to him. Things have come to a pass when +a sister so openly admits that she is only number two in the house. + +Remarks well worthy of being recorded fall from these two ladies as they +gaze upward. 'I think--didn't I, Emma?' is the mother's contribution, +while it is Emma who replies in a whisper, 'No, not yet!' + +Mr. Torrance calmly reads, or seems to read, for it is not possible that +there can be anything in the paper as good as this. Indeed, he +occasionally casts a humorous glance at his women-folk. Perhaps he is +trying to steady them. Let us hope he has some such good reason for +breaking in from time to time on their entrancing occupation. + +'Listen to this, dear. It is very important. The paper says, upon +apparently good authority, that love laughs at locksmiths.' + +His wife answers without lowering her eyes. 'Did you speak, John? I am +listening.' + +'Yes, I was telling you that the Hidden Hand has at last been discovered +in a tub in Russell Square.' + +'I hear, John. How thoughtful.' + +'And so they must have been made of margarine, my love.' + +'I shouldn't wonder, John.' + +'Hence the name Petrograd.' + +'Oh, was that the reason?' + +'You will be pleased to hear, Ellen, that the honourable gentleman then +resumed his seat.' + +'That was nice of him.' + +'As I,' good-naturedly, 'now resume mine, having made my usual +impression.' + +'Yes, John.' + +Emma slips upstairs to peep through a keyhole, and it strikes her mother +that John has been saying something. They are on too good terms to make +an apology necessary. She observes blandly, 'John, I haven't heard a +word you said.' + +'I'm sure you haven't, woman.' + +'I can't help being like this, John.' + +'Go on being like yourself, dear.' + +'Am I foolish?' + +'Um.' + +'Oh, but, John, how can you be so calm--with him up there?' + +'He has been up there a good deal, you know, since we presented him to +an astounded world nineteen years ago.' + +'But he--he is not going to be up there much longer, John.' She sits on +the arm of his chair, so openly to wheedle him that it is not worth his +while to smile. Her voice is tremulous; she is a woman who can conceal +nothing. 'You will be nice to him--to-night--won't you, John?' + +Mr. Torrance is a little pained. 'Do I just begin to-night, Ellen?' + +'Oh no, no; but I think he is rather--shy of you at times.' + +'That,' he says a little wryly, 'is because he is my son, Ellen.' + +'Yes--it's strange; but--yes.' + +With a twinkle that is not all humorous, 'Did it ever strike you, Ellen, +that I am a bit--shy of him?' + +She is indeed surprised. 'Of Rogie!' + +'I suppose it is because I am his father.' + +She presumes that this is his sarcasm again, and lets it pass at that. +It reminds her of what she wants to say. + +'You are so sarcastic,' she has never quite got the meaning of this +word, 'to Rogie at times. Boys don't like that, John.' + +'Is that so, Ellen?' + +'Of course I don't mind your being sarcastic to _me_--' + +'Much good,' groaning, 'my being sarcastic to you! You are so seldom +aware of it.' + +'I am not asking you to be a mother to him, John.' + +'Thank you, my dear.' + +She does not know that he is sarcastic again. 'I quite understand that +a man can't think all the time about his son as a mother does.' + +'Can't he, Ellen? What makes you so sure of that?' + +'I mean that a boy naturally goes to his mother with his troubles rather +than to his father. Rogie tells me everything.' + +Mr. Torrance is stung. 'I daresay he might tell me things he wouldn't +tell you.' + +She smiles at this. It is very probably sarcasm. + +'I want you to be serious just now. Why not show more warmth to him, +John?' + +With an unspoken sigh, 'It would terrify him, Ellen. Two men show warmth +to each other! Shame, woman!' + +'Two men!' indignantly. 'John, he is only nineteen.' + +'That's all,' patting her hand. 'Ellen, it is the great age to be +to-day, nineteen.' + +Emma darts in. + +'Mother, he has unlocked the door! He is taking a last look at himself +in the mirror before coming down!' + +Having made the great announcement, she is off again. + +'You won't be sarcastic, John?' + +'I give you my word--if you promise not to break down.' + +Rashly, 'I promise.' She hurries to the door and back again. 'John, I'll +contrive to leave you and him alone together for a little.' + +Mr. Torrance is as alarmed as if the judge had looked over the bench and +asked where he was. 'For God's sake, woman, don't do that! Father and +son! He'll bolt; or if he doesn't, I will.' + +Emma Torrance flings open the door grandly, and we learn what all the +to-do is about. + +EMMA. 'Allow me to introduce 2nd Lieutenant Torrance of the Royal +Sussex. Father--your son; 2nd Lieutenant Torrance--your father. +Mother--your little Rogie.' + +Roger, in uniform, walks in, strung up for the occasion. Or the uniform +comes forward with Roger inside it. He has been a very ordinary nice boy +up to now, dull at his 'books'; by an effort Mr. Torrance had sent him +to an obscure boarding-school, but at sixteen it was evident that an +office was the proper place for Roger. Before the war broke out he was +treasurer of the local lawn tennis club, and his golf handicap was +seven; he carried his little bag daily to and from the city, and his +highest relaxation was giggling with girls or about them. Socially he +had fallen from the standards of the home; even now that he is in his +uniform the hasty might say something clever about 'temporary +gentlemen.' + +But there are great ideas buzzing in Roger's head, which would never +have been there save for the war. At present he is chiefly conscious of +his clothes. His mother embraces him with cries of rapture, while Mr. +Torrance surveys him quizzically over the paper; and Emma, rushing to +the piano, which is of such an old-fashioned kind that it can also be +used as a sideboard, plays 'See the Conquering Hero Comes.' + +ROGER, in an agony, 'Mater, do stop that chit making an ass of me.' + +He must be excused for his 'mater.' That was the sort of school; and his +mother is rather proud of the phrase, though it sometimes makes his +father wince. + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'Emma, please, don't. But I'm sure you deserve it, my +darling. Doesn't he, John?' + +MR. TORRANCE, missing his chance, 'Hardly yet, you know. Can't be +exactly a conquering hero the first night you put them on, can you, +Roger?' + +ROGER, hotly, 'Did I say I was?' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'Oh, John! Do turn round, Rogie. I never did--I never +did!' + +EMMA. 'Isn't he a pet!' + +ROGER. 'Shut up, Emma.' + +MRS. TORRANCE, challenging the world, 'Though I say it who shouldn't--and +yet, why shouldn't I?' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'In any case you will--so go ahead, "mater."' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'I knew he would look splendid; but I--of course I +couldn't know that he would look quite so splendid as this.' + +ROGER. 'I know I look a bally ass. That is why I was such a time in +coming down.' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'We thought we heard you upstairs strutting about.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'John! Don't mind him, Rogie.' + +ROGER, haughtily, 'I don't.' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'Oh!' + +ROGER. 'But I wasn't strutting.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'That dreadful sword! No, I would prefer you not to draw +it, dear--not till necessity makes you.' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'Come, come, Ellen; that's rather hard lines on the boy. +If he isn't to draw it here, where is he to draw it?' + +EMMA, with pride, 'At the Front, father.' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'I thought they left them at home nowadays, Roger?' + +ROGER. 'Yes, mater; you see, they are a bit in the way.' + +MRS. TORRANCE, foolishly, 'Not when you have got used to them.' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'That isn't what Roger means.' (His son glares.) + +EMMA, who, though she has not formerly thought much of Roger, is now +proud to trot by his side and will henceforth count the salutes, 'I know +what he means. If you carry a sword the snipers know you are an officer, +and they try to pick you off.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'It's no wonder they are called Huns. Fancy a British +sniper doing that! Roger, you will be very careful, won't you, in the +trenches?' + +ROGER. 'Honour bright, mater.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'Above all, don't look up.' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'The trenches ought to be so deep that they can't look up.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'What a good idea, John.' + +ROGER. 'He's making game of you, mater.' + +MRS. TORRANCE, unruffled, 'Is he, my own?--very likely. Now about the +question of provisions--' + +ROGER. 'Oh, lummy, you talk as if I was going off to-night! I mayn't go +for months and months.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'I know--and, of course, there is a chance that you may +not be needed at all.' + +ROGER, poor boy, 'None of that, mater.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'There is something I want to ask you, John--How long do +you think the war is likely to last?' Her John resumes his paper. +'Rogie, I know you will laugh at me, but there are some things that I +could not help getting for you.' + +ROGER. 'You know, you have knitted enough things already to fit up my +whole platoon.' + +MRS. TORRANCE, proud almost to tears, 'His platoon.' + +EMMA. 'Have you noticed how fine all the words in -oon are? Platoon! +Dragoon!' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'Spitoon!' + +EMMA. 'Colonel is good, but rather papaish; Major is nosey; Admiral of +the Fleet is scrumptious, but Marechal de France--that is the best of +all.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'I think there is nothing so nice as 2nd Lieutenant.' +Gulping, 'Lot of little boys.' + +ROGER. 'Mater!' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'I mean, just think of their cold feet.' She produces +many parcels and displays their strange contents. 'Those are for putting +inside your socks. Those are for outside your socks. I am told that it +is also advisable to have straw in your boots.' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'Have you got him some straw?' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'I thought, John, he could get it there. But if you +think--' + +ROGER. 'He's making fun of you again, mater.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'I shouldn't wonder. Here are some overalls. One is +leather and one fur, and this one is waterproof. The worst of it is that +they are from different shops, and each says that the others keep the +damp in, or draw the feet. They have such odd names, too. There are new +names for everything nowadays. Vests are called cuirasses. Are you +laughing at me, Rogie?' + +MR. TORRANCE, sharply, 'If he is laughing, he ought to be ashamed of +himself.' + +ROGER, barking, 'Who was laughing?' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'John!' + +Emma cuffs her father playfully. + +MR. TORRANCE. 'All very well, Emma, but it's past your bedtime.' + +EMMA, indignantly, 'You can't expect me to sleep on a night like this.' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'You can try.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. '2nd Lieutenant! 2nd Lieutenant!' + +MR. TORRANCE, alarmed, 'Ellen, don't break down. You promised.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'I am not going to break down; but--but there is a +photograph of Rogie when he was very small--' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'Go to bed!' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'I happen--to have it in my pocket--' + +ROGER. 'Don't bring it out, mater.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'If I break down, John, it won't be owing to the picture +itself so much as because of what is written on the back.' + +She produces it dolefully. + +MR. TORRANCE. 'Then don't look at the back.' + +He takes it from her. + +MRS. TORRANCE, not very hopeful of herself, 'But I know what is written +on the back, "Roger John Torrance, aged two years four months, and +thirty-three pounds."' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'Correct.' She weeps softly. 'There, there, woman.' He +signs imploringly to Emma. + +EMMA, kissing him, 'I'm going to by-by. 'Night, mammy. 'Night, Rog.' She +is about to offer him her cheek, then salutes instead, and rushes off, +with Roger in pursuit. + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'I shall leave you together, John.' + +MR. TORRANCE, half liking it, but nervous, 'Do you think it's wise?' +With a groan, 'You know what I am.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'Do be nice to him, dear.' Roger's return finds her very +artful indeed, 'I wonder where I put my glasses?' + +ROGER. 'I'll look for them.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'No, I remember now. They are upstairs in such a funny +place that I must go myself. Do you remember, Rogie, that I hoped they +would reject you on account of your eyes?' + +ROGER. 'I suppose you couldn't help it.' + +MRS. TORRANCE, beaming on her husband, 'Did you believe I really meant +it, John?' + +MR. TORRANCE, curious, 'Did _you_, Roger?' + +ROGER. 'Of course. Didn't you, father?' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'No! I knew the old lady better.' + +He takes her hand. + +MRS. TORRANCE, sweetly, 'I shouldn't have liked it, Rogie dear. I'll +tell you something. You know your brother Harry died when he was seven. +To you, I suppose, it is as if he had never been. You were barely five. + +ROGER. 'I don't remember him, mater.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'No--no. But I do, Rogie. He would be twenty-one now; but +though you and Emma grew up I have always gone on seeing him as just +seven. Always till the war broke out. And now I see him a man of +twenty-one, dressed in khaki, fighting for his country, same as you. +I wouldn't have had one of you stay at home, though I had had a dozen. +That is, if it is the noble war they all say it is. I'm not clever, +Rogie, I have to take it on trust. Surely they wouldn't deceive mothers. +I'll get my glasses.' + +She goes away, leaving the father and son somewhat moved. It is Mr. +Torrance who speaks first, gruffly. + +'Like to change your mother, Roger?' + +The answer is also gruff. 'What do _you_ think?' + +Then silence falls. These two are very conscious of being together, +without so much as the tick of a clock to help them. The father clings +to his cigar, sticks his knife into it, studies the leaf, tries crossing +his legs another way. The son examines the pictures on the walls as if +he had never seen them before, and is all the time edging toward the +door. + +Mr. Torrance wets his lips; it must be now or never, 'Not going, Roger?' + +Roger counts the chairs. 'Yes, I thought--' + +'Won't you--sit down and--have a chat?' + +Roger is bowled over. 'A what? You and me!' + +'Why not?' rather truculently. + +'Oh--oh, all right,' sitting uncomfortably. + +The cigar gets several more stabs. + +'I suppose you catch an early train to-morrow?' + +'The 5.20. I have flag-signalling at half-past six.' + +'Phew! Hours before I shall be up.' + +'I suppose so.' + +'Well, you needn't dwell on it, Roger.' + +Indignantly. 'I didn't.' He starts up. 'Good-night, father.' + +'Good-night. Damn. Come back. My fault. Didn't I say I wanted to have +a chat with you?' + +'I thought we had had it.' + +Gloomingly, 'No such luck.' + +There is another pause. A frightened ember in the fire makes an appeal +to some one to say something. Mr. Torrance rises. It is now he who is +casting eyes at the door. He sits again, ashamed of himself. + +'I like your uniform, Roger,' he says pleasantly. + +Roger wriggles. 'Haven't you made fun of me enough?' + +Sharply, 'I'm not making fun of you. Don't you see I'm trying to tell +you that I'm proud of you?' + +Roger is at last aware of it, with a sinking. He appeals, 'Good lord, +father, _you_ are not going to begin now.' + +The father restrains himself. + +'Do you remember, Roger, my saying that I didn't want you to smoke till +you were twenty?' + +'Oh, it's that, is it?' Shutting his mouth tight, 'I never promised.' + +Almost with a shout, 'It's not that.' Then kindly, 'Have a cigar, my boy?' + +'Me?' + +A rather shaky hand, passes him a cigar case. Roger selects from it and +lights up nervously. He is now prepared for the worst. + +'Have you ever wondered, Roger, what sort of a fellow I am?' + +Guardedly, 'Often.' + +Mr. Torrance casts all sense of decency to the winds; such is one of the +effects of war. + +'I have often wondered what sort of fellow you are, Roger. We have both +been at it on the sly. I suppose that is what makes a father and son so +uncomfortable in each other's presence.' + +Roger is not yet prepared to meet him half-way, but he casts a line. + +'Do you feel the creeps when you are left alone with me?' + +'Mortally, Roger. My first instinct is to slip away.' + +'So is mine,' with deep feeling. + +'You don't say so!' with such surprise that the father undoubtedly goes +up a step in the son's estimation. 'I always seem to know what you are +thinking, Roger.' + +'Do you? Same here.' + +'As a consequence it is better, it is right, it is only decent that you +and I should be very chary of confidences with each other.' + +Roger is relieved. 'I'm dashed glad you see it in that way.' + +'Oh, quite. And yet, Roger, if you had to answer this question on oath, +"Whom do you think you are most like in this world?" I don't mean +superficially, but deep down in your vitals, what would you say? Your +mother, your uncle, one of your friends on the golf links?' + +'No.' + +'Who?' + +Darkly, 'You.' + +'Just how I feel.' + +There is such true sympathy in the manly avowal that Roger cannot but be +brought closer to his father. + +'It's pretty ghastly, father.' + +'It is. I don't know which it is worse for.' + +They consider each other without bitterness. + +'You are a bit of a wag at times, Roger.' + +'You soon shut me up.' + +'I have heard that you sparkle more freely in my absence.' + +'They say the same about you.' + +'And now that you mention it, I believe it is true; and yet, isn't it +a bigger satisfaction to you to catch me relishing your jokes than any +other person?' + +Roger's eyes open wide. 'How did you know that?' + +'Because I am so bucked if I see you relishing mine.' + +'_Are_ you?' Roger's hold on the certain things in life are +slipping. 'You don't show it.' + +'That is because of our awkward relationship.' + +Roger lapses into gloom. 'We have got to go through with it.' + +His father kicks the coals. 'There's no way out.' + +'No.' + +'We have, as it were, signed a compact, Roger, never to let on that we +care for each other. As gentlemen we must stick to it.' + +'Yes. What are you getting at, father?' + +'There is a war on, Roger.' + +'That needn't make any difference.' + +'Yes, it does. Roger, be ready; I hate to hit you without warning. I'm +going to cast a grenade into the middle of you. It's this, I'm fond of +you, my boy.' + +Roger squirms. 'Father, if any one were to hear you!' + +'They won't. The door is shut, Amy is gone to bed, and all is quiet in +our street. Won't you--won't you say something civil to me in return, +Roger?' + +Roger looks at him and away from him. 'I sometimes--bragged about you +at school.' + +Mr. Torrance is absurdly pleased. 'Did you? What sort of things, Roger?' + +'I--I forget.' + +'Come on, Roger.' + +'Is this fair, father?' + +'No, I suppose it isn't.' Mr. Torrance attacks the coals again. 'You and +your mother have lots of confidences, haven't you?' + +'I tell her a good deal. Somehow--' + +'Yes, somehow one can.' With the artfulness that comes of years, 'I'm +glad you tell her everything.' + +Roger looks down his cigar. 'Not everything, father. There are +things--about oneself--' + +'Aren't there, Roger!' + +'Best not to tell her.' + +'Yes--yes. If there are any of them you would care to tell me +instead--just if you want to, mind--just if you are in a hole or +anything?' + +'No thanks,' very stiffly. + +'Any little debts, for instance?' + +'That's all right now. Mother--' + +'She did?' + +Roger is ready to jump at him. 'I was willing to speak to you about +them, but--' + +'She said, "Not worth while bothering father."' + +'How did you know?' + +'Oh, I have met your mother before, you see. Nothing else?' + +'No.' + +'Haven't been an ass about a girl or anything of that sort?'' + +'Good lord, father!' + +'I shouldn't have said it. In my young days we sometimes--It's all +different now.' + +'I don't know, I could tell you things that would surprise you.' + +'No! Not about yourself?' + +'No. At least--' + +'Just as you like, Roger.' + +'It blew over long ago.' + +'Then there's no need?' + +'No--oh no. It was just--you know--the old, old story.' + +He eyes his father suspiciously, but not a muscle in Mr. Torrance's +countenance is out of place. + +'I see. It hasn't--left you bitter about the sex, Roger, I hope?' + +'Not now. She--you know what women are.' + +'Yes, yes.' + +'You needn't mention it to mother.' + +'I won't.' Mr. Torrance is elated to share a secret with Roger about +which mother is not to know. 'Think your mother and I are an aged pair, +Roger?' + +'I never--of course you are not young.' + +'How long have you known that? I mean, it's true--but I didn't know it +till quite lately.' + +'That you're old?' + +'Hang it, Roger, not so bad as that--elderly. This will stagger you; but +I assure you that until the other day I jogged along thinking of myself +as on the whole still one of the juveniles.' He makes a wry face. 'I +crossed the bridge, Roger, without knowing it.' + +'What made you know?' + +'What makes us know all the new things, Roger?--the war. I'll tell you +a secret. When we realised in August of 1914 that myriads of us were to +be needed, my first thought wasn't that I had a son, but that I must get +fit myself.' + +'You!' + +'Funny, isn't it?' says Mr. Torrance quite nastily. 'But, as I tell you, +I didn't know I had ceased to be young, I went into Regent's Park and +tried to run a mile.' + +'Lummy, you might have killed yourself.' + +'I nearly did--especially as I had put a weight on my shoulders to +represent my kit. I kept at it for a week, but I knew the game was up. +The discovery was pretty grim, Roger.' + +'Don't you bother about that part of it. You are doing your share, +taking care of mother and Emma.' + +Mr. Torrance emits a laugh of self-contempt. 'I am not taking care of +them. It is you who are taking care of them. My friend, you are the head +of the house now.' + +'Father!' + +'Yes, we have come back to hard facts, and the defender of the house is +the head of it.' + +'Me? Fudge.' + +'It's true. The thing that makes me wince most is that some of my +contemporaries have managed to squeeze back: back into youth, Roger, +though I guess they were a pretty tight fit in the turnstile. There is +Coxon; he is in khaki now, with his hair dyed, and when he and I meet at +the club we know that we belong to different generations. I'm a decent +old fellow, but I don't really count any more, while Coxon, lucky dog, +is being damned daily on parade.' + +'I hate your feeling it in that way, father.' + +'I don't say it is a palatable draught, but when the war is over we +shall all shake down to the new conditions. No fear of my being +sarcastic to you then, Roger. I'll have to be jolly respectful.' + +'Shut up, father!' + +'You've begun, you see. Don't worry, Roger. Any rawness I might feel +in having missed the chance of seeing whether I was a man--like Coxon, +confound him!--is swallowed up in the pride of giving the chance to +you. I'm in a shiver about you, but--It's all true, Roger, what your +mother said about 2nd Lieutenants. Till the other day we were so little +of a military nation that most of us didn't know there _were_ 2nd +Lieutenants. And now, in thousands of homes we feel that there is +nothing else. 2nd Lieutenant! It is like a new word to us--one, I +daresay, of many that the war will add to our language. We have taken +to it, Roger. If a son of mine were to tarnish it--' + +'I'll try not to,' Roger growls. + +'If you did, I should just know that there had been something wrong +about me.' + +Gruffly, 'You're all right.' + +'If I am, you are.' It is a winning face that Mr. Torrance turns on his +son. 'I suppose you have been asking yourself of late, what if you were +to turn out to be a funk!' + +'Father, how did you know?' + +'I know because you are me. Because ever since there was talk of this +commission I have been thinking and thinking what were you thinking--so +as to help you.' + +This itself is a help. Roger's hand--but he withdraws it hurriedly. + +'They all seem to be so frightfully brave, father,' he says wistfully. + +'I expect, Roger, that the best of them had the same qualms as you +before their first engagement.' + +'I--I kind of think, father, that I won't be a funk.' + +'I kind of think so too, Roger.' Mr. Torrance forgets himself. 'Mind you +don't be rash, my boy; and for God's sake, keep your head down in the +trenches.' + +Roger has caught him out. He points a gay finger at his anxious father. + +'You know you laughed at mother for saying that!' + +'Did I? Roger, your mother thinks that I have an unfortunate manner with +you.' + +The magnanimous Roger says, 'Oh, I don't know. It's just the +father-and-son complication.' + +'That is really all it is. But she thinks I should show my affection for +you more openly.' + +Roger wriggles again. Earnestly, 'I wouldn't do that.' Nicely, 'Of +course for this once--but in a general way I wouldn't do that. _We_ +know, you and I.' + +'As long as we know, it's no one else's affair, is it?' + +'That's the ticket, father.' + +'Still--' It is to be feared that Mr. Torrance is now taking advantage +of his superior slyness. 'Still, before your mother--to please her--eh?' + +Faltering, 'I suppose it would.' + +'Well, what do you say?' + +'I know she would like it.' + +'Of course you and I know that display of that sort is all +bunkum--repellent even to our natures.' + +'Lord, yes!' + +'But to gratify her.' + +'I should be so conscious.' + +Mr. Torrance is here quite as sincere as his son. 'So should I.' + +Roger considers it. 'How far would you go?' + +'Oh, not far. Suppose I called you "Old Rogie"? There's not much in +that.' + +'It all depends on the way one says these things.' + +'I should be quite casual.' + +'Hum. What would you like me to call you?' + +Severely, 'It isn't what would _I_ like. But I daresay your mother +would beam if you called me "dear father"' + +'I don't think so?' + +'You know quite well that you think so, Roger.' + +'It's so effeminate.' + +'Not if you say it casually.' + +With something very like a snort Roger asks, 'How does one say a thing +like that casually?' + +'Well, for instance, you could whistle while you said it--or anything of +that sort.' + +'Hum. Of course you--if we were to--be like that, you wouldn't do +anything.' + +'How do you mean?' + +'You wouldn't paw me?' + +'Roger,' with some natural indignation, 'you forget yourself.' But +apparently it is for him to continue. 'That reminds me of a story I +heard the other day of a French general. He had asked for volunteers +from his airmen for some specially dangerous job--and they all stepped +forward. Pretty good that. Then three were chosen and got their orders +and saluted, and were starting off when he stopped them. "Since when," +he said, "have brave boys departing to the post of danger omitted to +embrace their father?" They did it then. Good story?' + +Roger lowers. 'They were French.' + +'Yes, I said so. Don't you think it's good?' + +'Why do you tell it to me?' + +'Because it's a good story.' + +'You are sure, father,' sternly, 'that there is no other reason?' Mr. +Torrance tries to brazen it out, but he looks guilty. 'You know, father, +that is barred.' + +Just because he knows that he has been playing it low, Mr. Torrance +snaps angrily, 'What is barred?' + +'You know,' says his monitor. + +Mr. Torrance shouts. + +'I know that you are a young ass.' + +'Really, father--' + +'Hold your tongue.' + +Roger can shout also. + +'I must say, father--' + +'Be quiet, I tell you.' + +It is in the middle of this competition that the lady who dotes on them +both chooses to come back, still without her spectacles. + +'Oh dear! And I had hoped---Oh, John!' + +Mr. Torrance would like to kick himself. + +'My fault,' he says with a groan. + +'But whatever is the matter?' + +'Nothing, mater.' The war is already making Roger quite smart. 'Only +father wouldn't do as I told him.' + +Mr. Torrance cannot keep pace with his son's growth. He raps out, 'Why +the dickens should I?' + +Roger is imperturbable; this will be useful in France. 'You see, mater, +he said I was the head of the house.' + +'You, Rogie!' She goes to her husband's side. 'What nonsense!' + +Roger grins. 'Do you like my joke, father?' + +The father smiles upon him and is at once uproariously happy. He digs +his boy boldly in the ribs. + +'Roger, you scoundrel!' + +'That's better,' says Mrs. Torrance at a venture. + +Roger feels that things have perhaps gone far enough. 'I think I'll go +to my room now. You will come up, mater?' + +'Yes, dear. I shan't be five minutes, John.' + +'More like half an hour.' + +She hesitates. 'There is nothing wrong, is there? I thought I noticed +a--a----' + +'A certain liveliness, my dear. No, we were only having a good talk.' + +'What about, John?' wistfully. + +'About the war,' Roger breaks in hurriedly. + +'About tactics and strategy, wasn't it, Roger?' + +'Yes.' + +'The fact is, Ellen, I have been helping Roger to take his first +trench.' With a big breath, 'And we took it too, together, didn't we, +Roger?' + +'You bet,' says Roger valiantly. + +'Though I suppose,' sighing, 'it is one of those trenches that the enemy +retake during the night.' + +'Oh, I--I don't know, father.' + +The lady asks, 'Whatever are you two talking about?' + +'Aha,' says Mr. Torrance in high feather, patting her, but unable to +resist a slight boast, 'it is very private. _We_ don't tell you +everything, you know, Ellen.' + +She beams, though she does not understand. + +'Come on, mater, it's only his beastly sarcasm again. 'Night, father; I +won't see you in the morning.' + +''Night,' says Mr. Torrance. + +But Roger has not gone yet. He seems to be looking for something--a +book, perhaps. Then he begins to whistle--casually. + +'Good-night, dear father.' + +Mr. John Torrance is left alone, rubbing his hands. + + + + + + +BARBARA'S WEDDING + + +The Colonel is in the sitting-room of his country cottage, staring +through the open windows at his pretty garden. He is a very old man, and +is sometimes bewildered nowadays. He calls to Dering, the gardener, who +is on a ladder, pruning. Dering, who comes to him, is a rough, capable +young fellow with fingers that are already becoming stumpy because he so +often uses his hands instead of a spade. This is a sign that Dering will +never get on in the world. His mind is in the same condition as his +fingers, working back to clods. He will get a rise of one and sixpence +in a year or two, and marry on it and become duller and heavier; and, in +short, the clever ones could already write his epitaph. + + * * * * * + +'A beautiful morning, Dering.' + +'Too much sun, sir. The roses be complaining, and, to make matters +worse, Miss Barbara has been watering of them--in the heat of the day.' + +The Colonel is a very gentle knight nowadays. 'Has she? She means well.' +But that is not what is troubling him. He approaches the subject +diffidently. 'Dering, you heard it, didn't you?' He is longing to be +told that Dering heard it. + +'What was that, sir?' + +'The thunderstorm--early this morning.' + +'There was no thunderstorm, sir.' + +Dispirited, 'That is what they all say.' The Colonel is too courteous to +contradict any one, but he tries again; there is about him the +insistence of one who knows that he is right. 'It was at four o'clock. I +got up and looked out at the window. The evening primroses were very +beautiful.' + +Dering is equally dogged. 'I don't hold much with evening primroses, +sir; but I was out and about at four; there was no thunderstorm.' + +The Colonel still thinks that there was a thunderstorm, but he wants to +placate Dering. 'I suppose I just thought there was one. Perhaps it was +some thunderstorm of long ago that I heard. They do come back, you +know.' + +Heavily, 'Do they, sir?' + +'I am glad to see you moving about in the garden, Dering, with +everything just as usual.' + +There is a cautious slyness about this, as if the Colonel was fishing +for information; but it is too clever for Dering, who is going with a +'Thank you, sir.' + +'No, don't go.' The old man lowers his voice and makes a confession +reluctantly, 'I am--a little troubled, Dering.' + +Dering knows that his master has a wandering mind, and he answers +nicely, 'Everything be all right, sir.' + +'I'm glad of that,' the Colonel says with relief. 'It is pleasant to see +that you have come back, Dering. Why did you go away for such a long +time?' + +'Me, sir?' Dering is a little aggrieved. 'I haven't had a day off since +Christmas.' + +'Haven't you? I thought--' + +The Colonel tries to speak casually, but there is a trembling eagerness +in his voice. 'Is everything just as usual, Dering?' + +'Yes, sir. There never were a place less changed than this.' + +'That's true.' The Colonel is appeased. 'Thank you, Dering, for saying +that.' But next moment he has lowered his voice again. 'Dering, there is +nothing wrong, is there? Is anything happening that I am not being told +about?' + +'Not that I know of, sir.' + +'That is what they all say, but--I don't know.' He stares at his old +sword which is hanging on the wall. 'Dering, I feel as if I was needed +somewhere. I don't know where it is. No one will tell me. Where is every +one?' + +'They're all about, sir. There's a cricket match on at the village +green.' + +'Is there?' + +'If the wind had a bit of south in it you could hear their voices. You +were a bit of a nailer at cricket yourself, sir.' + +The Colonel sees himself standing up to fast ones. He is gleeful over +his reminiscences. + +'Ninety-nine against Mallowfield, and then bowled off my pads. Biggest +score I ever made. Mallowfield wanted to add one to make it the hundred, +but I wouldn't let them. I was pretty good at steering them through the +slips, Dering! Do you remember my late cut? It didn't matter where point +stood, I got past him. You used to stand at point, Dering.' + +'That was my grandfather, sir. If he was to be believed, he used to snap +you regular at point.' + +The Colonel is crestfallen, but he has a disarming smile. 'Did he? I +daresay he did. I can't play now, but I like to watch it still.' He +becomes troubled again. 'Dering, there is no cricket on the green +to-day. I have been down to look. I don't understand it, Dering. When I +got there the green was all dotted with them--it's the prettiest sight +and sound in England. But as I watched them they began to go away, one +and two at a time; they weren't given out, you know, they went as if +they had been called away. Some of the little shavers stayed on--and +then they went off, as if they had been called away too. The stumps were +left lying about. Why is it?' + +'It's just fancy, sir,' Dering says soothingly, 'I saw Master Will +oiling his bat yesterday.' + +'Did you?' avidly. 'I should have liked to see that. I have often oiled +their bats for them. Careless lads, they always forget. Was that nice +German boy with him?' + +'Mr. Karl? Not far off, sir. He was sitting by the bank of the stream +playing on his flute; and Miss Barbara, she had climbed one of my +apple-trees,--she says they are your trees.' He lowers. + +'They are, you know, Dering,' the Colonel says meekly. + +'Yes, sir, in a sense,' brushing the spurious argument aside, 'but I +don't like any of you to meddle with them. And there she sat, pelting +the two of them with green apples.' + +'How like her!' The Colonel shakes his head indulgently. 'I don't know +how we are to make a demure young lady of her.' + +Dering smirks. 'They say in the village, sir, that Master Will would +like to try.' + +To the Colonel this is wit of a high order. + +'Ha! ha! he is just a colt himself.' But the laughter breaks off. He +seems to think that he will get the truth if Dering comes closer, 'Who +are all here now, Dering; in the house, I mean? I sometimes forget. They +grow old so quickly. They go out at one door in the bloom of youth, and +come back by another, tired and grey. Haven't you noticed it?' + +'No, sir. The only visitors staying here are Miss Barbara and Mr. Karl. +There's just them and yourselves, sir, you and the mistress and Master +Will. That's all.' + +'Yes, that's all,' his master says, still unconvinced. 'Who is the +soldier, Dering?' + +'Soldier, sir? There is no soldier here except yourself.' + +'Isn't there? There was a nurse with him. Who is ill?' + +'No one, sir. There's no nurse.' Dering backs away from the old man. +'Would you like me to call the mistress, sir?' + +'No, she has gone down to the village. She told me why, but I forget. +Miss Barbara is with her.' + +'Miss Barbara is down by the stream, sir.' + +'Is she? I think they said they were going to a wedding.' With an old +man's curiosity, 'Who is being married to-day, Dering?' + +'I have heard of no wedding, sir. But here is Miss Barbara.' + +It is perhaps the first time that Dering has been glad to see Miss +Barbara, who romps in, a merry hoyden, running over with animal spirits. + +'Here's the tomboy!' the Colonel cries gaily. + +Barbara looks suspiciously from one to the other. + +'Dering, I believe you are complaining to the Colonel about my watering +the flowers at the wrong time of day.' + +'Aha! Aha!' The Colonel thinks she is even wittier than Dering, who is +properly abashed. + +'I did just mention it, miss.' + +'You horrid!' Barbara shakes her mop of hair at the gardener. 'Dear, +don't mind him. And every time he says they are _his_ flowers and +_his_ apples, you tell me, and I shall say to his face that they +are _yours_.' + +'The courage of those young things!' says the happy Colonel. + +Dering's underlip becomes very pronounced, but he goes off into the +garden. Barbara attempts to attend to the Colonel's needs. + +'Let me make you comfy--the way granny does it.' + +She arranges his cushions clumsily. + +'That is not quite the way she does it,' the Colonel says softly, 'Do +you call her granny, Barbara?' + +'She asked me to--for practice.' Barbara is curious. 'Don't you remember +why?' + +Of course the Colonel remembers. + +'I know! Billy boy.' + +'You _are_ quick to-day. Now, wait till I get your cane.' + +'I don't need my cane while I'm sitting.' + +'You look so beau'ful, sitting holding your cane.' She knocks over his +cushions. 'Oh dear! I am a clumsy.' + +Politely, 'Not at all, but perhaps if I were to do it for myself.' He +makes himself comfortable. 'That's better. Thank you, Barbara, very +much.' + +'_I_ didn't do it. I'm all thumbs. What a ghastly nurse I should +make.' + +'Nurse?' The Colonel's troubles return to him. 'Who is she, Barbara?' + +'Who is who, dear?' + +'That nurse.' + +'There's no nurse here.' + +'Isn't there?' + +Barbara feels that she is of less use than ever to-day. 'Where is +granny?' + +'She has gone down to the village to a wedding.' + +'There's no wedding. Who could be being married?' + +'I think it's people I know, but I can't remember who they are. I +thought you went too, Barbara.' + +'Not I. Catch me missing it if there had been a wedding!' + +'You and the nurse.' + +'Dear, you have just been imagining things again. Shall I play to you, +or sing?' She knocks over a chair, 'Oh dear, everything catches in me. +Would you like me to "Robin Adair," dear?' + +The Colonel is polite, but firm, 'No, thank you, Barbara.' For a few +moments he forgets her; his mind has gone wandering again. 'Barbara, the +house seems so empty. Where are Billy and Karl?' + +'Billy is where Karl is, you may be sure.' + +'And where is Karl?' + +'He is where Billy boy is, you may be sure.' + +'And where are they both?' + +'Not far from where Barbara is, you bet.' She flutters to the window and +waves her hand. 'Do you hear Karl's flute? They have been down all the +morning at the pool where the alder is, trying to catch that +bull-trout.' + +'They didn't get him, I'll swear!' + +'You can ask them.' + +'I spent a lot of my youth trying to get that bull-trout. I tumbled in +there sixty years ago.' + +'I tumbled in sixty minutes ago! It can't be the same trout, dear.' + +'Same old rascal!' + +Billy and Karl come in by the window, leaving a fishing-rod outside. +They are gay, careless, attractive youths. + +BARBARA, with her nose in the air, 'You muddy things!' + +COLONEL, gaily firing his dart, 'Did you get the bull-trout, Billy boy?' + +BILLY. 'He's a brute that.' + +COLONEL. 'He is, you know.' + +BILLY. 'He came up several times and had a look at my fly. Didn't flick +it, or do anything as complimentary as that. Just yawned and went down.' + +COLONEL. 'Yawned, did he? Used to wink in my time. Did you and Billy +fish at Heidelberg, Karl?' + +KARL. 'We were more worthily employed, sir, but we did unbend at times. +Billy, do you remember--' He begins a gay dance. + +BILLY. 'Not I.' Then he joins in. + +BARBARA. 'Young gentlemen, how disgraceful!' She joins in. + +COLONEL. 'Harum-scarums!' + +KARL. 'Does he know about you two?' + +BILLY. 'He often forgets, I'll tell him again. Grandfather, Barbara and +I have something to say to you. It's this.' He puts his arm round +Barbara. + +COLONEL, smiling, 'I know--I know. There's nothing like it. I'm very +glad, Barbara.' + +BARBARA. 'You see, dear, I've loved Billy boy since the days when he +tried to catch the bull-trout with a string and a bent pin, and I held +on to his pinafore to prevent his tumbling in. We used to play at school +at marrying and giving in marriage, and the girl who was my bridegroom +had always to take the name of Billy. "Do you, woman, take this man +Billy--" the clergyman in skirts began, and before I could answer +diffidently, some other girl was sure to shout, "I should rather think +she does."' + +COLONEL, in high good humour, 'Don't forget the ring, Billy. You know, +when I was married I think I couldn't find the ring!' + +KARL. 'Were you married here, sir?' + +COLONEL. 'Yes, at the village church.' + +BILLY. 'So were my father and mother.' + +COLONEL, as his eyes wander to the garden, 'I remember walking back with +my wife and bringing her in here through the window. She kissed some of +the furniture.' + +BILLY. 'I suppose you would like a grander affair, Barbara?' + +BARBARA. 'No, just the same.' + +BILLY. 'I hoped you would say that.' + +BARBARA. 'But, Billy, I'm to have such a dream of a wedding gown. +Granny is going with me to London, to choose it'--laying her head on the +Colonel's shoulder--'if you can do without her for a day, dear.' + +COLONEL, gallantly, 'I shall go with you, I couldn't trust you and +granny to choose the gown.' + +KARL. 'You must often be pretty lonely, sir, when we are all out and +about enjoying ourselves.' + +COLONEL. 'They all say that. But that is the time when I'm not lonely, +Karl. It's then I see things most clearly--the past, I suppose. It all +comes crowding back to me--India, the Crimea, India again--and it's so +real, especially the people. They come and talk to me. I seem to see +them; I don't know they haven't been here, Billy, till your granny tells +me afterwards.' + +BILLY. 'Yes, I know, I wonder where granny is.' + +BARBARA. 'It isn't often she leaves you for so long, dear.' + +COLONEL. 'She told me she had to go out, but I forget where. Oh, yes, +she has gone down to the village to a wedding.' + +BILLY. 'A wedding?' + +BARBARA. 'It's curious how he harps on that.' + +COLONEL. 'She said to me to listen and I would hear the wedding bells.' + +BARBARA. 'Not to-day, dear.' + +BILLY. 'Best not to worry him.' + +BARBARA. 'But granny says we should try to make things clear to him.' + +BILLY. 'Was any one with granny when she said she was going to a wedding?' + +COLONEL, like one begging her to admit it, 'You were there, Barbara.' + +BARBARA. 'No, dear. He said that to me before. And something about a +nurse.' + +COLONEL, obstinately, 'She was there, too.' + +BILLY. 'Any one else?' + +COLONEL. 'There was that soldier.' + +BARBARA. 'A soldier also!' + +COLONEL. 'Just those three.' + +BILLY. 'But that makes four. Granny and Barbara and a nurse and a +soldier.' + +COLONEL. 'They were all there; but there were only three.' + +BILLY. 'Odd.' + +BARBARA, soothingly, 'Never mind, dear, Granny will make it all right. +She is the one for you.' + +COLONEL. 'She is the one for me.' + +KARL. 'If there had been a wedding, wouldn't she have taken the Colonel +with her?' + +BARBARA. 'Of course she would.' + +KARL. 'You are not too old to have a kind eye for a wedding, sir.' + +COLONEL, wagging his head, 'Aha, aha! You know, if I had gone, very +likely I should have kissed the bride. Brides look so pretty on their +wedding day. They are often not pretty at other times, but they are all +pretty on their wedding day.' + +KARL. 'You have an eye for a pretty girl still, sir!' + +COLONEL. 'Yes, I have; yes, I have!' + +BARBARA. 'I do believe I see it all. Granny has been talking to you +about Billy boy and me, and you haven't been able to wait; you have +hurried on the wedding!' + +BILLY. 'Bravo, Barbara, you've got it.' + +COLONEL, doubtfully, 'That may be it. Because I am sure you were to be +there, Barbara.' + +BARBARA. 'Our wedding, Billy!' + +KARL. 'It doesn't explain those other people, though.' + +The Colonel moves about in agitation. + +BARBARA. 'What is it, dear?' + +COLONEL. 'I can't quite remember, but I think that is why she didn't +take me. It is your wedding, Barbara, but I don't think Billy boy is to +be there, my love.' + +BARBARA. 'Not at my wedding!' + +BILLY. 'Grandfather!' + +COLONEL. 'There's something sad about it.' + +BARBARA. 'There can't be anything sad about a wedding, dear. Granny +didn't say it was a sad wedding, did she?' + +COLONEL. 'She was smiling.' + +BARBARA. 'Of course she was.' + +COLONEL. 'But I think that was only to please the nurse.' + +BARBARA. 'That nurse again! Dear, don't think any more about it. There's +no wedding.' + +COLONEL, gently, though he wonders why they can go on deceiving him, 'Is +there not?' + +The village wedding bells begin to ring. + +The Colonel is triumphant. 'I told you! There is a wedding!' + +The bells ring on gaily. Billy and Barbara take a step nearer to each +other, but can go no closer. The bells ring on, and the three young +people fade from the scene. + +When they are gone and he is alone, the Colonel still addresses them. +'It's Barbara's wedding. Billy boy, why are you not at Barbara's +wedding?' + +Soon the bells stop. He knows that he is alone now, but he does not +understand it. The sun is shining brightly, but he sits very cold in his +chair. He shivers. He is very glad to see his wife coming to him +through the open window. She is a dear old lady, and is dressed +brightly, as becomes one who has been to a wedding. Her face beams to +match her gown. She is really quite a happy woman again, for it is +several years since any deep sorrow struck her; and that is a long time. +No one, you know, understands the Colonel as she does, no one can soothe +him and bring him out of his imaginings as she can. He hastens to her. +He is no longer cold. That is her great reward for all she does for him. + +'I have come back, John,' she says, smiling tranquilly on him. 'It +hasn't seemed very long, has it?' + +'No, not long, Ellen. Had you a nice walk?' + +She continues to smile, but she is watching him closely. 'I haven't been +for a walk. Don't you remember where I told you I was going, John?' + +'Yes, it was to a wedding.' + +Rather tremulously, 'You haven't forgotten whose wedding, have you?' + +'Tell me, Ellen.' He is no longer troubled. He knows that Ellen will +tell him. + +'I have been seeing Barbara married, John.' + +'Yes, it was Barbara's wedding. They wouldn't--Ellen, why wasn't I +there?' + +Like one telling him amusing gossip, 'I thought you might be a little +troubled if you went, John. Sometimes your mind--not often, but +sometimes if you are agitated--and then you think you see--people who +aren't here any longer. Oh dear, oh dear, help me with these bonnet +strings.' + +'Yes, I know. I'm all right when you are with me, Ellen. Funny, isn't +it?' + +She raises her shoulders in a laugh. 'It _is_ funny, John. I ran +back to you, John. I was thinking of you all the time--even more than +of Billy boy.' + +The Colonel is very gay. 'Tell me all about it, Ellen. Did Billy boy +lose the ring? We always said he would lose the ring.' + +She looks straight into his eyes. 'You have forgotten again, John. +Barbara isn't married to Billy boy.' + +He draws himself up. 'Not marry Billy! I'll see about that.' + +She presses him into his chair. 'Sit down, dear, and I'll tell you +something again. It is nothing to trouble you, because your soldiering +is done, John; and greatly done. My dear, there is war again, and our +old land is in it. Such a war as my soldier never knew.' + +He rises. He is a stern old man. 'A war! That's it, is it? So now I +know! Why wasn't I told? Why haven't I my marching orders? I'm not too +old yet.' + +'Yes, John, you are too old, and all you can do now is to sit here +and--and take care of me. You knew all about it quite clearly this +morning. We stood together upstairs by the window listening to the +aircraft guns.' + +'I remember! I thought it was a thunderstorm, Dering told me he heard +nothing.' + +'Dering?' + +'Our gardener, you know.' His voice becomes husky. 'Haven't I been +talking with him, Ellen?' + +'It is a long time since we had a gardener, John.' + +'Is it? So it is! A war! That is why there is no more cricket on the +green.' + +'They have all gone to the war, John.' + +'That's it; even the little shavers.' He whispers, 'Why isn't Billy boy +fighting, Ellen?' + +'Oh, John!' + +'Is Billy boy dead?' She nods. 'Was he killed in action? Tell me, tell +me!' She nods again. 'Good for Billy boy. I knew Billy boy was all +right. Don't cry, Ellen. I'll take care of you. All's well with Billy +boy.' + +'Yes, I know, John.' + +He hesitates before speaking again. 'Ellen, who is the soldier? He comes +here. He is a captain.' + +'He is a very gallant man, John. It is he who was married to Barbara +to-day.' + +Bitterly, 'She has soon forgotten.' + +His wife shakes her brave head. 'She hasn't forgotten, dear. And it's +nearly three years now since Billy died.' + +'So long! We have a medal he got, haven't we?' + +'No, John; he died before he could win any medals.' + +The Colonel moves about, 'Karl will be sorry. They were very fond of +each other, those two boys, Ellen.' + +'Karl fought against us, John. He died in the same engagement. They may +even have killed each other.' + +'They hadn't known, Ellen.' + +She with, thin lips, 'I daresay they knew.' + +'Billy boy and Karl!' + +She tells him some more gossip. 'John, I had Barbara married from here +because she has no people of her own. I think Billy would have liked +it.' + +'That was the thing to do, Ellen. Nice of you. I remember everything +now. It's Dering she has married. He was once my gardener!' + +'The world is all being re-made, dear. He is worthy of her.' + +He lets this pass. He has remembered something almost as surprising, +'Ellen, is Barbara a nurse?' + +'Yes, John, and one of the staidest and most serene. Who would have +thought it of the merry madcap of other days! They are coming here, +John, to say good-bye to you. They have only a few days' leave. She is +in France, too, you know. She was married in her nurse's uniform.' + +'Was she? She told me to-day that--no, it couldn't have been to-day.' + +'You have been fancying you saw them, I suppose.' She grows tremulous +again. 'You will be nice to them, John, won't you, and wish them luck? +They have their trials before them.' + +He says eagerly, 'Tell me what to do, Ellen.' + +'Don't say anything about Billy boy, John.' + +'No, no, let's pretend.' + +'And I wouldn't talk about the garden, John; just in case he is a little +touchy about that.' + +The Colonel is beginning to fancy himself as a tactician. 'Not a word!' + +She knows what is the way to put him on his mettle. 'You see, I'm sure +I would make a mess of it, so I'm trusting to you, John.' + +He is very pleased, 'Leave it all to me, Ellen. I'll be frightfully sly. +You just watch me.' + +She goes to the window and calls to the married couple. Captain Dering, +in khaki, is a fine soldierly figure. Barbara, in her Red Gross uniform, +is quiet and resourceful. An artful old boy greets them. +'Congratulations, Barbara. No, no, none of your handshaking; you don't +get past an old soldier in that way. Excuse me, young man.' He kisses +Barbara and looks at his wife to make sure that she is admiring him, +'And to you, Captain Dering--you have won a prize.' + +A gallant gentleman answers, 'I know it; I'll try to show I know it.' + +The Colonel is perturbed. 'I haven't given Barbara a wedding present, +Ellen, I should like----' + +Barbara breaks in, 'Indeed you have, dear, and a lovely one. You haven't +forgotten?' + +Granny signs to the Colonel and he immediately says, with remarkable +cunning, 'Oh--that! I was just quizzing you, Barbara. I hope you will be +as happy, dear, staid Barbara, as if you had married----' He sees that +he has nearly given away the situation. He looks triumphantly at granny +as much as to say, 'Observe me; I'm not going to say a word about him.' + +Granny comes to his aid. 'Perhaps Captain Dering has some little things +to do: and you, too, Barbara. They are leaving in an hour, John.' + +For a moment the Colonel is again in danger. 'If you would like to take +Barbara into the garden, Captain Dering----' He recovers himself +instantly. 'No, not the garden, you wouldn't know your way about in the +garden.' + +'Wouldn't I, Colonel?' the Captain says, smiling. + +The answer is quite decisive. 'No, certainly not. I'll show it you some +day.' + +He makes gleeful signs to granny. 'But there is a nice meadow just +beyond the shrubbery. Barbara knows the way; she often went there +with--' He checks himself. Granny signs to them to go, and Barbara, +kisses both the Colonel's hands. 'The Captain will be jealous, you +know,' he says, twinkling. + +'Let me, dear,' says Barbara, arranging his cushions professionally. + +Granny nods. 'She is much better at it than I am now, John.' + +The Colonel has one last piece of advice to give. 'I wouldn't go +down by the stream, Barbara--not to the pool where the alder is. +There's--there's not a good view there, sir; and a boy--a boy I knew, +he often--nobody in particular--just a boy who used to come about the +house--he is not here now--he is on duty. I don't think you should go +to the alder pool, Barbara.' + +'We won't go there, dear.' She and her husband go out, and the Colonel +scarcely misses them, he is so eager to hear what his wife thinks of +him. + +'Did I do all right, Ellen?' + +'Splendidly. I was proud of you.' + +He exults. 'I put them completely off the scent! They haven't a notion! +I can be very sly, you know, at times. Ellen, I think I should like to +have that alder tree cut down. There is no boy now, you see.' + +'I would leave it alone, John. There will be boys again. Shall I read to +you; you like that, don't you?' + +'Yes, read to me--something funny, if you please. About Sam Weller! No, +I expect Sam has gone to the wars. Read about Mr. Pickwick. He is very +amusing. I feel sure that if he had tried to catch the bull-trout he +would have fallen in. Just as Barbara did this morning.' + +'Barbara?' + +'She is down at the alder pool. Billy is there with that nice German +boy. The noise they make, shouting and laughing!' + +She gets from its shelf the best book for war-time. 'Which bit shall I +read?' + +'About Mr. Pickwick going into the lady's bedroom by mistake.' + +'Yes, dear, though you almost know it by heart. You see, you have begun +to laugh already.' + +'You are laughing too, Ellen. I can't help it!' + +She begins to read; they are both chuckling. + + + + + + +A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE + + +Out of the darkness comes the voice of a woman speaking to her dead son. + +'But that was against your wish, was it not? Was that against your wish? +Would you prefer me not to ask that question?' + +The room is so dark that we cannot see her. All we know is that she is +one of four shapes gathered round a small table. Beyond the darkness is +a great ingle-nook, in which is seated on a settle a man of fifty. Him +we can discern fitfully by the light of the fire. It is not sufficiently +bright to enable him to read, but an evening paper lies on his knee. He +seems wistful and meek. He is paying no attention to the party round the +table. When he hears their voices it is only as empty sounds. + +The mother continues. 'Perhaps I am putting the question in the wrong +way. Are you not able to tell us any more?' + +A man's voice breaks in. 'There was a distinct movement that time, but +it is so irregular.' + +'I thought so, but please don't talk. Do you want to tell us more? Is it +that you can't hear me distinctly? He seems to want to tell us more, but +something prevents him.' + +'In any case, Mrs. Don, it is extraordinary. This is the first seance I +have ever taken part in, but I must believe now.' + +'Of course, Major, these are the simplest manifestations. They are only +the first step. But if we are to go on, the less we talk the better. +Shall we go on? It is not agitating you too much, Laura?' + +A girl answers, 'There was a moment when I--but I wish I was braver. I +think it is partly the darkness. I suppose we can't have a little +light?' + +'Certainly we can, dear. Darkness is quite unnecessary, but I think it +helps one to concentrate.' + +The Major lights a lamp, and though it casts shadows we see now that the +room is an artist's studio. The silent figure in the ingle-nook is the +artist. Mrs. Don is his wife, the two men are Major Armitage and an +older friend, Mr. Rogers. The girl is Laura Bell. These four are sitting +round the table, their hands touching: they are endeavouring to commune +with one who has 'crossed the gulf.' + +The Major and Mr. Rogers are but passing shadows in the play, and even +nice Laura is only to flit across its few pages for a moment on her way +to happier things. We scarcely notice them in the presence of Mrs. Don, +the gracious, the beautiful, the sympathetic, whose magnetic force and +charm are such that we wish to sit at her feet at once. She is +intellectual, but with a disarming smile, religious, but so charitable, +masterful, and yet loved of all. None is perfect, and there must be a +flaw in her somewhere, but to find it would necessitate such a rummage +among her many adornments as there is now no time for. Perhaps we may +come upon it accidentally in the course of the play. + +She is younger than Mr. Don, who, despite her efforts for many years to +cover his deficiencies, is a man of no great account in a household +where the bigger personality of his wife swallows him like an Aaron's +rod. Mr. Don's deficiencies! She used to try very hard, or fairly hard, +to conceal them from Dick; but Dick knew. His mother was his chum. All +the lovely things which happened in that house in the days when Dick was +alive were between him and her; those two shut the door softly on old +Don, always anxious not to hurt his feelings, and then ran into each +other's arms. + +In the better light Mr. Don is now able to read his paper if he chooses. +If he has forgotten the party at the table, they have equally forgotten +him. + +MRS. DON. 'You have not gone away, have you? We must be patient. Are you +still there?' + +ROGERS. 'I think I felt a movement.' + +MRS. DON. 'Don't talk, please. Are you still there?' + +The table moves. + +'Yes! It is your mother who is speaking; do you understand that?' + +The table moves. + +'Yes. What shall I ask him now?' + +ROGERS. 'We leave it to you, Mrs. Don.' + +MRS. DON. 'Have you any message you want to send us? Yes. Is it +important? Yes. Are we to spell it out in the usual way? Yes. Is the +first letter of the first word A? Is it B?' + +She continues through the alphabet to L, when the table responds. +Similarly she finds that the second letter is O. + +'Is the word _Love_? Yes. But I don't understand that movement. You +are not displeased with us, are you? No. Does the second word begin with +A?--with B? Yes.' + +The second word is spelt out _Bade_ and the third _Me_. + +'Love Bade Me----If it is a quotation, I believe I know it! Is the +fourth word _Welcome_? Yes.' + +LAURA. 'Love Bade Me Welcome.' + +MRS. DON. 'That movement again! Don't you want me to go on?' + +LAURA. 'Let us stop.' + +MRS. DON. 'Not unless he wishes it. Why are those words so important? +Does the message end there? Is any one working against you? Some one +antagonistic? Yes. Not one of ourselves surely? No. Is it any one we +know? Yes. Can I get the name in the usual way? Yes. Is the first letter +of this person's name A?--B?----' + +It proves to be F. One begins to notice a quaint peculiarity of Mrs. +Don's. She is so accustomed to homage that she expects a prompt response +even from the shades. + +'Is the second letter A?' + +The table moves. + +'FA. Fa----?' + +She is suddenly enlightened. + +'Is the word Father? Yes.' + +They all turn and look for the first time at Mr. Don. He has heard, and +rises apologetically. + +MR. DON, distressed, 'I had no intention--Should I go away, Grace?' + +She answers sweetly without a trace of the annoyance she must surely +feel. + +MRS. DON. 'Perhaps you had better, Robert.' + +ROGERS. 'I suppose it is because he is an unbeliever? He is not openly +antagonistic, is he?' + +MRS. DON, sadly enough, 'I am afraid he is.' They tend to discuss the +criminal as if he was not present. + +MAJOR. 'But he must admit that we do get messages.' + +MRS. DON, reluctantly, 'He says we think we do. He says they would not +want to communicate with us if they had such trivial things to say.' + +ROGERS. 'But we are only on the threshold, Don. This is just a +beginning.' + +LAURA. 'Didn't you hear, Mr. Don--"Love Bade Me Welcome"?' + +MR. DON. 'Does that strike you as important, Laura?' + +LAURA. 'He said it was.' + +MRS. DON. 'It might be very important to him, though we don't understand +why.' + +She speaks gently, but there is an obstinacy in him, despite his +meekness. + +MR. DON. 'I didn't mean to be antagonistic, Grace. I thought. I wasn't +thinking of it at all.' + +MRS. DON. 'Not thinking of Dick, Robert? And it was only five months +ago!' + +MR. DON, who is somehow, without meaning it, always in the wrong, +'I'll go.' + +ROGERS. 'A boy wouldn't turn his father out. Ask him.' + +MR. DON, forlornly, 'As to that--as to that----' + +MRS. DON. 'I will ask him if you wish me to, Robert.' + +MR. DON. 'No, don't.' + +ROGERS. 'It can't worry you as you are a disbeliever.' + +MR. DON. 'No, but--I shouldn't like you to think that he sent me away.' + +ROGERS. 'He won't. Will he, Mrs. Don?' + +MR. DON, knowing what her silence implies, 'You see, Dick and I were not +very--no quarrel or anything of that sort--but I, I didn't much matter +to Dick. I'm too old, perhaps.' + +MRS. DON, gently, 'I won't ask him, Robert, if you would prefer me +not to.' + +MR. DON. 'I'll go.' + +MRS. DON. 'I'm afraid it is too late now.' She turns away from earthly +things. 'Do you want me to break off?' + +The table moves. + +'Yes. Do you send me your love, Dick? Yes. And to Laura? Yes.' She +raises her eyes to Don, and hesitates. 'Shall I ask him----?' + +MR. DON. 'No, no, don't.' + +ROGERS. 'It would be all right, Don.' + +MR. DON. 'I don't know.' + +They leave the table. + +LAURA, a little agitated, 'May I go to my room, Mrs. Don? I feel +I--should like to be alone.' + +MRS. DON. 'Yes, yes, Laura dear. I shall come in and see you.' + +Laura bids them good-night and goes. She likes Mr. Don, she strokes his +hand when he holds it out to her, but she can't help saying, 'Oh, Mr. +Don, how could you?' + +ROGERS. 'I think we must all want to be alone after such an evening. +I shall say good-night, Mrs. Don.' + +MAJOR. 'Same here. I go your way, Rogers, but you will find me a silent +companion. One doesn't want to talk ordinary things to-night. Rather +not. Thanks, awfully.' + +ROGERS. 'Good-night, Don. It's a pity, you know; a bit hard on your +wife.' + +MR. DON. 'Good-night, Rogers. Good-night, Major.' + +The husband and wife, left together, have not much to say to each other. +He is depressed because he has spoilt things for her. She is not angry. +She knows that he can't help being as he is, and that there are fine +spaces in her mind where his thoughts can never walk with her. But she +would forgive him seventy times seven because he is her husband. She is +standing looking at a case of fishing-rods against the wall. There is +a Jock Scott still sticking in one of them. Mr. Don says, as if somehow +they were evidence against him: + +'Dick's fishing-rods.' + +She says forgivingly, 'I hope you don't mind my keeping them in the +studio, Robert. They are sacred things to _me_.' + +'That's all right, Grace.' + +'I think I shall go to Laura now.' + +'Yes,' in his inexpressive way. + +'Poor child!' + +'I'm afraid I hurt her.' + +'Dick wouldn't have liked it--but Dick's gone.' She looks a little +wonderingly at him. After all these years, she can sometimes wonder +a little still. 'I suppose you will resume your evening paper!' + +He answers quietly, but with the noble doggedness which is the reason +why we write this chapter in his life. 'Why not, Grace?' + +She considers, for she is so sure that she must know the answer better +than he. 'I suppose it is just that a son is so much more to a mother +than to a father.' + +'I daresay.' + +A little gust of passion shakes her. 'How you can read about the war +nowadays!' + +He says firmly to her--he has had to say it a good many times to +himself, 'I'm not going to give in.' But he adds, 'I am so sorry I was +in the way, Grace. I wasn't scouting you, or anything of that sort. It's +just that I can't believe in it.' + +'Ah, Robert, you would believe if Dick had been to you what he was +to me.' + +'I don't know.' + +'In a sense you may be glad that you don't miss him in the way I do.' + +'Yes, perhaps.' + +'Good-night, Robert.' + +'Good-night, dear.' + +He is alone now. He stands fingering the fishing-rods tenderly, then +wanders back into the ingle-nook. In the room we could scarcely see him, +for it has gone slowly dark there, a grey darkness, as if the lamp, +though still burning, was becoming unable to shed light. Through the +greyness we see him very well beyond it in the glow of the fire. He sits +on the settle and tries to read his paper. He breaks down. He is a +pitiful lonely man. + +In the silence something happens. A well-remembered voice says, +'Father.' Mr. Don looks into the greyness from which this voice comes, +and he sees his son. We see no one, but we are to understand that, to +Mr. Don, Dick is standing there in his habit as he lived. He goes to his +boy. + +'Dick!' + +'I have come to sit with you for a bit, father.' + +It is the gay, young, careless voice. + +'It's you, Dick; it's you!' + +'It's me all right, father. I say, don't be startled, or anything of that +kind. We don't like that.' + +'My boy!' + +Evidently Dick is the taller, for Mr. Don has to look up to him. He puts +his hands on the boy's shoulders. + +'How am I looking, father?' + +'You haven't altered, Dick.' + +'Rather not. It's jolly to see the old studio again!' In a cajoling +voice, 'I say, father, don't fuss. Let us be our ordinary selves, won't +you?' + +'I'll try, I'll try. You didn't say you had come to sit with _me_, +Dick? Not with _me_!' + +'Rather!' + +'But your mother----' + +'It's you I want.' + +'Me?' + +'We can only come to one, you see.' + +'Then why me?' + +'That's the reason.' He is evidently moving about, looking curiously at +old acquaintances. 'Hello, here's your old jacket, greasier than ever!' + +'Me? But, Dick, it is as if you had forgotten. It was your mother who +was everything to you. It can't be you if you have forgotten that. +I used to feel so out of it; but, of course, you didn't know.' + +'I didn't know it till lately, father; but heaps of things that I didn't +know once are clear to me now. I didn't know that you were the one who +would miss me most; but I know now.' + +Though the voice is as boyish as ever, there is a new note in it of +which his father is aware. Dick may not have grown much wiser, but +whatever he does know now he seems to know for certain. + +'_Me_ miss you most? Dick, I try to paint just as before. I go to the +club. Dick, I have been to a dinner-party. I said I wouldn't give in.' + +'We like that.' + +'But, my boy----' + +Mr. Don's arms have gone out to him again. Dick evidently wriggles away +from them. He speaks coaxingly. + +'I say, father, let's get away from that sort of thing.' + +'That is so like you, Dick! I'll do anything you ask.' + +'Then keep a bright face.' + +'I've tried to.' + +'Good man! I say, put on your old greasy; you are looking so beastly +clean.' + +The old greasy is the jacket, and Mr. Don obediently gets into it. + +'Anything you like. No, that's the wrong sleeve. Thanks, Dick.' + +They are in the ingle-nook now, and the mischievous boy catches his +father by the shoulders. + +'Here, let me shove you into your old seat.' + +Mr. Don is propelled on to the settle. + +'How's that, umpire!' + +'Dick,' smiling, 'that's just how you used to butt me into it long ago!' + +Dick is probably standing with his back to the fire, chuckling. + +'When I was a kid.' + +'With the palette in my hand.' + +'Or sticking to your trousers.' + +'The mess we made of ourselves, Dick.' + +'I sneaked behind the settle and climbed up it.' + +'Till you fell off.' + +'On top of you and the palette.' + +It is good fun for a father and son; and the crafty boy has succeeded +in making the father laugh. But soon, + +'Ah, Dick.' + +The son frowns. He is not going to stand any nonsense. + +'Now then, behave! What did I say about that face?' + +Mr. Don smiles at once, obediently. + +'That's better. I'll sit here.' + +We see from his father's face which is smiling with difficulty that Dick +has plopped into the big chair on the other side of the ingle-nook. His +legs are probably dangling over one of its arms. + +Rather sharply, 'Got your pipe?' + +'I don't--I don't seem to care to smoke nowadays, Dick.' + +'Rot! Just because I am dead! You that pretend to be plucky! I won't +have it, you know. You get your pipe, and look slippy about it.' + +'Yes, Dick,' the old man says obediently. He fills his pipe from a jar +on the mantelshelf. We may be sure that Dick is watching closely to see +that he lights it properly. + +'Now, then, burn your thumb with the match--you always did, you know. +That's the style. You've forgotten to cock your head to the side. Not so +bad. That's you. Like it?' + +'It's rather nice, Dick. Dick, you and me by the fire!' + +'Yes, but sit still. How often we might have been like this, father, +and weren't.' + +'Ah!' + +'Face. How is Fido?' + +'Never a dog missed her master more.' + +'Oh,' frowning. 'She doesn't want to go and sit on my grave, or any of +that tosh, does she? As if I were there!' + +'No, no,' hastily; 'she goes ratting, Dick.' + +'Good old Fido!' + +'Dick, here's a good one. We oughtn't to keep a dog at all because we +are on rations now; but what do you think Fido ate yesterday?' + +'Let me guess. The joint?' + +'Almost worse than that. She ate all the cook's meat tickets.' + +They laugh, together, but when Dick says light-heartedly, 'That dog will +be the death of me.' his father shivers. Dick does not notice this; his +eyes have drawn him to the fishing-rods. + +'Hullo!' + +'Yes, those are your old fishing-rods.' + +'Here's the little hickory! Do you remember, father, how I got the +seven-pounder on a burn-trout cast? No, you weren't there. That was +a day. It was really only six and three-quarters. I put a stone in +its mouth the second time we weighed it!' + +'You loved fishing, Dick.' + +'Didn't I? Why weren't you oftener with me? I'll tell you a funny thing, +When I went a soldiering I used to pray--just standing up, you +know--that I shouldn't lose my right arm, because it would be so awkward +for casting.' He cogitates as he returns to the ingle-nook. 'Somehow I +never thought I should be killed. Lots of fellows thought that about +themselves, but I never did. It was quite a surprise to me.' + +'Oh, Dick!' + +'What's the matter? Oh, I forgot. Face!' He is apparently looking down +at his father wonderingly. 'Haven't you got over it yet, father? I got +over it so long ago. I wish you people would understand what a little +thing it is.' + +'Tell me,' very humbly; 'tell me, Dick.' + +'All right.' He is in the chair again. + +'Mind, I can't tell you where I was killed; it's against the +regulations.' + +'I know where.' + +Curiously, 'You got a wire, I suppose?' + +'Yes.' + +'There's always a wire for officers, even for 2nd Lieutenants. It's +jolly decent of them.' + +'Tell me, Dick, about the--the veil. I mean the veil that is drawn +between the living and the----.' + +'The dead? Funny how you jib at that word.' + +'I suppose the veil is like a mist?' + +'The veil's a rummy thing, father. Yes, like a mist. But when one has +been at the Front for a bit, you can't think how thin the veil seems to +get; just one layer of it. I suppose it seems thin to you out there +because one step takes you through it. We sometimes mix up those who +have gone through with those who haven't. I daresay if I were to go back +to my old battalion the living chaps would just nod to me.' + +'Dick!' + +'Where's that pipe? Death? Well, to me, before my day came, it was like +some part of the line I had heard a lot about but never been in. I mean, +never been in to stay, because, of course, one often popped in and out.' + +'Dick, the day that you----' + +'My day? I don't remember being hit, you know. I don't remember anything +till the quietness came. When you have been killed it suddenly becomes +very quiet; quieter even than you have ever known it at home. Sunday +used to be a pretty quiet day at my tutor's, when Trotter and I +flattened out on the first shady spot up the river; but it is quieter +than that. I am not boring you, am I?' + +'My boy!' + +'When I came to, the veil was so thin that I couldn't see it at all; and +my first thought was, Which side of it have I come out on? The living +ones lying on the ground were asking that about themselves, too. There +we were, all sitting up and asking whether we were alive or dead; and +some were one, and some were the other. Sort of fluke, you know.' + +'I--I--oh, Dick!' + +'As soon as each had found out about himself he wondered how it had gone +with his chums, I halloo'd to Johnny Randall, and he halloo'd back that +he was dead, but that Trotter was living. That's the way of it. A good +deal of chaff, of course. By that time the veil was there, and getting +thicker, and we lined up on our right sides. Then I could only see the +living ones in shadow and hear their voices from a distance. They sang +out to us for a while; but just at first, father, it was rather lonely +when we couldn't hear their tread any longer. What are you fidgeting +about? You needn't worry; that didn't last long; we were heaps more +interested in ourselves than in them. You should have heard the +gabbling! It was all so frightfully novel, you see; and no one quite +knew what to do next, whether all to start off together, or wait for +some one to come for us. I say, what a lot I'm talking!' + +'What happened, Dick?' + +'Oh!' a proud ring coming into the voice, 'Ockley came for us. He used +to be alive, you know--the Ockley who was keeper of the fives in my +first half. I once pointed him out to mother. I was jolly glad he was +the one who came for us. As soon as I saw it was Ockley I knew we should +be all right.' + +'Dick, I like that Ockley.' + +'Rather. I wish I could remember something funny to tell you though. +There are lots of jokes, but I am such a one for forgetting them.' + +He laughs boisterously. We may be sure that he flings back his head. You +remember how Dick used to fling back his head when he laughed?--No, you +didn't know him. + +'Father, do you remember little Wantage who was at my private and came +on to Ridley's house in my third half? His mother was the one you called +Emily.' + +'Emily Wantage's boy.' + +'That's the card. We used to call him Jemima, because he and his mother +were both caught crying when lock-up struck, and she had to clear out.' + +'She was very fond of him, Dick.' + +'Oh, I expect no end. Tell her he's killed.' + +'She knows.' + +'She had got a wire. That isn't the joke, though. You see he got into a +hopeless muddle about which side of the veil he had come out on; and he +went off with the other ones, and they wouldn't have him, and he got +lost in the veil, running up and down it, calling to us; and just for +the lark we didn't answer.' He chuckles, 'I expect he has become a +ghost!' With sudden consideration, 'Best not tell his mother that.' + +Mr. Don rises, wincing, and Dick also is at once on his feet, full of +compunction. + +'Was that shabby of me? Sorry, father. We are all pretty young, you +know, and we can't help having our fun still.' + +'I'm glad you still have your fun,' the father says, once more putting +his hands on Dick's shoulders. 'Let me look at you again, Dick. There is +such a serenity about you now.' + +'Serenity, that's the word! None of us could remember what the word was. +It's a ripping good thing to have. I should be awfully bucked if you +would have it, too.' + +'I'll try.' + +'I say, how my tongue runs on! But, after all, it was my show. Now, you +tell me some things.' + +'What about, Dick? The war?' + +'No,' almost in a shout. 'We have a fine for speaking about the war. And +you know, those fellows we were fighting--I forget who they were?' + +'The Germans.' + +'Oh yes. Some of them were on the same side of the veil with us, and +they were rather decent; so we chummed up in the end and Ockley took us +all away together. They were jolly lucky in getting Ockley. There I go +again! Come on, it's your turn. Has the bathroom tap been mended yet?' + +'I'm afraid it is--just tied up with that string still, Dick. It works +all right.' + +'It only needs two screw-nails, you know.' + +'I'll see to it.' + +'Do you know whether any one at my tutors got his fives choice this +half?' + +'I'm sorry, Dick, but----' + +'Or who is the captain of the boats?' + +'No, I----' + +'Whatever have you been doing?' He is moving about the room. 'Hullo, +here's mother's work-box! Is mother all right?' + +'Very sad about you, Dick.' + +'Oh, I say, that isn't fair. Why doesn't she cheer up?' + +'It isn't so easy, my boy.' + +'It's pretty hard lines on me, you know.' + +'How is that?' + +'If you are sad, I have to be sad. That's how we have got to work it +off. You can't think how we want to be bright.' + +'I'll always remember that, and I'll tell your mother. Ah, but she won't +believe me, Dick; you will have to tell her yourself.' + +'I can't do that, father. I can only come to one.' + +'She should have been the one; she loved you best, Dick.' + +'Oh, I don't know. Do you ever,' with a slight hesitation, 'see Laura +now?' + +'She is staying with us at present.' + +'Is she? I think I should like to see her.' + +'If Laura were to see you----' + +'Oh, she wouldn't see me. She is not dressed in black, is she?' + +'No, in white.' + +'Good girl! I suppose mother is in black?' + +'Surely, Dick.' + +'It's too bad, you know.' + +'You weren't exactly--engaged to Laura, were you, Dick?' A bold question +from a father, but the circumstances were unusual. Apologetically, 'I +never rightly knew.' + +'No!' Dick has flung back his head again. Confidentially, 'Father, I +sometimes thought of it, but it rather scared me! I expect that is about +how it was with her, too.' + +'She is very broken about you now.' + +Irritated, 'Oh, hang!' + +'Would you like her to forget you, Dick?' + +'Rather not. But she might help a fellow a bit. Hullo!' + +What calls forth this exclamation, is the little table at which the +seance had taken place. The four chairs are still standing round it, as +if they were guarding something. + +'Here's something new, father; this table.' + +'Yes, It is usually in the drawing-room.' + +'Of course. I remember.' + +Mr. Don sets his teeth. 'Does that table suggest anything to you, Dick?' + +'To me? Let me think. Yes, I used to play backgammon on it. What is it +doing here?' + +'Your mother brought it in.' + +'To play games on? Mother!' + +'I don't--know that it was a game, Dick.' + +'But to play anything! I'm precious glad she can do that. Was Laura +playing with her?' + +'She was helping her.' + +'Good for Laura.' He is looking at some slips of paper on the table. +'Are those pieces of paper used in the game? There is writing on them: +"The first letter is H--the second letter is A--the third letter is R." +What does it mean?' + +'Does it convey no meaning to you, Dick?' + +'To me? No; why should it?' + +Mr. Don is enjoying no triumph. 'Let us go back to the fire, my boy.' + +Dick follows him into the ingle-nook. 'But, why should it convey a +meaning to me? I was never much of a hand at indoor games.' Brightly, +'I bet you Ockley would be good at it.' After a joyous ramble, 'Ockley's +nickname still sticks to him!' + +'I don't think I know it.' + +'He was a frightful swell, you know. Keeper of the field, and played +against Harrow the same year. I suppose it did go just a little to his +head.' + +They are back in their old seats, and Mr. Don leans forward in gleeful +anticipation. Probably Dick is leaning forward in the same way, and this +old father is merely copying him. + +'What did you nickname him, Dick?' + +'It was his fags that did it!' + +'I should like to know it. I say, do tell me, Dick.' + +'He is pretty touchy about it now, you know.' + +'I won't tell any one. Come on, Dick.' + +'His fags called him K.C.M.G.' + +'Meaning, meaning, Dick?' + +'Meaning "Kindly Call Me God!"' + +Mr. Don flings back his head; so we know what Dick is doing. They are +a hilarious pair, perhaps too noisy, for suddenly Mr. Don looks at the +door. + +'I think I heard some one, Dick!' + +'Perhaps it's mother!' + +'She may,' nervously, 'have heard the row.' + +Dick's eyes must be twinkling. 'I say, father, you'll catch it!' + +'I can't believe, Dick,' gazing wistfully into the chair, 'that she +won't see you.' + +It is a sadder voice than his own for the moment that answers, 'Only one +may see me.' + +'You will speak to her, Dick. Let her hear your voice.' + +'Only one may hear me. I could make her the one; but it would mean your +losing me.' + +'I can't give you up, Dick.' + +Mrs. Don comes in, as beautiful as ever, but a little aggrieved. + +'I called to you, Robert.' + +'Yes, I thought--I was just going to----' + +He has come from the ingle-nook to meet her. He looks from her to Dick, +whom he sees so clearly, standing now by the fire. An awe falls upon Mr. +Don. He says her name, meaning, 'See, Grace, who is with us.' + +Her eyes follow his, but she sees nothing, not even two arms +outstretched to her. 'What is it, Robert? What is the matter?' + +She does not hear a voice say, 'Mother!' + +'I heard you laughing, Robert; what on earth at?' + +The father cannot speak. + +'Now you're in a hole, father!' says a mischievous, voice. + +'Can I not be told, Robert?' + +'Something in the paper,' the voice whispers. + +Mr. Don lifts the paper feebly, and his wife understands. 'Oh, a +newspaper joke! Please, I don't want to hear it.' + +'Was it my laughing that brought you back, Grace?' + +'No, that would only have made me shut my door. If Dick thought you +could laugh!' She goes to the little table. 'I came back for these +slips of paper.' She lifts them and presses them to her breast. 'These +precious slips of paper!' + +Dick was always a curious boy, and forgetting that she cannot hear him, +he blurts out, 'How do you mean, mother? Why are they precious?' + +Mr. Don forgets also and looks to her for an answer. + +'What is it, Robert?' + +'Didn't you--hear anything, Grace?' + +'No. Perhaps Laura was calling; I left her on the stair.' + +'I wish,' Mr. Don is fighting for Dick now, 'I wish Laura would come +back and say good-night to me.' + +'I daresay she will.' + +'And,' valiantly, 'if she could be--rather brighter, Grace.' + +'Robert!' + +'I think Dick would like it.' + +Her fine eyes reproach him mutely, but she says, ever forgiving, 'Is +that how you look at it, Robert? Very well, laugh your fill--if you can. +But if Dick were to appear before me to-night----' + +In his distress Mr. Don cries aloud to the figure by the fire, 'Dick, if +you can appear to your mother, do it.' + +There is a pause in which anything may happen, but nothing happens. +Yes, something happened: Dick has stuck to his father. + +'Really, Robert!' Mrs. Don says, and, without a word of reproach, she +goes away. Evidently Dick comes to his father, who has sank into a chair, +and puts a loving hand on him. Mr. Don clasps it without looking up. + +'Father, that was top-hole of you! Poor mother, I should have liked to +hug her; but I can't.' + +'You should have gone to her, Dick; you shouldn't have minded me.' + +The wiser boy says, 'Mother's a darling, but she doesn't need me as much +as you do.' + +'I don't know.' + +'That's all right. I'm glad she's so keen about that game, though.' + +He has returned to the ingle-nook when Laura comes in, eager to make +amends to Dick's father if she hurt him when she went out. + +Softly, 'I have come to say good-night, Mr. Don.' + +'It's nice of you, Laura,' taking both her hands. + +Dick speaks. 'I want her to come nearer to the fire; I can't see her +very well there.' + +For a moment Mr. Don is caught out again; but Laura has heard nothing. +He becomes quite cunning in Dick's interests. + +'Your hands are cold, Laura; go over to the fire. I want to look at +you.' + +She sits on the hearthstone by Dick's feet. + +Shyly, 'Am I all right?' + +It is Dick who answers. 'You're awfully pretty, Laura. You are even +prettier than I thought. I remember I used to think, she can't be quite +as pretty as I think her; and then when you came you were just a little +prettier.' + +She has been warming her hands. 'Why don't you say anything?' she asks +Mr. Don. + +'I was thinking of you and Dick, Laura.' + +'What a pretty soul she has, father,' says the boy; 'I can see right +down into it now.' + +'If Dick had lived, Laura, do you think that you and he--?' + +With shining eyes, 'I think--if he had wanted it very much.' + +'I expect he would, my dear.' + +There is an odd candour about Dick's contribution. 'I think so, too, but +I never was quite sure.' They are a very young pair. + +Laura is trembling a little. 'Mr. Don--' + +'Yes, Laura?' + +'I think there is something wicked about me. I sometimes feel quite +light-hearted--though Dick has gone.' + +'Perhaps, nowadays, the fruit trees have that sort of shame when they +blossom, Laura; but they can't help doing it. I hope you are yet to be +a happy woman, a happy wife.' + +'It seems so heartless to Dick.' + +'Not a bit; it's what I should like,' Dick says. + +'It's what he would like, Laura.' + +'Do you remember, Laura,' Dick goes on, 'I kissed you once. It was under +a lilac in the Loudon Woods. I knew at the time that you were angry, and +I should have apologised. I'm sorry, Laura.' + +His sweetheart has risen, tasting something bitter-sweet. 'What is it, +Laura?' Mr. Don asks. + +'Somehow--I don't know how--but, for a moment I seemed to feel the smell +of lilac. Dick was once--nice to me under a lilac. Oh, Mr. Don--' She +goes to him like a child, and he soothes and pets her. + +'There, there! That will be all right, quite all right.' He takes her to +the door. 'Good-night, my dear.' + +'Good-night, Mr. Don.' + +'Good-bye, Laura,' says the third voice. + +Mr. Don is looking so glum that the moment they are alone Dick has to +cry warningly, 'Face!' He is probably looking glum himself, for he says +candidly, 'Pretty awful things, these partings. Father, don't feel hurt +though I dodge the good-bye business when I leave you.' + +'That's so like you, Dick!' + +'I'll have to go soon.' + +'Oh, Dick! Can't you--' + +'There's something I want not to miss, you see.' + +'I'm glad of that.' + +'I'm not going yet; but I mean that when I do I'll just slip away.' + +'What I am afraid of is that you won't come back.' + +'I will--honest Injun--if you keep bright.' + +'But, if I do that, Dick, you might think I wasn't missing you so much.' + +'We know better than that. You see, if you're bright, I'll get a good +mark for it.' + +'I'll be bright.' + +Dick pops him into the settle again. + +'Remember your pipe.' + +'Yes, Dick.' + +'Do you still go to that swimming-bath, and do your dumb-bell +exercises?' + +'No, I--' + +'You must.' + +'All right, Dick, I will.' + +'And I want you to be smarter next time. Your hair's awful.' + +'I'll get it cut, Dick.' + +'Are you hard at work over your picture of those three Graces?' + +'No. I put that away. I'm just doing little things nowadays. I can't--' + +'Look here, sonny, you've got to go on with it. You don't seem to know +how interested I am in your future.' + +'Very well, Dick; I'll bring it out again.' + +Mr. Don hesitates. + +'Dick, there is something I have wanted to ask you all the time.' + +Some fear seems to come into the boy's voice. 'Don't ask it, father.' + +'I shall go on worrying about it if I don't--but just as you like, +Dick.' + +'Go ahead, father; ask me.' + +'It is this. Would you rather be--here--than there?' + +After a pause the boy says, 'Not always.' + +'What is the great difference, Dick?' + +'Well, down here one knows he has risks to run.' + +'And you miss that?' + +'It must be rather jolly.' + +'Did you know that was what I was to ask?' + +'Yes. But, remember, I'm young at it.' + +'And your gaiety, Dick; is it all real, or only put on to help me?' + +'It's--it's half and half, father.' + +'Face!' he cries, next moment. Then cajolingly, 'Father, K.C.M.G.!' + +'When will you come again, Dick?' + +'There's no saying. One can't always get through. They keep changing the +password.' His voice grows troubled. 'It's awfully difficult to get the +password.' + +'What was it to-night?' + +'Love Bade Me Welcome.' + +Mr. Don rises; he stares at his son. + +'How did you get it, Dick?' + +'I'm not sure.' Dick seems to go closer to his father, as if for +protection. 'There are lots of things I don't understand yet.' + +'There are things I don't understand either. Dick, did you ever try to +send messages--from there---to us?' + +'Me? No.' + +'Or get messages from us?' + +'No. How could we?' + +'Is there anything in it?' + +Mr. Don is not speaking to his son. He goes to the little table and +looks long at it. Has it taken on a sinister aspect? Those chairs, are +they guarding a secret? + +'Dick, this table--your mother--how could they----' + +He turns, to find that Dick has gone. + +'Dick! My boy! Dick!' + +The well-remembered voice leaves a message behind it. + +'Be bright, father.' + +Mr. Don sits down by the fire to think it all out. + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Echoes of the War, by J. M. 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Barrie + +Release Date: January, 2006 [EBook #9617] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on October 10, 2003] +[Date last updated: December 13, 2004] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ECHOES OF THE WAR *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, David Garcia +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + +ECHOES OF THE WAR + +BY J. M. BARRIE + + + +1918 + + + +CONTENTS + + + THE OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS + + THE NEW WORD + + BARBARA'S WEDDING + + A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE + + + + + + +THE OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS + + +Three nice old ladies and a criminal, who is even nicer, are discussing +the war over a cup of tea. The criminal, who is the hostess, calls it a +dish of tea, which shows that she comes from Caledonia; but that is not +her crime. + +They are all London charwomen, but three of them, including the hostess, +are what are called professionally 'charwomen _and_' or simply +'ands.' An 'and' is also a caretaker when required; her name is entered +as such in ink in a registry book, financial transactions take place +across a counter between her and the registrar, and altogether she is of +a very different social status from one who, like Mrs. Haggerty, is a +charwoman but nothing else. Mrs. Haggerty, though present, is not at the +party by invitation; having seen Mrs. Dowey buying the winkles, she +followed her downstairs, so has shuffled into the play and sat down in +it against our wish. We would remove her by force, or at least print her +name in small letters, were it not that she takes offence very readily +and says that nobody respects her. So, as you have slipped in, you sit +there, Mrs. Haggerty; but keep quiet. + +There is nothing doing at present in the caretaking way for Mrs. Dowey, +our hostess; but this does not damp her, caretaking being only to such +as she an extra financially and a halo socially. If she had the honour +of being served with an income-tax paper she would probably fill in one +of the nasty little compartments with the words, 'Trade--charring; +Profession (if any)--caretaking.' This home of hers (from which, to look +after your house, she makes occasionally temporary departures in great +style, escorting a barrow) is in one of those what-care-I streets that +you discover only when you have lost your way; on discovering them, your +duty is to report them to the authorities, who immediately add them to +the map of London. That is why we are now reporting Friday Street. We +shall call it, in the rough sketch drawn for to-morrow's press, 'Street +in which the criminal resided'; and you will find Mrs. Dowey's home +therein marked with a X. + +Her abode really consists of one room, but she maintains that there are +two; so, rather than argue, let us say that there are two. The other one +has no window, and she could not swish her old skirts in it without +knocking something over; its grandest display is of tin pans and +crockery on top of a dresser which has a lid to it; you have but to whip +off the utensils and raise the lid, and, behold, a bath with hot and +cold. Mrs. Dowey is very proud of this possession, and when she shows it +off, as she does perhaps too frequently, she first signs to you with +closed fist (funny old thing that she is) to approach softly. She then +tiptoes to the dresser and pops off the lid, as if to take the bath +unawares. Then she sucks her lips, and is modest if you have the grace +to do the exclamations. + +In the real room is a bed, though that is putting the matter too +briefly. The fair way to begin, if you love Mrs. Dowey, is to say to her +that it is a pity she has no bed. If she is in her best form she will +chuckle, and agree that the want of a bed tries her sore; she will keep +you on the hooks, so to speak, as long as she can; and then, with that +mouse-like movement again, she will suddenly spring the bed on you. You +thought it was a wardrobe, but she brings it down from the wall; and lo, +a bed. There is nothing else in her abode (which we now see to contain +four rooms--kitchen, pantry, bedroom, and bathroom) that is absolutely +a surprise; but it is full of 'bits,' every one of which has been paid +ready money for, and gloated over and tended until it has become part of +its owner. Genuine Doweys, the dealers might call them, though there is +probably nothing in the place except the bed that would fetch +half-a-crown. + +Her home is in the basement, so that the view is restricted to the lower +half of persons passing overhead beyond the area stairs. Here at the +window Mrs. Dowey sometimes sits of a summer evening gazing, not +sentimentally at a flower-pot which contains one poor bulb, nor +yearningly at some tiny speck of sky, but with unholy relish at holes in +stockings, and the like, which are revealed to her from her point of +vantage. You, gentle reader, may flaunt by, thinking that your finery +awes the street, but Mrs. Dowey can tell (and does) that your soles are +in need of neat repair. + +Also, lower parts being as expressive as the face to those whose view is +thus limited, she could swear to scores of the passers-by in a court of +law. + +These four lively old codgers are having a good time at the tea-table, +and wit is flowing free. As you can see by their everyday garments, and +by their pails and mops (which are having a little tea-party by +themselves in the corner), it is not a gathering by invitations +stretching away into yesterday, it is a purely informal affair; so much +more attractive, don't you think? than banquets elaborately prearranged. +You know how they come about, especially in war-time. Very likely Mrs. +Dowey met Mrs. Twymley and Mrs. Mickleham quite casually in the street, +and meant to do no more than the time of day; then, naturally enough, +the word camouflage was mentioned, and they got heated, but in the end +Mrs. Twymley apologised; then, in the odd way in which one thing leads +to another, the winkle man appeared, and Mrs. Dowey remembered that she +had that pot of jam and that Mrs. Mickleham had stood treat last time; +and soon they were all three descending the area stairs, followed +cringingly by the Haggerty Woman. + +They have been extremely merry, and never were four hard-worked old +ladies who deserved it better. All a woman can do in war-time they do +daily and cheerfully. Just as their men-folk are doing it at the Front; +and now, with the mops and pails laid aside, they sprawl gracefully at +ease. There is no intention on their part to consider peace terms until +a decisive victory has been gained in the field (Sarah Ann Dowey), until +the Kaiser is put to the right-about (Emma Mickleham), and singing very +small (Amelia Twymley). + +At this tea-party the lady who is to play the part of Mrs. Dowey is sure +to want to suggest that our heroine has a secret sorrow, namely, the +crime; but you should see us knocking that idea out of her head! Mrs. +Dowey knows she is a criminal, but, unlike the actress, she does not +know that she is about to be found out; and she is, to put it bluntly in +her own Scotch way, the merriest of the whole clanjamfry. She presses +more tea on her guests, but they wave her away from them in the pretty +manner of ladies who know that they have already had more than enough. + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Just one more winkle, Mrs. Mickleham?' Indeed there is only +one more. + +But Mrs. Mickleham indicates politely that if she took this one it would +have to swim for it. (The Haggerty Woman takes it long afterwards when +she thinks, erroneously, that no one is looking.) + +Mrs. Twymley is sulking. Evidently some one has contradicted her. +Probably the Haggerty Woman. + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I say it is so.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I say it may be so.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I suppose I ought to know: me that has a son a prisoner +in Germany.' She has so obviously scored that all good feeling seems to +call upon her to end here. But she continues rather shabbily, 'Being the +only lady present that has that proud misfortune.' The others are stung. + +MRS. DOWEY. 'My son is fighting in France.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Mine is wounded in two places.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Mine is at Salonaiky.' + +The absurd pronunciation of this uneducated person moves the others to +mirth. + +MRS. DOWEY. 'You'll excuse us, Mrs. Haggerty, but the correct +pronunciation is Salonikky.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, to cover her confusion. 'I don't think.' She feels +that even this does not prove her case. 'And I speak as one that has War +Savings Certificates.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'We all have them.' + +The Haggerty Woman whimpers, and the other guests regard her with +unfeeling disdain. + +MRS. DOWEY, to restore cheerfulness, 'Oh, it's a terrible war.' + +ALL, brightening, 'It is. You may say so.' + +MRS. DOWEY, encouraged, 'What I say is, the men is splendid, but I'm +none so easy about the staff. That's your weak point, Mrs. Mickleham.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM, on the defence, but determined to reveal nothing that +might be of use to the enemy, 'You may take it from me, the staff's all +right.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'And very relieved I am to hear you say it.' + +It is here that the Haggerty Woman has the remaining winkle. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'You don't understand properly about trench warfare. If +I had a map----' + +MRS. DOWEY, wetting her finger to draw lines on the table. 'That's the +river Sommy. Now, if we had barrages here----' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Very soon you would be enfilided. Where's your supports, +my lady?' Mrs. Dowey is damped. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'What none of you grasps is that this is a artillery +war----' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, strengthened by the winkle, 'I say that the word is +Salonaiky.' + +The others purse their lips. + +MRS. TWYMLEY, with terrible meaning, 'We'll change the subject. Have you +seen this week's _Fashion Chat_?' She has evidently seen and +devoured it herself, and even licked up the crumbs. 'The gabardine with +accordion pleats has quite gone out.' + +MRS. DOWEY, her old face sparkling. 'My sakes! You tell me?' + +MRS. TWYMLEY, with the touch of haughtiness that comes of great topics, +'The plain smock has come in again, with silk lacing, giving that +charming chic effect.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Oho!' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I must say I was always partial to the straight +line'--thoughtfully regarding the want of line in Mrs. Twymley's +person--'though trying to them as is of too friendly a figure.' + +It is here that the Haggerty Woman's fingers close unostentatiously upon +a piece of sugar. + +MRS. TWYMLEY, sailing into the Empyrean, 'Lady Dolly Kanister was seen +conversing across the railings in a dainty _de jou_.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Fine would I have liked to see her.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'She is equally popular as maid, wife, and +munition-worker. Her two children is inset. Lady Pops Babington was +married in a tight tulle.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'What was her going-away dress?' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'A champagny cream velvet with dreamy corsage. She's +married to Colonel the Hon. Chingford--"Snubs," they called him at +Eton.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, having disposed of the sugar, 'Very likely he'll be +sent to Salonaiky.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Wherever he is sent, she'll have the same tremors as +the rest of us. She'll be as keen to get the letters wrote with pencils +as you or me.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Them pencil letters!' + +MRS. DOWEY, in her sweet Scotch voice, timidly, afraid she may be going +too far, 'And women in enemy lands gets those pencil letters and then +stop getting them, the same as ourselves. Let's occasionally think of +that.' + +She has gone too far. Chairs are pushed back. + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I ask you!' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'That's hardly language, Mrs. Dowey.' + +MRS. DOWEY, scared, 'Kindly excuse. I swear to death I'm none of your +pacifists.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Freely granted.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I've heard of females that have no male relations, and so +they have no man-party at the wars. I've heard of them, but I don't mix +with them.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'What can the likes of us have to say to them? It's not +their war.' + +MRS. DOWEY, wistfully, 'They are to be pitied.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'But the place for them, Mrs. Dowey, is within doors +with the blinds down.' + +MRS. DOWEY, hurriedly, 'That's the place for them.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I saw one of them to-day buying a flag. I thought it +was very impudent of her.' + +MRS. DOWEY, meekly, 'So it was.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM, trying to look modest with indifferent success, 'I had +a letter from my son, Percy, yesterday.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Alfred sent me his photo.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Letters from Salonaiky is less common.' + +Three bosoms heave, but not, alas, Mrs. Dowey's. Nevertheless she +doggedly knits her lips. + +MRS. DOWEY, the criminal, 'Kenneth writes to me every week.' There are +exclamations. The dauntless old thing holds aloft a packet of letters. +'Look at this. All his.' + +The Haggerty Woman whimpers. + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Alfred has little time for writing, being a bombardier.' + +MRS. DOWEY, relentlessly, 'Do your letters begin "Dear mother"?' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Generally.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Invariable.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Every time.' + +MRS. DOWEY, delivering the knock-out blow, 'Kenneth's begin "Dearest +mother.'" + +No one can think of the right reply. + +MRS. TWYMLEY, doing her best, 'A short man, I should say, judging by +yourself.' + +She ought to have left it alone. + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Six feet two-and a half.' + +The gloom deepens. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM, against her better judgment, 'A kilty, did you tell me?' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Most certainly. He's in the famous Black Watch.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, producing her handkerchief, 'The Surrey Rifles is +the famousest.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'There you and the King disagrees, Mrs. Haggerty. His +choice is the Buffs, same as my Percy's.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY, magnanimously, 'Give me the R.H.A. and you can keep all +the rest.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'I'm sure I have nothing to say against the Surreys and the +R.H.A. and the Buffs; but they are just breeches regiments, I +understand.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'We can't all be kilties.' + +MRS. DOWEY, crushingly, 'That's very true.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. It is foolish of her, but she can't help saying it. 'Has +your Kenneth great hairy legs?' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Tremendous.' + +The wicked woman: but let us also say 'Poor Sarah Ann Dowey.' For at +this moment, enter Nemesis. In other words, the less important part of +a clergyman appears upon the stair. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'It's the reverent gent!' + +MRS. DOWEY, little knowing what he is bringing her, 'I see he has had +his boots heeled.' + +It may be said of Mr. Willings that his happy smile always walks in +front of him. This smile makes music of his life, it means that once +again he has been chosen, in his opinion, as the central figure in +romance. No one can well have led a more drab existence, but he will +never know it; he will always think of himself, humbly though elatedly, +as the chosen of the gods. Of him must it have been originally written +that adventures are for the adventurous. He meets them at every street +corner. For instance, he assists an old lady off a bus, and asks her if +he can be of any further help. She tells him that she wants to know the +way to Maddox the butcher's. Then comes the kind, triumphant smile; it +always comes first, followed by its explanation, 'I was there +yesterday!' This is the merest sample of the adventures that keep Mr. +Willings up to the mark. + +Since the war broke out, his zest for life has become almost terrible. +He can scarcely lift a newspaper and read of a hero without remembering +that he knows some one of the name. The Soldiers' Rest he is connected +with was once a china emporium, and (mark my words), he had bought his +tea service at it. Such is life when you are in the thick of it. +Sometimes he feels that he is part of a gigantic spy drama. In the +course of his extraordinary comings and goings he meets with Great +Personages, of course, and is the confidential recipient of secret news. +Before imparting the news he does not, as you might expect, first smile +expansively; on the contrary, there comes over his face an awful +solemnity, which, however, means the same thing. When divulging the +names of the personages, he first looks around to make sure that no +suspicious character is about, and then, lowering his voice, tells you, +'I had that from Mr. Farthing himself--he is the secretary of the +Bethnal Green Branch,--h'sh!' + +There is a commotion about finding a worthy chair for the reverent, and +there is also some furtive pulling down of sleeves, but he stands +surveying the ladies through his triumphant smile. This amazing man +knows that he is about to score again. + +MR. WILLINGS, waving aside the chairs, 'I thank you. But not at all. +Friends, I have news.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'News?' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'From the Front?' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'My Alfred, sir?' + +They are all grown suddenly anxious--all except the hostess, who knows +that there can never be any news from the Front for her. + +MR. WILLINGS. 'I tell you at once that all is well. The news is for Mrs. +Dowey.' + +She stares. + +MRS. DOWEY. 'News for me?' + +MR. WILLINGS. 'Your son, Mrs. Dowey--he has got five days' leave.' She +shakes her head slightly, or perhaps it only trembles a little on its +stem. 'Now, now, good news doesn't kill.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'We're glad, Mrs. Dowey.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'You're sure?' + +MR. WILLINGS. 'Quite sure. He has arrived.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'He is in London?' + +MR. WILLINGS. 'He is. I have spoken to him.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'You lucky woman.' + +They might see that she is not looking lucky, but experience has told +them how differently these things take people. + +MR. WILLINGS, marvelling more and more as he unfolds his tale, 'Ladies, +it is quite a romance, I was in the----' he looks around cautiously, but +he knows that they are all to be trusted--'in the Church Army quarters +in Central Street, trying to get on the track of one or two of our +missing men. Suddenly my eyes--I can't account for it--but suddenly my +eyes alighted on a Highlander seated rather drearily on a bench, with +his kit at his feet.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'A big man?' + +MR. WILLINGS. 'A great brawny fellow.' The Haggerty Woman groans. '"My +friend," I said at once, "welcome back to Blighty." I make a point of +calling it Blighty. "I wonder," I said, "if there is anything I can do +for you?" He shook his head. "What regiment?" I asked.' Here Mr. +Willings very properly lowers his voice to a whisper. '"Black Watch, 5th +Battalion," he said. "Name?" I asked. "Dowey," he said.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I declare. I do declare.' + +MR. WILLINGS, showing how the thing was done, with the help of a chair, +'I put my hand on his shoulder as it might be thus. "Kenneth Dowey," I +said, "I know your mother."' + +MRS. DOWEY, wetting her lips, 'What did he say to that?' + +MR. WILLINGS. 'He was incredulous. Indeed, he seemed to think I was +balmy. But I offered to bring him straight to you. I told him how much +you had talked to me about him.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Bring him here!' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I wonder he needed to be brought.' + +MR. WILLINGS. 'He had just arrived, and was bewildered by the great +city. He listened to me in the taciturn Scotch way, and then he gave +a curious laugh.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Laugh?' + +MR. WILLINGS, whose wild life has brought him into contact with the +strangest people, 'The Scotch, Mrs. Twymley, express their emotions +differently from us. With them tears signify a rollicking mood, while +merriment denotes that they are plunged in gloom. When I had finished he +said at once, "Let us go and see the old lady."' + +MRS. DOWEY, backing, which is the first movement she has made since he +began his tale, 'Is he--coming?' + +MR. WILLINGS, gloriously, 'He has come. He is up there. I told him I +thought I had better break the joyful news to you.' + +Three women rush to the window. Mrs. Dowey looks at her pantry door, but +perhaps she remembers that it does not lock on the inside. She stands +rigid, though her face has gone very grey. + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Kindly get them to go away.' + +MR. WILLINGS. 'Ladies, I think this happy occasion scarcely requires +you.' He is not the man to ask of woman a sacrifice that he is not +prepared to make himself. 'I also am going instantly.' They all survey +Mrs. Dowey, and understand--or think they understand. + +MRS. TWYMLEY, pail and mop in hand, 'I would thank none for their +company if my Alfred was at the door.' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM, similarly burdened, 'The same from me. Shall I send him +down, Mrs. Dowey?' The old lady does not hear her. She is listening, +terrified, for a step on the stairs. 'Look at the poor, joyous thing, +sir. She has his letters in her hand.' + +The three women go. Mr. Willings puts a kind hand on Mrs. Dowey's +shoulder. He thinks he so thoroughly understands the situation. + +MR. WILLINGS. 'A good son, Mrs. Dowey, to have written to you so often.' + +Our old criminal quakes, but she grips the letters more tightly. Private +Dowey descends. + +'Dowey, my friend, there she is, waiting for you, with your letters in +her hand.' + +DOWEY, grimly, 'That's great.' + +Mr. Willings ascends the stair without one backward glance, like the +good gentleman he is; and the Doweys are left together, with nearly the +whole room between them. He is a great rough chunk of Scotland, howked +out of her not so much neatly as liberally; and in his Black Watch +uniform, all caked with mud, his kit and nearly all his worldly +possessions on his back, he is an apparition scarcely less fearsome (but +so much less ragged) than those ancestors of his who trotted with Prince +Charlie to Derby. He stands silent, scowling at the old lady, daring her +to raise her head; and she would like very much to do it, for she longs +to have a first glimpse of her son. When he does speak, it is to jeer at +her. + +'Do you recognise your loving son, missis?' ('Oh, the fine Scotch tang +of him,' she thinks.) 'I'm pleased I wrote so often.' ('Oh, but he's +_raized_,' she thinks.) He strides towards her, and seizes the +letters roughly, 'Let's see them.' + +There is a string round the package, and he unties it, and examines the +letters at his leisure with much curiosity. The envelopes are in order, +all addressed in pencil to Mrs. Dowey, with the proud words 'Opened by +Censor' on them. But the letter paper inside contains not a word of +writing. + +'Nothing but blank paper! Is this your writing in pencil on the +envelope?' She nods, and he gives the matter further consideration. + +'The covey told me you were a charwoman; so I suppose you picked the +envelopes out of waste-paper baskets, or such like, and then changed the +addresses?' She nods again; still she dare not look up, but she is +admiring his legs. When, however, he would cast the letters into the +fire, she flames up with sudden spirit. She clutches them. + +'Don't you burn them letters, mister.' + +'They're not real letters.' + +'They're all I have.' + +He returns to irony. 'I thought you had a son?' + +'I never had a man nor a son nor anything. I just call myself Missis to +give me a standing.' + +'Well, it's past my seeing through.' + +He turns to look for some explanation from the walls. She gets a peep at +him at last. Oh, what a grandly set-up man! Oh, the stride of him. Oh, +the noble rage of him. Oh, Samson had been like this before that woman +took him in hand. + +He whirls round on her. 'What made you do it?' + +'It was everybody's war, mister, except mine.' She beats her arms. +'I wanted it to be my war too.' + +'You'll need to be plainer. And yet I'm d----d if I care to hear you, +you lying old trickster.' + +The words are merely what were to be expected, and so are endurable; but +he has moved towards the door. + +'You're not going already, mister?' + +'Yes, I just came to give you an ugly piece of my mind.' + +She holds out her arms longingly. 'You haven't gave it to me yet.' + +'You have a cheek!' + +She gives further proof of it. 'You wouldn't drink some tea?' + +'Me! I tell you I came here for the one purpose of blazing away at you.' + +It is such a roaring negative that it blows her into a chair. But she is +up again in a moment, is this spirited old lady. 'You could drink the +tea while you was blazing away. There's winkles.' + +'Is there?' He turns interestedly towards the table, but his proud Scots +character checks him, which is just as well, for what she should have +said was that there had been winkles. 'Not me. You're just a common +rogue.' He seats himself far from the table. 'Now, then, out with it. +Sit down!' She sits meekly; there is nothing she would not do for him. +'As you char, I suppose you are on your feet all day.' + +'I'm more on my knees.' + +'That's where you should be to me.' + +'Oh, mister, I'm willing.' + +'Stop it. Go on, you accomplished liar.' + +'It's true that my name is Dowey.' + +'It's enough to make me change mine.' + +'I've been charring and charring and charring as far back as I mind. +I've been in London this twenty years.' + +'We'll skip your early days. I have an appointment.' + +'And then when I was old the war broke out.' + +'How could it affect you?' + +'Oh, mister, that's the thing. It didn't affect me. It affected +everybody but me. The neighbours looked down on me. Even the posters, on +the walls, of the woman saying, "Go, my boy," leered at me. I sometimes +cried by myself in the dark. You won't have a cup of tea?' + +'No.' + +'Sudden like the idea came to me to pretend I had a son.' + +'You depraved old limmer! But what in the name of Old Nick made you +choose me out of the whole British Army?' + +Mrs. Dowey giggles. There is little doubt that in her youth she was an +accomplished flirt. 'Maybe, mister, it was because I liked you best.' + +'Now, now, woman.' + +'I read one day in the papers, "In which, he was assisted by Private K. +Dowey, 5th Battalion, Black Watch."' + +Private K. Dowey is flattered, 'Did you, now! Well, I expect that's the +only time I was ever in the papers.' + +Mrs. Dowey tries it on again, 'I didn't choose you for that alone. I +read a history of the Black Watch first, to make sure it was the best +regiment in the world.' + +'Anybody could have told you that.' He is moving about now in better +humour, and, meeting the loaf in his stride, he cuts a slice from it. He +is hardly aware of this, but Mrs. Dowey knows. 'I like the Scotch voice +of you, woman. It drummles on like a hill burn.' + +'Prosen Water runs by where I was born.' Flirting again, 'May be it +teached me to speak, mister.' + +'Canny, woman, canny.' + +'I read about the Black Watch's ghostly piper that plays proudly when +the men of the Black Watch do well, and prouder when they fall.' + +'There's some foolish story of that kind.' He has another careless slice +off the loaf. 'But you couldn't have been living here at that time or +they would have guessed. I suppose you flitted?' + +'Yes, it cost me eleven and sixpence.' + +'How did you guess the _K_ in my name stood for Kenneth?' + +'Does it?' + +'Umpha.' + +'An angel whispered it to me in my sleep.' + +'Well, that's the only angel in the whole black business.' He chuckles. + +'You little thought I would turn up!' Wheeling suddenly on her. 'Or did +you?' + +'I was beginning to weary for a sight of you, Kenneth.' + +'What word was that?' + +'Mister.' + +He helps himself to butter, and she holds out the jam pot to him, but he +haughtily rejects it. Do you think she gives in now? Not a bit of it. + +He returns to sarcasm, 'I hope you're pleased with me now you see me.' + +'I'm very pleased. Does your folk live in Scotland?' + +'Glasgow.' + +'Both living?' + +'Ay.' + +'Is your mother terrible proud of you?' + +'Naturally.' + +'You'll be going to them?' + +'After I've had a skite in London first.' + +The old lady sniffs, 'So she is in London!' + +'Who?' + +'Your young lady.' + +'Are you jealyous?' + +'Not me.' + +'You needna be. She's a young thing.' + +'You surprises me. A beauty, no doubt?' + +'You may be sure.' He tries the jam. 'She's a titled person. She is +equally popular as maid, wife and munition-worker.' + +Mrs. Dowey remembers Lady Dolly Kanister, so familiar to readers of +fashionable gossip, and a very leery expression indeed comes into her +face. + +'Tell me more about her, man.' + +'She has sent me a lot of things, especially cakes, and a worsted +waistcoat, with a loving message on the enclosed card.' + +The old lady is now in a quiver of excitement. She loses control of +her arms, which jump excitedly this way and that. + +'You'll try one of my cakes, mister?' + +'Not me.' + +'They're of my own making.' + +'No, I thank you.' + +But with a funny little run she is in the pantry and back again. She +planks down a cake before him, at sight of which he gapes. + +'What's the matter? Tell me, oh, tell me, mister.' + +'That's exactly the kind of cake that her ladyship sends me.' + +Mrs. Dowey is now a very glorious old character indeed. + +'Is the waistcoat right, mister? I hope the Black Watch colours pleased +you.' + +'Wha----t! Was it you?' + +'I daredna give my own name, you see, and I was always reading hers in +the papers.' + +The badgered man looms over her, terrible for the last time. + +'Woman, is there no getting rid of you!' + +'Are you angry?' + +He sits down with a groan. + +'Oh, hell! Give me some tea.' + +She rushes about preparing a meal for him, every bit of her wanting +to cry out to every other bit, 'Oh, glory, glory, glory!' For a moment +she hovers behind his chair. 'Kenneth'! she murmurs. 'What?' he asks, +no longer aware that she is taking a liberty. 'Nothing,' she says, +'just Kenneth,' and is off gleefully for the tea-caddy. But when his +tea is poured out, and he has drunk a saucerful, the instinct of +self-preservation returns to him between two bites. + +'Don't you be thinking, missis, for one minute that you have got me.' + +'No, no.' + +On that understanding he unbends. + +'I have a theatre to-night, followed by a randy-dandy.' + +'Oho! Kenneth, this is a queer first meeting!' + +'It is, woman, oh, it is,' guardedly, 'and it's also a last meeting.' + +'Yes, yes.' + +'So here's to you--you old mop and pail. _Ave atque vale_.' + +'What's that?' + +'That means Hail and Farewell.' + +'Are you a scholar?' + +'Being Scotch, there's almost nothing I don't know.' + +'What was you to trade?' + +'Carter, glazier, orraman, any rough jobs.' + +'You're a proper man to look at.' + +'I'm generally admired.' + +'She's an enviable woman.' + +'Who?' + +'Your mother.' + +'Eh? Oh, that was just protecting myself from you. I have neither father +nor mother nor wife nor grandmama.' Bitterly, 'This party never even +knew who his proud parents were.' + +'Is that'--gleaming--'is that true?' + +'It's gospel.' + +'Heaven be praised!' + +'Eh? None of that! I was a fool to tell you. But don't think you can +take advantage of it. Pass the cake.' + +'I daresay it's true we'll never meet again, Kenneth, but--but if we do, +I wonder where it will be?' + +'Not in this world.' + +'There's no telling'--leering ingratiatingly--'It might be at Berlin.' + +'Tod, if I ever get to Berlin, I believe I'll find you there waiting +for me!' + +'With a cup of tea for you in my hand.' + +'Yes, and'--heartily--'very good tea too.' + +He has partaken heavily, he is now in high good humour. + +'Kenneth, we could come back by Paris!' + +'All the ladies,' slapping his knees, 'likes to go to Paris.' + +'Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, if just once before I die I could be fitted for +a Paris gown with dreamy corsage!' + +'You're all alike, old covey. We have a song about it.' He sings: + + 'Mrs. Gill is very ill, + Nothing can improve her + But to see the Tuileries + And waddle through the Louvre.' + +No song ever had a greater success. Mrs. Dowey is doubled up with mirth. +When she comes to, when they both come to, for there are a pair of them, +she cries: + +'You must learn me that,' and off she goes in song also: + + 'Mrs. Dowey's very ill, + Nothing can improve her.' + + +'Stop!' cries clever Kenneth, and finishes the verse: + + 'But dressed up in a Paris gown + To waddle through the Louvre.' + + +They fling back their heads, she points at him, he points at her. She +says ecstatically: + +'Hairy legs!' + +A mad remark, which brings him to his senses; he remembers who and what +she is. + +'Mind your manners!' Rising, 'Well, thank you for my tea. I must be +stepping.' + +Poor Mrs. Dowey, he is putting on his kit. + +'Where are you living?' + +He sighs. + +'That's the question. But there's a place called The Hut, where some of +the 2nd Battalion are. They'll take me in. Beggars,' bitterly, 'can't be +choosers.' + +'Beggars?' + +'I've never been here before. If you knew'--a shadow coming over +him--'what it is to be in such a place without a friend. I was crazy +with glee, when I got my leave, at the thought of seeing London at last, +but after wandering its streets for four hours, I would almost have been +glad to be back in the trenches.' + +'If you knew,' he has said, but indeed the old lady knows. + +'That's my quandorum too, Kenneth.' + +He nods sympathetically. + +'I'm sorry for you, you poor old body,' shouldering his kit. 'But I see +no way out for either of us.' + +A cooing voice says, 'Do you not?' + +'Are you at it again!' + +She knows that it must be now or never. She has left her biggest guns +for the end. In her excitement she is rising up and down on her toes. + +'Kenneth, I've heard that the thing a man on leave longs for more than +anything else is a bed with sheets, and a bath.' + +'You never heard anything truer.' + +'Go into that pantry, Kenneth Dowey, and lift the dresser-top, and tell +me what you see.' + +He goes. There is an awful stillness. He returns, impressed. + +'It's a kind of a bath!' + +'You could do yourself there pretty, half at a time.' + +'Me?' + +'There's a woman through the wall that would be very willing to give me +a shakedown till your leave is up.' + +He snorts. + +'Oh, is there!' + +She has not got him yet, but there is still one more gun. + +'Kenneth, look!' + +With these simple words she lets down the bed. She says no more; an +effect like this would be spoilt by language. Fortunately he is not +made of stone. He thrills. + +'My word! That's the dodge we need in the trenches.' + +'That's your bed, Kenneth.' + +'Mine?' He grins at her. 'You queer old divert. What can make you so +keen to be burdened by a lump like me?' + +'He! he! he! he!' + +'I tell you, I'm the commonest kind of man.' + +'I'm just the commonest kind of old wifie myself.' + +'I've been a kick-about all my life, and I'm no great shakes at the +war.' + +'Yes, you are. How many Germans have you killed?' + +'Just two for certain, and there was no glory in it. It was just because +they wanted my shirt.' + +'Your shirt?' + +'Well, they said it was their shirt.' + +'Have you took prisoners?' + +'I once took half a dozen, but that was a poor affair too.' + +'How could one man take half a dozen?' + +'Just in the usual way. I surrounded them.' + +'Kenneth, you're just my ideal.' + +'You're easily pleased.' + +He turns again to the bed, 'Let's see how the thing works.' He kneads +the mattress with his fist, and the result is so satisfactory that he +puts down his kit. + +'Old lady, if you really want me, I'll bide.' + +'Oh! oh! oh! oh!' + +Her joy is so demonstrative that he has to drop a word of warning. + +'But, mind you, I don't accept you as a relation. For your personal +glory, you can go on pretending to the neighbours; but the best I can +say for you is that you're on your probation. I'm a cautious character, +and we must see how you'll turn out.' + +'Yes, Kenneth.' + +'And now, I think, for that bath. My theatre begins at six-thirty. A +cove I met on a 'bus is going with me.' + +She is a little alarmed. + +'You're sure you'll come back?' + +'Yes, yes,' handsomely, 'I leave my kit in pledge.' + +'You won't liquor up too freely, Kenneth?' + +'You're the first,' chuckling, 'to care whether I do or not.' Nothing +she has said has pleased the lonely man so much as this. 'I promise. +Tod, I'm beginning to look forward to being wakened in the morning by +hearing you cry, "Get up, you lazy swine." I've kind of envied men that +had womenfolk with the right to say that.' + +He is passing to the bathroom when a diverting notion strikes him. + +'What is it, Kenneth?' + +'The theatre. It would be showier if I took a lady.' + +Mrs. Dowey feels a thumping at her breast. + +'Kenneth, tell me this instant what you mean. Don't keep me on the +jumps.' + +He turns her round. + +'No, It couldn't be done.' + +'Was it me you were thinking of?' + +'Just for the moment,' regretfully, 'but you have no style.' + +She catches hold of him by the sleeve. + +'Not in this, of course. But, oh, Kenneth, if you saw me in my merino! +It's laced up the back in the very latest.' + +'Hum,' doubtfully; 'but let's see it.' + +It is produced from a drawer, to which the old lady runs with almost +indecent haste. The connoisseur examines it critically. + +'Looks none so bad. Have you a bit of chiffon for the neck? It's not +bombs nor Kaisers nor Tipperary that men in the trenches think of, it's +chiffon.' + +'I swear I have, Kenneth, And I have a bangle, and a muff, and gloves.' + +'Ay, ay.' He considers. 'Do you think you could give your face less of +a homely look?' + +'I'm sure I could.' + +'Then you can have a try. But, mind you, I promise nothing. All will +depend on the effect.' + +He goes into the pantry, and the old lady is left alone. Not alone, for +she is ringed round by entrancing hopes and dreadful fears. They beam on +her and jeer at her, they pull her this way and that; with difficulty +she breaks through them and rushes to her pail, hot water, soap, and +a looking-glass. Our last glimpse of her for this evening shows her +staring (not discontentedly) at her soft old face, licking her palm, +and pressing it to her hair. Her eyes are sparkling. + + * * * * * + +One evening a few days later Mrs. Twymley and Mrs. Mickleham are in Mrs. +Dowey's house, awaiting that lady's return from some fashionable +dissipation. They have undoubtedly been discussing the war, for the +first words we catch are: + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I tell you flat, Amelia, I bows no knee to junkerdom.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Sitting here by the fire, you and me, as one to another, +what do you think will happen after the war? Are we to go back to being +as we were?' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Speaking for myself, Amelia, not me. The war has +wakened me up to a understanding of my own importance that is really +astonishing.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Same here. Instead of being the poor worms the like of +you and me thought we was, we turns out to be visible departments of +a great and haughty empire.' + +They are well under weigh, and with a little luck we might now hear +their views on various passing problems of the day, such as the neglect +of science in our public schools. But in comes the Haggerty Woman, and +spoils everything. She is attired, like them, in her best, but the +effect of her is that her clothes have gone out for a walk, leaving her +at home. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM, with deep distaste, 'Here's that submarine again.' + +The Haggerty Woman cringes to them, but gets no encouragement. + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'It's a terrible war.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Is that so?' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I wonder what will happen when it ends?' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I have no idea.' + +The intruder produces her handkerchief, but does not use it. After all, +she is in her best. + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Are they not back yet?' + +Perfect ladies must reply to a direct question. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'No,' icily. 'We have been waiting this half hour. They +are at the theatre again.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'You tell me! I just popped in with an insignificant +present for him, as his leave is up.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'The same errand brought us.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'My present is cigarettes.' + +They have no intention of telling her what their presents are, but the +secret leaps from them. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'So is mine.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Mine too.' + +Triumph of the Haggerty Woman. But it is short-lived. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Mine has gold tips.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'So has mine.' + +The Haggerty Woman need not say a word. You have only to look at her to +know that her cigarettes are not gold-tipped. She tries to brazen it +out, which is so often a mistake. + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'What care I? Mine is Exquisytos.' + +No wonder they titter. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Excuse us, Mrs. Haggerty (if that's your name), but the +word is Exquiseetos.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Much obliged' (weeps). + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I think I heard a taxi.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'It will be her third this week.' + +They peer through the blind. They are so excited that rank is forgotten. + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'What is she in?' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'A new astrakhan jacket he gave her, with Venus +sleeves.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Has she sold her gabardine coat?' + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Not her! She has them both at the theatre, warm night +though it is. She's wearing the astrakhan, and carrying the gabardine, +flung careless-like over her arm.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I saw her strutting about with him yesterday, +looking as if she thought the two of them made a procession.' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Hsh!' peeping, 'Strike me dead, if she's not coming +mincing down the stair, hooked on his arm!' + +Indeed it is thus that Mrs. Dowey enters. Perhaps she had seen shadows +lurking on the blind, and at once hooked on to Kenneth to impress the +visitors. She is quite capable of it. + +Now we see what Kenneth saw that afternoon five days ago when he emerged +from the bathroom and found the old trembler awaiting his inspection. +Here are the muff and the gloves and the chiffon, and such a kind old +bonnet that it makes you laugh at once; I don't know how to describe it, +but it is trimmed with a kiss, as bonnets should be when the wearer is +old and frail. We must take the merino for granted until she steps out +of the astrakhan. She is dressed up to the nines, there is no doubt +about it. Yes, but is her face less homely? Above all, has she style? +The answer is in a stout affirmative. Ask Kenneth. He knows. Many a time +he has had to go behind a door to roar hilariously at the old lady. He +has thought of her as a lark to tell his mates about by and by; but for +some reason that he cannot fathom, he knows now that he will never do +that. + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Kenneth,' affecting surprise, 'we have visitors!' + +DOWEY. 'Your servant, ladies.' + +He is no longer mud-caked and dour. A very smart figure is this Private +Dowey, and he winks engagingly at the visitors, like one who knows that +for jolly company you cannot easily beat charwomen. The pleasantries +that he and they have exchanged this week! The sauce he has given them. +The wit of Mrs. Mickleham's retorts. The badinage of Mrs. Twymley. The +neat giggles of the Haggerty Woman. There has been nothing like it since +you took the countess in to dinner. + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'We should apologise. We're not meaning to stay.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'You are very welcome. Just wait'--the ostentation of +this!--'till I get out of my astrakhan--and my muff--and my gloves--and' +(it is the bonnet's turn now) 'my Excelsior.' + +At last we see her in the merino (a triumph). + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'You've given her a glory time, Mr. Dowey.' + +DOWEY. 'It's her that has given it to me, missis.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Hey! hey! hey! hey! He just pampers me,' waggling her +fists. 'The Lord forgive us, but this being the last night, we had a +sit-down supper at a restaurant!' Vehemently: 'I swear by God that we +had champagny wine.' There is a dead stillness, and she knows very well +what it means, she has even prepared for it: 'And to them as doubts my +word--here's the cork.' + +She places the cork, in its lovely gold drapery, upon the table. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I'm sure!' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I would thank you, Mrs. Dowey, not to say a word against +my Alfred.' + +MRS. DOWEY. 'Me!' + +DOWEY. 'Come, come, ladies,' in the masterful way that is so hard for +women to resist; 'if you say another word, I'll kiss the lot of you.' + +There is a moment of pleased confusion. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Really, them sodgers!' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'The kilties is the worst!' + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I'm sure,' heartily, 'we don't grudge you your treats, +Mrs. Dowey; and sorry we are that this is the end.' + +DOWEY. 'Yes, it's the end,' with a troubled look at his old lady; 'I +must be off in ten minutes.' + +The little soul is too gallant to break down in company. She hurries +into the pantry and shuts the door. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Poor thing! But we must run, for you'll be having some +last words to say to her.' + +DOWEY. 'I kept her out long on purpose so as to have less time to say +them in.' + +He more than half wishes that he could make a bolt to a public-house. + +MRS. TWYMLEY. 'It's the best way.' In the important affairs of life +there is not much that any one can teach a charwoman. 'Just a mere +nothing, to wish you well, Mr. Dowey.' + +All three present him with the cigarettes. + +MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'A scraping, as one might say.' + +THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'The heart,' enigmatically, 'is warm though it may +not be gold-tipped.' + +DOWEY. 'You bricks!' + +THE LADIES. 'Good luck, cocky.' + +DOWEY. 'The same to you. And if you see a sodger man up there in a kilt, +he is one that is going back with me. Tell him not to come down, +but--but to give me till the last minute, and then to whistle.' + +It is quite a grave man who is left alone, thinking what to do next. He +tries a horse laugh, but that proves of no help. He says 'Hell!' to +himself, but it is equally ineffective. Then he opens the pantry door +and calls. + +'Old lady.' + +She comes timidly to the door, her hand up as if to ward off a blow. + +'Is it time?' + +An encouraging voice answers her. + +'No, no, not yet. I've left word for Dixon to whistle when go I must.' + +'All is ended.' + +'Now, then, you promised to be gay. We were to help one another.' + +'Yes, Kenneth.' + +'It's bad for me, but it's worse for you.' + +'The men have medals to win, you see.' + +'The women have their medals, too.' He knows she likes him to order her +about, so he tries it again. + +'Come here. No, I'll come to you.' He stands gaping at her wonderingly. +He has no power of words, nor does he quite know what he would like to +say. 'God!' + +'What is it, Kenneth?' + +'You're a woman.' + +'I had near forgot it.' + +He wishes he was at the station with Dixon. Dixon is sure to have a +bottle in his pocket. They will be roaring a song presently. But in +the meantime--there is that son business. Blethers, the whole thing, +of course--or mostly blethers. But it's the way to please her. + +'Have you noticed you have never called me son?' + +'Have I noticed it! I was feared, Kenneth. You said I was on probation.' + +'And so you were. Well, the probation's ended.' He laughs uncomfortably. +'The like of me! But if you want me you can have me.' + +'Kenneth, will I do?' + +'Woman,' artfully gay, 'don't be so forward. Wait till I have proposed.' + +'Propose for a mother?' + +'What for no?' In the grand style, 'Mrs. Dowey, you queer carl, you +spunky tiddy, have I your permission to ask you the most important +question a neglected orphan can ask of an old lady?' + +She bubbles with mirth. Who could help it, the man has such a way with +him. + +'None of your sauce, Kenneth.' + +'For a long time, Mrs. Dowey, you cannot have been unaware of my sonnish +feelings for you.' + +'Wait till I get my mop to you!' + +'And if you're not willing to be my mother, I swear I'll never ask +another.' + +The old divert pulls him down to her and strokes his hair. + +'Was I a well-behaved infant, mother?' + +'Not you, sonny, you were a rampaging rogue.' + +'Was I slow in learning to walk?' + +'The quickest in our street. He! he! he!' She starts up. 'Was that the +whistle?' + +'No, no. See here. In taking me over you have, in a manner of speaking, +joined the Black Watch.' + +'I like to think that, Kenneth.' + +'Then you must behave so that the ghost piper can be proud of you. +'Tion!' She stands bravely at attention. 'That's the style. Now listen, +I've sent in your name as being my nearest of kin, and your allowance +will be coming to you weekly in the usual way.' + +'Hey! hey! hey! Is it wicked, Kenneth?' + +'I'll take the responsibility for it in both worlds. You see, I want you +to be safeguarded in case anything hap--' + +'Kenneth!' + +''Tion! Have no fear. I'll come back, covered with mud and medals. Mind +you have that cup of tea waiting for me.' He is listening for the +whistle. He pulls her on to his knee. + +'Hey! hey! hey! hey!' + +'What fun we'll have writing to one another! Real letters this time!' + +'Yes.' + +'It would be a good plan if you began the first letter as soon as I've +gone.' + +'I will.' + +'I hope Lady Dolly will go on sending me cakes.' + +'You may be sure.' + +He ties his scarf round her neck. + +'You must have been a bonny thing when you were young.' + +'Away with you!' + +'That scarf sets you fine.' + +'Blue was always my colour.' + +The whistle sounds. + +'Old lady, you are what Blighty means to me now.' + +She hides in the pantry again. She is out of sight to us, but she +does something that makes Private Dowey take off his bonnet. Then +he shoulders his equipment and departs. That is he laughing coarsely +with Dixon. + +We have one last glimpse of the old lady--a month or two after Kenneth's +death in action. It would be rosemary to us to see her in her black +dress, of which she is very proud; but let us rather peep at her in the +familiar garments that make a third to her mop and pail. It is early +morning, and she is having a look at her medals before setting off on +the daily round. They are in a drawer, with the scarf covering them, and +on the scarf a piece of lavender. First, the black frock, which she +carries in her arms like a baby. Then her War Savings Certificates, +Kenneth's bonnet, a thin packet of real letters, and the famous +champagne cork. She kisses the letters, but she does not blub over them. +She strokes the dress, and waggles her head over the certificates and +presses the bonnet to her cheeks, and rubs the tinsel of the cork +carefully with her apron. She is a tremulous old 'un; yet she exults, +for she owns all these things, and also the penny flag on her breast. +She puts them away in the drawer, the scarf over them, the lavender on +the scarf. Her air of triumph well becomes her. She lifts the pail and +the mop, and slouches off gamely to the day's toil. + + + + + + +THE NEW WORD + + +Any room nowadays must be the scene, for any father and any son are the +_dramatis personae_. We could pick them up in Mayfair, in Tooting, +on the Veldt, in rectories or in grocers' back parlours, dump them down +on our toy stage and tell them to begin. It is a great gathering to +choose from, but our needs are small. Let the company shake hands, and +all go away but two. + +The two who have remained (it is discovered on inquiry) are Mr. Torrance +and his boy; so let us make use of them. Torrance did not linger in +order to be chosen, he was anxious, like all of them, to be off; but we +recognised him, and sternly signed to him to stay. Not that we knew him +personally, but the fact is, we remembered him (we never forget a face) +as the legal person who reads out the names of the jury before the court +opens, and who brushes aside your reasons for wanting to be let off. It +pleases our humour to tell Mr. Torrance that we cannot let him off. + +He does not look so formidable as when last we saw him, and this is +perhaps owing to our no longer being hunched with others on those +unfeeling benches. It is not because he is without a wig, for we saw +him, on the occasion to which we are so guardedly referring, both in a +wig and out of it; he passed behind a screen without it, and immediately +(as quickly as we write) popped out in it, giving it a finishing touch +rather like the butler's wriggle to his coat as he goes to the door. +There are the two kinds of learned brothers, those who use the screen, +and those who (so far as the jury knows) sleep in their wigs. The latter +are the swells, and include the judges; whom, however, we have seen in +the public thoroughfares without their wigs, a horrible sight that has +doubtless led many an onlooker to crime. + +Mr. Torrance, then, is no great luminary; indeed, when we accompany him +to his house, as we must, in order to set our scene properly, we find +that it is quite a suburban affair, only one servant kept, and her niece +engaged twice a week to crawl about the floors. There is no fire in the +drawing-room, so the family remain on after dinner in the dining-room, +which rather gives them away. There is really no one in the room but +Roger. That is the truth of it, though to the unseeing eye all the +family are there except Roger. They consist of Mr., Mrs., and Miss +Torrance. Mr. Torrance is enjoying his evening paper and a cigar, and +every line of him is insisting stubbornly that nothing unusual is +happening in the house. In the home circle (and now that we think of it, +even in court) he has the reputation of being a somewhat sarcastic +gentleman; he must be dogged, too, otherwise he would have ceased long +ago to be sarcastic to his wife, on whom wit falls like pellets on +sandbags; all the dents they make are dimples. + +Mrs. Torrance is at present exquisitely employed; she is listening to +Roger's step overhead. You, know what a delightful step the boy has. And +what is more remarkable is that Emma is listening to it too, Emma who is +seventeen, and who has been trying to keep Roger in his place ever since +he first compelled her to bowl to him. Things have come to a pass when +a sister so openly admits that she is only number two in the house. + +Remarks well worthy of being recorded fall from these two ladies as they +gaze upward. 'I think--didn't I, Emma?' is the mother's contribution, +while it is Emma who replies in a whisper, 'No, not yet!' + +Mr. Torrance calmly reads, or seems to read, for it is not possible that +there can be anything in the paper as good as this. Indeed, he +occasionally casts a humorous glance at his women-folk. Perhaps he is +trying to steady them. Let us hope he has some such good reason for +breaking in from time to time on their entrancing occupation. + +'Listen to this, dear. It is very important. The paper says, upon +apparently good authority, that love laughs at locksmiths.' + +His wife answers without lowering her eyes. 'Did you speak, John? I am +listening.' + +'Yes, I was telling you that the Hidden Hand has at last been discovered +in a tub in Russell Square.' + +'I hear, John. How thoughtful.' + +'And so they must have been made of margarine, my love.' + +'I shouldn't wonder, John.' + +'Hence the name Petrograd.' + +'Oh, was that the reason?' + +'You will be pleased to hear, Ellen, that the honourable gentleman then +resumed his seat.' + +'That was nice of him.' + +'As I,' good-naturedly, 'now resume mine, having made my usual +impression.' + +'Yes, John.' + +Emma slips upstairs to peep through a keyhole, and it strikes her mother +that John has been saying something. They are on too good terms to make +an apology necessary. She observes blandly, 'John, I haven't heard a +word you said.' + +'I'm sure you haven't, woman.' + +'I can't help being like this, John.' + +'Go on being like yourself, dear.' + +'Am I foolish?' + +'Um.' + +'Oh, but, John, how can you be so calm--with him up there?' + +'He has been up there a good deal, you know, since we presented him to +an astounded world nineteen years ago.' + +'But he--he is not going to be up there much longer, John.' She sits on +the arm of his chair, so openly to wheedle him that it is not worth his +while to smile. Her voice is tremulous; she is a woman who can conceal +nothing. 'You will be nice to him--to-night--won't you, John?' + +Mr. Torrance is a little pained. 'Do I just begin to-night, Ellen?' + +'Oh no, no; but I think he is rather--shy of you at times.' + +'That,' he says a little wryly, 'is because he is my son, Ellen.' + +'Yes--it's strange; but--yes.' + +With a twinkle that is not all humorous, 'Did it ever strike you, Ellen, +that I am a bit--shy of him?' + +She is indeed surprised. 'Of Rogie!' + +'I suppose it is because I am his father.' + +She presumes that this is his sarcasm again, and lets it pass at that. +It reminds her of what she wants to say. + +'You are so sarcastic,' she has never quite got the meaning of this +word, 'to Rogie at times. Boys don't like that, John.' + +'Is that so, Ellen?' + +'Of course I don't mind your being sarcastic to _me_--' + +'Much good,' groaning, 'my being sarcastic to you! You are so seldom +aware of it.' + +'I am not asking you to be a mother to him, John.' + +'Thank you, my dear.' + +She does not know that he is sarcastic again. 'I quite understand that +a man can't think all the time about his son as a mother does.' + +'Can't he, Ellen? What makes you so sure of that?' + +'I mean that a boy naturally goes to his mother with his troubles rather +than to his father. Rogie tells me everything.' + +Mr. Torrance is stung. 'I daresay he might tell me things he wouldn't +tell you.' + +She smiles at this. It is very probably sarcasm. + +'I want you to be serious just now. Why not show more warmth to him, +John?' + +With an unspoken sigh, 'It would terrify him, Ellen. Two men show warmth +to each other! Shame, woman!' + +'Two men!' indignantly. 'John, he is only nineteen.' + +'That's all,' patting her hand. 'Ellen, it is the great age to be +to-day, nineteen.' + +Emma darts in. + +'Mother, he has unlocked the door! He is taking a last look at himself +in the mirror before coming down!' + +Having made the great announcement, she is off again. + +'You won't be sarcastic, John?' + +'I give you my word--if you promise not to break down.' + +Rashly, 'I promise.' She hurries to the door and back again. 'John, I'll +contrive to leave you and him alone together for a little.' + +Mr. Torrance is as alarmed as if the judge had looked over the bench and +asked where he was. 'For God's sake, woman, don't do that! Father and +son! He'll bolt; or if he doesn't, I will.' + +Emma Torrance flings open the door grandly, and we learn what all the +to-do is about. + +EMMA. 'Allow me to introduce 2nd Lieutenant Torrance of the Royal +Sussex. Father--your son; 2nd Lieutenant Torrance--your father. +Mother--your little Rogie.' + +Roger, in uniform, walks in, strung up for the occasion. Or the uniform +comes forward with Roger inside it. He has been a very ordinary nice boy +up to now, dull at his 'books'; by an effort Mr. Torrance had sent him +to an obscure boarding-school, but at sixteen it was evident that an +office was the proper place for Roger. Before the war broke out he was +treasurer of the local lawn tennis club, and his golf handicap was +seven; he carried his little bag daily to and from the city, and his +highest relaxation was giggling with girls or about them. Socially he +had fallen from the standards of the home; even now that he is in his +uniform the hasty might say something clever about 'temporary +gentlemen.' + +But there are great ideas buzzing in Roger's head, which would never +have been there save for the war. At present he is chiefly conscious of +his clothes. His mother embraces him with cries of rapture, while Mr. +Torrance surveys him quizzically over the paper; and Emma, rushing to +the piano, which is of such an old-fashioned kind that it can also be +used as a sideboard, plays 'See the Conquering Hero Comes.' + +ROGER, in an agony, 'Mater, do stop that chit making an ass of me.' + +He must be excused for his 'mater.' That was the sort of school; and his +mother is rather proud of the phrase, though it sometimes makes his +father wince. + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'Emma, please, don't. But I'm sure you deserve it, my +darling. Doesn't he, John?' + +MR. TORRANCE, missing his chance, 'Hardly yet, you know. Can't be +exactly a conquering hero the first night you put them on, can you, +Roger?' + +ROGER, hotly, 'Did I say I was?' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'Oh, John! Do turn round, Rogie. I never did--I never +did!' + +EMMA. 'Isn't he a pet!' + +ROGER. 'Shut up, Emma.' + +MRS. TORRANCE, challenging the world, 'Though I say it who shouldn't--and +yet, why shouldn't I?' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'In any case you will--so go ahead, "mater."' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'I knew he would look splendid; but I--of course I +couldn't know that he would look quite so splendid as this.' + +ROGER. 'I know I look a bally ass. That is why I was such a time in +coming down.' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'We thought we heard you upstairs strutting about.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'John! Don't mind him, Rogie.' + +ROGER, haughtily, 'I don't.' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'Oh!' + +ROGER. 'But I wasn't strutting.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'That dreadful sword! No, I would prefer you not to draw +it, dear--not till necessity makes you.' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'Come, come, Ellen; that's rather hard lines on the boy. +If he isn't to draw it here, where is he to draw it?' + +EMMA, with pride, 'At the Front, father.' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'I thought they left them at home nowadays, Roger?' + +ROGER. 'Yes, mater; you see, they are a bit in the way.' + +MRS. TORRANCE, foolishly, 'Not when you have got used to them.' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'That isn't what Roger means.' (His son glares.) + +EMMA, who, though she has not formerly thought much of Roger, is now +proud to trot by his side and will henceforth count the salutes, 'I know +what he means. If you carry a sword the snipers know you are an officer, +and they try to pick you off.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'It's no wonder they are called Huns. Fancy a British +sniper doing that! Roger, you will be very careful, won't you, in the +trenches?' + +ROGER. 'Honour bright, mater.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'Above all, don't look up.' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'The trenches ought to be so deep that they can't look up.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'What a good idea, John.' + +ROGER. 'He's making game of you, mater.' + +MRS. TORRANCE, unruffled, 'Is he, my own?--very likely. Now about the +question of provisions--' + +ROGER. 'Oh, lummy, you talk as if I was going off to-night! I mayn't go +for months and months.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'I know--and, of course, there is a chance that you may +not be needed at all.' + +ROGER, poor boy, 'None of that, mater.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'There is something I want to ask you, John--How long do +you think the war is likely to last?' Her John resumes his paper. +'Rogie, I know you will laugh at me, but there are some things that I +could not help getting for you.' + +ROGER. 'You know, you have knitted enough things already to fit up my +whole platoon.' + +MRS. TORRANCE, proud almost to tears, 'His platoon.' + +EMMA. 'Have you noticed how fine all the words in -oon are? Platoon! +Dragoon!' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'Spitoon!' + +EMMA. 'Colonel is good, but rather papaish; Major is nosey; Admiral of +the Fleet is scrumptious, but Marechal de France--that is the best of +all.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'I think there is nothing so nice as 2nd Lieutenant.' +Gulping, 'Lot of little boys.' + +ROGER. 'Mater!' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'I mean, just think of their cold feet.' She produces +many parcels and displays their strange contents. 'Those are for putting +inside your socks. Those are for outside your socks. I am told that it +is also advisable to have straw in your boots.' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'Have you got him some straw?' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'I thought, John, he could get it there. But if you +think--' + +ROGER. 'He's making fun of you again, mater.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'I shouldn't wonder. Here are some overalls. One is +leather and one fur, and this one is waterproof. The worst of it is that +they are from different shops, and each says that the others keep the +damp in, or draw the feet. They have such odd names, too. There are new +names for everything nowadays. Vests are called cuirasses. Are you +laughing at me, Rogie?' + +MR. TORRANCE, sharply, 'If he is laughing, he ought to be ashamed of +himself.' + +ROGER, barking, 'Who was laughing?' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'John!' + +Emma cuffs her father playfully. + +MR. TORRANCE. 'All very well, Emma, but it's past your bedtime.' + +EMMA, indignantly, 'You can't expect me to sleep on a night like this.' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'You can try.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. '2nd Lieutenant! 2nd Lieutenant!' + +MR. TORRANCE, alarmed, 'Ellen, don't break down. You promised.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'I am not going to break down; but--but there is a +photograph of Rogie when he was very small--' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'Go to bed!' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'I happen--to have it in my pocket--' + +ROGER. 'Don't bring it out, mater.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'If I break down, John, it won't be owing to the picture +itself so much as because of what is written on the back.' + +She produces it dolefully. + +MR. TORRANCE. 'Then don't look at the back.' + +He takes it from her. + +MRS. TORRANCE, not very hopeful of herself, 'But I know what is written +on the back, "Roger John Torrance, aged two years four months, and +thirty-three pounds."' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'Correct.' She weeps softly. 'There, there, woman.' He +signs imploringly to Emma. + +EMMA, kissing him, 'I'm going to by-by. 'Night, mammy. 'Night, Rog.' She +is about to offer him her cheek, then salutes instead, and rushes off, +with Roger in pursuit. + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'I shall leave you together, John.' + +MR. TORRANCE, half liking it, but nervous, 'Do you think it's wise?' +With a groan, 'You know what I am.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'Do be nice to him, dear.' Roger's return finds her very +artful indeed, 'I wonder where I put my glasses?' + +ROGER. 'I'll look for them.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'No, I remember now. They are upstairs in such a funny +place that I must go myself. Do you remember, Rogie, that I hoped they +would reject you on account of your eyes?' + +ROGER. 'I suppose you couldn't help it.' + +MRS. TORRANCE, beaming on her husband, 'Did you believe I really meant +it, John?' + +MR. TORRANCE, curious, 'Did _you_, Roger?' + +ROGER. 'Of course. Didn't you, father?' + +MR. TORRANCE. 'No! I knew the old lady better.' + +He takes her hand. + +MRS. TORRANCE, sweetly, 'I shouldn't have liked it, Rogie dear. I'll +tell you something. You know your brother Harry died when he was seven. +To you, I suppose, it is as if he had never been. You were barely five. + +ROGER. 'I don't remember him, mater.' + +MRS. TORRANCE. 'No--no. But I do, Rogie. He would be twenty-one now; but +though you and Emma grew up I have always gone on seeing him as just +seven. Always till the war broke out. And now I see him a man of +twenty-one, dressed in khaki, fighting for his country, same as you. +I wouldn't have had one of you stay at home, though I had had a dozen. +That is, if it is the noble war they all say it is. I'm not clever, +Rogie, I have to take it on trust. Surely they wouldn't deceive mothers. +I'll get my glasses.' + +She goes away, leaving the father and son somewhat moved. It is Mr. +Torrance who speaks first, gruffly. + +'Like to change your mother, Roger?' + +The answer is also gruff. 'What do _you_ think?' + +Then silence falls. These two are very conscious of being together, +without so much as the tick of a clock to help them. The father clings +to his cigar, sticks his knife into it, studies the leaf, tries crossing +his legs another way. The son examines the pictures on the walls as if +he had never seen them before, and is all the time edging toward the +door. + +Mr. Torrance wets his lips; it must be now or never, 'Not going, Roger?' + +Roger counts the chairs. 'Yes, I thought--' + +'Won't you--sit down and--have a chat?' + +Roger is bowled over. 'A what? You and me!' + +'Why not?' rather truculently. + +'Oh--oh, all right,' sitting uncomfortably. + +The cigar gets several more stabs. + +'I suppose you catch an early train to-morrow?' + +'The 5.20. I have flag-signalling at half-past six.' + +'Phew! Hours before I shall be up.' + +'I suppose so.' + +'Well, you needn't dwell on it, Roger.' + +Indignantly. 'I didn't.' He starts up. 'Good-night, father.' + +'Good-night. Damn. Come back. My fault. Didn't I say I wanted to have +a chat with you?' + +'I thought we had had it.' + +Gloomingly, 'No such luck.' + +There is another pause. A frightened ember in the fire makes an appeal +to some one to say something. Mr. Torrance rises. It is now he who is +casting eyes at the door. He sits again, ashamed of himself. + +'I like your uniform, Roger,' he says pleasantly. + +Roger wriggles. 'Haven't you made fun of me enough?' + +Sharply, 'I'm not making fun of you. Don't you see I'm trying to tell +you that I'm proud of you?' + +Roger is at last aware of it, with a sinking. He appeals, 'Good lord, +father, _you_ are not going to begin now.' + +The father restrains himself. + +'Do you remember, Roger, my saying that I didn't want you to smoke till +you were twenty?' + +'Oh, it's that, is it?' Shutting his mouth tight, 'I never promised.' + +Almost with a shout, 'It's not that.' Then kindly, 'Have a cigar, my boy?' + +'Me?' + +A rather shaky hand, passes him a cigar case. Roger selects from it and +lights up nervously. He is now prepared for the worst. + +'Have you ever wondered, Roger, what sort of a fellow I am?' + +Guardedly, 'Often.' + +Mr. Torrance casts all sense of decency to the winds; such is one of the +effects of war. + +'I have often wondered what sort of fellow you are, Roger. We have both +been at it on the sly. I suppose that is what makes a father and son so +uncomfortable in each other's presence.' + +Roger is not yet prepared to meet him half-way, but he casts a line. + +'Do you feel the creeps when you are left alone with me?' + +'Mortally, Roger. My first instinct is to slip away.' + +'So is mine,' with deep feeling. + +'You don't say so!' with such surprise that the father undoubtedly goes +up a step in the son's estimation. 'I always seem to know what you are +thinking, Roger.' + +'Do you? Same here.' + +'As a consequence it is better, it is right, it is only decent that you +and I should be very chary of confidences with each other.' + +Roger is relieved. 'I'm dashed glad you see it in that way.' + +'Oh, quite. And yet, Roger, if you had to answer this question on oath, +"Whom do you think you are most like in this world?" I don't mean +superficially, but deep down in your vitals, what would you say? Your +mother, your uncle, one of your friends on the golf links?' + +'No.' + +'Who?' + +Darkly, 'You.' + +'Just how I feel.' + +There is such true sympathy in the manly avowal that Roger cannot but be +brought closer to his father. + +'It's pretty ghastly, father.' + +'It is. I don't know which it is worse for.' + +They consider each other without bitterness. + +'You are a bit of a wag at times, Roger.' + +'You soon shut me up.' + +'I have heard that you sparkle more freely in my absence.' + +'They say the same about you.' + +'And now that you mention it, I believe it is true; and yet, isn't it +a bigger satisfaction to you to catch me relishing your jokes than any +other person?' + +Roger's eyes open wide. 'How did you know that?' + +'Because I am so bucked if I see you relishing mine.' + +'_Are_ you?' Roger's hold on the certain things in life are +slipping. 'You don't show it.' + +'That is because of our awkward relationship.' + +Roger lapses into gloom. 'We have got to go through with it.' + +His father kicks the coals. 'There's no way out.' + +'No.' + +'We have, as it were, signed a compact, Roger, never to let on that we +care for each other. As gentlemen we must stick to it.' + +'Yes. What are you getting at, father?' + +'There is a war on, Roger.' + +'That needn't make any difference.' + +'Yes, it does. Roger, be ready; I hate to hit you without warning. I'm +going to cast a grenade into the middle of you. It's this, I'm fond of +you, my boy.' + +Roger squirms. 'Father, if any one were to hear you!' + +'They won't. The door is shut, Amy is gone to bed, and all is quiet in +our street. Won't you--won't you say something civil to me in return, +Roger?' + +Roger looks at him and away from him. 'I sometimes--bragged about you +at school.' + +Mr. Torrance is absurdly pleased. 'Did you? What sort of things, Roger?' + +'I--I forget.' + +'Come on, Roger.' + +'Is this fair, father?' + +'No, I suppose it isn't.' Mr. Torrance attacks the coals again. 'You and +your mother have lots of confidences, haven't you?' + +'I tell her a good deal. Somehow--' + +'Yes, somehow one can.' With the artfulness that comes of years, 'I'm +glad you tell her everything.' + +Roger looks down his cigar. 'Not everything, father. There are +things--about oneself--' + +'Aren't there, Roger!' + +'Best not to tell her.' + +'Yes--yes. If there are any of them you would care to tell me +instead--just if you want to, mind--just if you are in a hole or +anything?' + +'No thanks,' very stiffly. + +'Any little debts, for instance?' + +'That's all right now. Mother--' + +'She did?' + +Roger is ready to jump at him. 'I was willing to speak to you about +them, but--' + +'She said, "Not worth while bothering father."' + +'How did you know?' + +'Oh, I have met your mother before, you see. Nothing else?' + +'No.' + +'Haven't been an ass about a girl or anything of that sort?'' + +'Good lord, father!' + +'I shouldn't have said it. In my young days we sometimes--It's all +different now.' + +'I don't know, I could tell you things that would surprise you.' + +'No! Not about yourself?' + +'No. At least--' + +'Just as you like, Roger.' + +'It blew over long ago.' + +'Then there's no need?' + +'No--oh no. It was just--you know--the old, old story.' + +He eyes his father suspiciously, but not a muscle in Mr. Torrance's +countenance is out of place. + +'I see. It hasn't--left you bitter about the sex, Roger, I hope?' + +'Not now. She--you know what women are.' + +'Yes, yes.' + +'You needn't mention it to mother.' + +'I won't.' Mr. Torrance is elated to share a secret with Roger about +which mother is not to know. 'Think your mother and I are an aged pair, +Roger?' + +'I never--of course you are not young.' + +'How long have you known that? I mean, it's true--but I didn't know it +till quite lately.' + +'That you're old?' + +'Hang it, Roger, not so bad as that--elderly. This will stagger you; but +I assure you that until the other day I jogged along thinking of myself +as on the whole still one of the juveniles.' He makes a wry face. 'I +crossed the bridge, Roger, without knowing it.' + +'What made you know?' + +'What makes us know all the new things, Roger?--the war. I'll tell you +a secret. When we realised in August of 1914 that myriads of us were to +be needed, my first thought wasn't that I had a son, but that I must get +fit myself.' + +'You!' + +'Funny, isn't it?' says Mr. Torrance quite nastily. 'But, as I tell you, +I didn't know I had ceased to be young, I went into Regent's Park and +tried to run a mile.' + +'Lummy, you might have killed yourself.' + +'I nearly did--especially as I had put a weight on my shoulders to +represent my kit. I kept at it for a week, but I knew the game was up. +The discovery was pretty grim, Roger.' + +'Don't you bother about that part of it. You are doing your share, +taking care of mother and Emma.' + +Mr. Torrance emits a laugh of self-contempt. 'I am not taking care of +them. It is you who are taking care of them. My friend, you are the head +of the house now.' + +'Father!' + +'Yes, we have come back to hard facts, and the defender of the house is +the head of it.' + +'Me? Fudge.' + +'It's true. The thing that makes me wince most is that some of my +contemporaries have managed to squeeze back: back into youth, Roger, +though I guess they were a pretty tight fit in the turnstile. There is +Coxon; he is in khaki now, with his hair dyed, and when he and I meet at +the club we know that we belong to different generations. I'm a decent +old fellow, but I don't really count any more, while Coxon, lucky dog, +is being damned daily on parade.' + +'I hate your feeling it in that way, father.' + +'I don't say it is a palatable draught, but when the war is over we +shall all shake down to the new conditions. No fear of my being +sarcastic to you then, Roger. I'll have to be jolly respectful.' + +'Shut up, father!' + +'You've begun, you see. Don't worry, Roger. Any rawness I might feel +in having missed the chance of seeing whether I was a man--like Coxon, +confound him!--is swallowed up in the pride of giving the chance to +you. I'm in a shiver about you, but--It's all true, Roger, what your +mother said about 2nd Lieutenants. Till the other day we were so little +of a military nation that most of us didn't know there _were_ 2nd +Lieutenants. And now, in thousands of homes we feel that there is +nothing else. 2nd Lieutenant! It is like a new word to us--one, I +daresay, of many that the war will add to our language. We have taken +to it, Roger. If a son of mine were to tarnish it--' + +'I'll try not to,' Roger growls. + +'If you did, I should just know that there had been something wrong +about me.' + +Gruffly, 'You're all right.' + +'If I am, you are.' It is a winning face that Mr. Torrance turns on his +son. 'I suppose you have been asking yourself of late, what if you were +to turn out to be a funk!' + +'Father, how did you know?' + +'I know because you are me. Because ever since there was talk of this +commission I have been thinking and thinking what were you thinking--so +as to help you.' + +This itself is a help. Roger's hand--but he withdraws it hurriedly. + +'They all seem to be so frightfully brave, father,' he says wistfully. + +'I expect, Roger, that the best of them had the same qualms as you +before their first engagement.' + +'I--I kind of think, father, that I won't be a funk.' + +'I kind of think so too, Roger.' Mr. Torrance forgets himself. 'Mind you +don't be rash, my boy; and for God's sake, keep your head down in the +trenches.' + +Roger has caught him out. He points a gay finger at his anxious father. + +'You know you laughed at mother for saying that!' + +'Did I? Roger, your mother thinks that I have an unfortunate manner with +you.' + +The magnanimous Roger says, 'Oh, I don't know. It's just the +father-and-son complication.' + +'That is really all it is. But she thinks I should show my affection for +you more openly.' + +Roger wriggles again. Earnestly, 'I wouldn't do that.' Nicely, 'Of +course for this once--but in a general way I wouldn't do that. _We_ +know, you and I.' + +'As long as we know, it's no one else's affair, is it?' + +'That's the ticket, father.' + +'Still--' It is to be feared that Mr. Torrance is now taking advantage +of his superior slyness. 'Still, before your mother--to please her--eh?' + +Faltering, 'I suppose it would.' + +'Well, what do you say?' + +'I know she would like it.' + +'Of course you and I know that display of that sort is all +bunkum--repellent even to our natures.' + +'Lord, yes!' + +'But to gratify her.' + +'I should be so conscious.' + +Mr. Torrance is here quite as sincere as his son. 'So should I.' + +Roger considers it. 'How far would you go?' + +'Oh, not far. Suppose I called you "Old Rogie"? There's not much in +that.' + +'It all depends on the way one says these things.' + +'I should be quite casual.' + +'Hum. What would you like me to call you?' + +Severely, 'It isn't what would _I_ like. But I daresay your mother +would beam if you called me "dear father"' + +'I don't think so?' + +'You know quite well that you think so, Roger.' + +'It's so effeminate.' + +'Not if you say it casually.' + +With something very like a snort Roger asks, 'How does one say a thing +like that casually?' + +'Well, for instance, you could whistle while you said it--or anything of +that sort.' + +'Hum. Of course you--if we were to--be like that, you wouldn't do +anything.' + +'How do you mean?' + +'You wouldn't paw me?' + +'Roger,' with some natural indignation, 'you forget yourself.' But +apparently it is for him to continue. 'That reminds me of a story I +heard the other day of a French general. He had asked for volunteers +from his airmen for some specially dangerous job--and they all stepped +forward. Pretty good that. Then three were chosen and got their orders +and saluted, and were starting off when he stopped them. "Since when," +he said, "have brave boys departing to the post of danger omitted to +embrace their father?" They did it then. Good story?' + +Roger lowers. 'They were French.' + +'Yes, I said so. Don't you think it's good?' + +'Why do you tell it to me?' + +'Because it's a good story.' + +'You are sure, father,' sternly, 'that there is no other reason?' Mr. +Torrance tries to brazen it out, but he looks guilty. 'You know, father, +that is barred.' + +Just because he knows that he has been playing it low, Mr. Torrance +snaps angrily, 'What is barred?' + +'You know,' says his monitor. + +Mr. Torrance shouts. + +'I know that you are a young ass.' + +'Really, father--' + +'Hold your tongue.' + +Roger can shout also. + +'I must say, father--' + +'Be quiet, I tell you.' + +It is in the middle of this competition that the lady who dotes on them +both chooses to come back, still without her spectacles. + +'Oh dear! And I had hoped---Oh, John!' + +Mr. Torrance would like to kick himself. + +'My fault,' he says with a groan. + +'But whatever is the matter?' + +'Nothing, mater.' The war is already making Roger quite smart. 'Only +father wouldn't do as I told him.' + +Mr. Torrance cannot keep pace with his son's growth. He raps out, 'Why +the dickens should I?' + +Roger is imperturbable; this will be useful in France. 'You see, mater, +he said I was the head of the house.' + +'You, Rogie!' She goes to her husband's side. 'What nonsense!' + +Roger grins. 'Do you like my joke, father?' + +The father smiles upon him and is at once uproariously happy. He digs +his boy boldly in the ribs. + +'Roger, you scoundrel!' + +'That's better,' says Mrs. Torrance at a venture. + +Roger feels that things have perhaps gone far enough. 'I think I'll go +to my room now. You will come up, mater?' + +'Yes, dear. I shan't be five minutes, John.' + +'More like half an hour.' + +She hesitates. 'There is nothing wrong, is there? I thought I noticed +a--a----' + +'A certain liveliness, my dear. No, we were only having a good talk.' + +'What about, John?' wistfully. + +'About the war,' Roger breaks in hurriedly. + +'About tactics and strategy, wasn't it, Roger?' + +'Yes.' + +'The fact is, Ellen, I have been helping Roger to take his first +trench.' With a big breath, 'And we took it too, together, didn't we, +Roger?' + +'You bet,' says Roger valiantly. + +'Though I suppose,' sighing, 'it is one of those trenches that the enemy +retake during the night.' + +'Oh, I--I don't know, father.' + +The lady asks, 'Whatever are you two talking about?' + +'Aha,' says Mr. Torrance in high feather, patting her, but unable to +resist a slight boast, 'it is very private. _We_ don't tell you +everything, you know, Ellen.' + +She beams, though she does not understand. + +'Come on, mater, it's only his beastly sarcasm again. 'Night, father; I +won't see you in the morning.' + +''Night,' says Mr. Torrance. + +But Roger has not gone yet. He seems to be looking for something--a +book, perhaps. Then he begins to whistle--casually. + +'Good-night, dear father.' + +Mr. John Torrance is left alone, rubbing his hands. + + + + + + +BARBARA'S WEDDING + + +The Colonel is in the sitting-room of his country cottage, staring +through the open windows at his pretty garden. He is a very old man, and +is sometimes bewildered nowadays. He calls to Dering, the gardener, who +is on a ladder, pruning. Dering, who comes to him, is a rough, capable +young fellow with fingers that are already becoming stumpy because he so +often uses his hands instead of a spade. This is a sign that Dering will +never get on in the world. His mind is in the same condition as his +fingers, working back to clods. He will get a rise of one and sixpence +in a year or two, and marry on it and become duller and heavier; and, in +short, the clever ones could already write his epitaph. + + * * * * * + +'A beautiful morning, Dering.' + +'Too much sun, sir. The roses be complaining, and, to make matters +worse, Miss Barbara has been watering of them--in the heat of the day.' + +The Colonel is a very gentle knight nowadays. 'Has she? She means well.' +But that is not what is troubling him. He approaches the subject +diffidently. 'Dering, you heard it, didn't you?' He is longing to be +told that Dering heard it. + +'What was that, sir?' + +'The thunderstorm--early this morning.' + +'There was no thunderstorm, sir.' + +Dispirited, 'That is what they all say.' The Colonel is too courteous to +contradict any one, but he tries again; there is about him the +insistence of one who knows that he is right. 'It was at four o'clock. I +got up and looked out at the window. The evening primroses were very +beautiful.' + +Dering is equally dogged. 'I don't hold much with evening primroses, +sir; but I was out and about at four; there was no thunderstorm.' + +The Colonel still thinks that there was a thunderstorm, but he wants to +placate Dering. 'I suppose I just thought there was one. Perhaps it was +some thunderstorm of long ago that I heard. They do come back, you +know.' + +Heavily, 'Do they, sir?' + +'I am glad to see you moving about in the garden, Dering, with +everything just as usual.' + +There is a cautious slyness about this, as if the Colonel was fishing +for information; but it is too clever for Dering, who is going with a +'Thank you, sir.' + +'No, don't go.' The old man lowers his voice and makes a confession +reluctantly, 'I am--a little troubled, Dering.' + +Dering knows that his master has a wandering mind, and he answers +nicely, 'Everything be all right, sir.' + +'I'm glad of that,' the Colonel says with relief. 'It is pleasant to see +that you have come back, Dering. Why did you go away for such a long +time?' + +'Me, sir?' Dering is a little aggrieved. 'I haven't had a day off since +Christmas.' + +'Haven't you? I thought--' + +The Colonel tries to speak casually, but there is a trembling eagerness +in his voice. 'Is everything just as usual, Dering?' + +'Yes, sir. There never were a place less changed than this.' + +'That's true.' The Colonel is appeased. 'Thank you, Dering, for saying +that.' But next moment he has lowered his voice again. 'Dering, there is +nothing wrong, is there? Is anything happening that I am not being told +about?' + +'Not that I know of, sir.' + +'That is what they all say, but--I don't know.' He stares at his old +sword which is hanging on the wall. 'Dering, I feel as if I was needed +somewhere. I don't know where it is. No one will tell me. Where is every +one?' + +'They're all about, sir. There's a cricket match on at the village +green.' + +'Is there?' + +'If the wind had a bit of south in it you could hear their voices. You +were a bit of a nailer at cricket yourself, sir.' + +The Colonel sees himself standing up to fast ones. He is gleeful over +his reminiscences. + +'Ninety-nine against Mallowfield, and then bowled off my pads. Biggest +score I ever made. Mallowfield wanted to add one to make it the hundred, +but I wouldn't let them. I was pretty good at steering them through the +slips, Dering! Do you remember my late cut? It didn't matter where point +stood, I got past him. You used to stand at point, Dering.' + +'That was my grandfather, sir. If he was to be believed, he used to snap +you regular at point.' + +The Colonel is crestfallen, but he has a disarming smile. 'Did he? I +daresay he did. I can't play now, but I like to watch it still.' He +becomes troubled again. 'Dering, there is no cricket on the green +to-day. I have been down to look. I don't understand it, Dering. When I +got there the green was all dotted with them--it's the prettiest sight +and sound in England. But as I watched them they began to go away, one +and two at a time; they weren't given out, you know, they went as if +they had been called away. Some of the little shavers stayed on--and +then they went off, as if they had been called away too. The stumps were +left lying about. Why is it?' + +'It's just fancy, sir,' Dering says soothingly, 'I saw Master Will +oiling his bat yesterday.' + +'Did you?' avidly. 'I should have liked to see that. I have often oiled +their bats for them. Careless lads, they always forget. Was that nice +German boy with him?' + +'Mr. Karl? Not far off, sir. He was sitting by the bank of the stream +playing on his flute; and Miss Barbara, she had climbed one of my +apple-trees,--she says they are your trees.' He lowers. + +'They are, you know, Dering,' the Colonel says meekly. + +'Yes, sir, in a sense,' brushing the spurious argument aside, 'but I +don't like any of you to meddle with them. And there she sat, pelting +the two of them with green apples.' + +'How like her!' The Colonel shakes his head indulgently. 'I don't know +how we are to make a demure young lady of her.' + +Dering smirks. 'They say in the village, sir, that Master Will would +like to try.' + +To the Colonel this is wit of a high order. + +'Ha! ha! he is just a colt himself.' But the laughter breaks off. He +seems to think that he will get the truth if Dering comes closer, 'Who +are all here now, Dering; in the house, I mean? I sometimes forget. They +grow old so quickly. They go out at one door in the bloom of youth, and +come back by another, tired and grey. Haven't you noticed it?' + +'No, sir. The only visitors staying here are Miss Barbara and Mr. Karl. +There's just them and yourselves, sir, you and the mistress and Master +Will. That's all.' + +'Yes, that's all,' his master says, still unconvinced. 'Who is the +soldier, Dering?' + +'Soldier, sir? There is no soldier here except yourself.' + +'Isn't there? There was a nurse with him. Who is ill?' + +'No one, sir. There's no nurse.' Dering backs away from the old man. +'Would you like me to call the mistress, sir?' + +'No, she has gone down to the village. She told me why, but I forget. +Miss Barbara is with her.' + +'Miss Barbara is down by the stream, sir.' + +'Is she? I think they said they were going to a wedding.' With an old +man's curiosity, 'Who is being married to-day, Dering?' + +'I have heard of no wedding, sir. But here is Miss Barbara.' + +It is perhaps the first time that Dering has been glad to see Miss +Barbara, who romps in, a merry hoyden, running over with animal spirits. + +'Here's the tomboy!' the Colonel cries gaily. + +Barbara looks suspiciously from one to the other. + +'Dering, I believe you are complaining to the Colonel about my watering +the flowers at the wrong time of day.' + +'Aha! Aha!' The Colonel thinks she is even wittier than Dering, who is +properly abashed. + +'I did just mention it, miss.' + +'You horrid!' Barbara shakes her mop of hair at the gardener. 'Dear, +don't mind him. And every time he says they are _his_ flowers and +_his_ apples, you tell me, and I shall say to his face that they +are _yours_.' + +'The courage of those young things!' says the happy Colonel. + +Dering's underlip becomes very pronounced, but he goes off into the +garden. Barbara attempts to attend to the Colonel's needs. + +'Let me make you comfy--the way granny does it.' + +She arranges his cushions clumsily. + +'That is not quite the way she does it,' the Colonel says softly, 'Do +you call her granny, Barbara?' + +'She asked me to--for practice.' Barbara is curious. 'Don't you remember +why?' + +Of course the Colonel remembers. + +'I know! Billy boy.' + +'You _are_ quick to-day. Now, wait till I get your cane.' + +'I don't need my cane while I'm sitting.' + +'You look so beau'ful, sitting holding your cane.' She knocks over his +cushions. 'Oh dear! I am a clumsy.' + +Politely, 'Not at all, but perhaps if I were to do it for myself.' He +makes himself comfortable. 'That's better. Thank you, Barbara, very +much.' + +'_I_ didn't do it. I'm all thumbs. What a ghastly nurse I should +make.' + +'Nurse?' The Colonel's troubles return to him. 'Who is she, Barbara?' + +'Who is who, dear?' + +'That nurse.' + +'There's no nurse here.' + +'Isn't there?' + +Barbara feels that she is of less use than ever to-day. 'Where is +granny?' + +'She has gone down to the village to a wedding.' + +'There's no wedding. Who could be being married?' + +'I think it's people I know, but I can't remember who they are. I +thought you went too, Barbara.' + +'Not I. Catch me missing it if there had been a wedding!' + +'You and the nurse.' + +'Dear, you have just been imagining things again. Shall I play to you, +or sing?' She knocks over a chair, 'Oh dear, everything catches in me. +Would you like me to "Robin Adair," dear?' + +The Colonel is polite, but firm, 'No, thank you, Barbara.' For a few +moments he forgets her; his mind has gone wandering again. 'Barbara, the +house seems so empty. Where are Billy and Karl?' + +'Billy is where Karl is, you may be sure.' + +'And where is Karl?' + +'He is where Billy boy is, you may be sure.' + +'And where are they both?' + +'Not far from where Barbara is, you bet.' She flutters to the window and +waves her hand. 'Do you hear Karl's flute? They have been down all the +morning at the pool where the alder is, trying to catch that +bull-trout.' + +'They didn't get him, I'll swear!' + +'You can ask them.' + +'I spent a lot of my youth trying to get that bull-trout. I tumbled in +there sixty years ago.' + +'I tumbled in sixty minutes ago! It can't be the same trout, dear.' + +'Same old rascal!' + +Billy and Karl come in by the window, leaving a fishing-rod outside. +They are gay, careless, attractive youths. + +BARBARA, with her nose in the air, 'You muddy things!' + +COLONEL, gaily firing his dart, 'Did you get the bull-trout, Billy boy?' + +BILLY. 'He's a brute that.' + +COLONEL. 'He is, you know.' + +BILLY. 'He came up several times and had a look at my fly. Didn't flick +it, or do anything as complimentary as that. Just yawned and went down.' + +COLONEL. 'Yawned, did he? Used to wink in my time. Did you and Billy +fish at Heidelberg, Karl?' + +KARL. 'We were more worthily employed, sir, but we did unbend at times. +Billy, do you remember--' He begins a gay dance. + +BILLY. 'Not I.' Then he joins in. + +BARBARA. 'Young gentlemen, how disgraceful!' She joins in. + +COLONEL. 'Harum-scarums!' + +KARL. 'Does he know about you two?' + +BILLY. 'He often forgets, I'll tell him again. Grandfather, Barbara and +I have something to say to you. It's this.' He puts his arm round +Barbara. + +COLONEL, smiling, 'I know--I know. There's nothing like it. I'm very +glad, Barbara.' + +BARBARA. 'You see, dear, I've loved Billy boy since the days when he +tried to catch the bull-trout with a string and a bent pin, and I held +on to his pinafore to prevent his tumbling in. We used to play at school +at marrying and giving in marriage, and the girl who was my bridegroom +had always to take the name of Billy. "Do you, woman, take this man +Billy--" the clergyman in skirts began, and before I could answer +diffidently, some other girl was sure to shout, "I should rather think +she does."' + +COLONEL, in high good humour, 'Don't forget the ring, Billy. You know, +when I was married I think I couldn't find the ring!' + +KARL. 'Were you married here, sir?' + +COLONEL. 'Yes, at the village church.' + +BILLY. 'So were my father and mother.' + +COLONEL, as his eyes wander to the garden, 'I remember walking back with +my wife and bringing her in here through the window. She kissed some of +the furniture.' + +BILLY. 'I suppose you would like a grander affair, Barbara?' + +BARBARA. 'No, just the same.' + +BILLY. 'I hoped you would say that.' + +BARBARA. 'But, Billy, I'm to have such a dream of a wedding gown. +Granny is going with me to London, to choose it'--laying her head on the +Colonel's shoulder--'if you can do without her for a day, dear.' + +COLONEL, gallantly, 'I shall go with you, I couldn't trust you and +granny to choose the gown.' + +KARL. 'You must often be pretty lonely, sir, when we are all out and +about enjoying ourselves.' + +COLONEL. 'They all say that. But that is the time when I'm not lonely, +Karl. It's then I see things most clearly--the past, I suppose. It all +comes crowding back to me--India, the Crimea, India again--and it's so +real, especially the people. They come and talk to me. I seem to see +them; I don't know they haven't been here, Billy, till your granny tells +me afterwards.' + +BILLY. 'Yes, I know, I wonder where granny is.' + +BARBARA. 'It isn't often she leaves you for so long, dear.' + +COLONEL. 'She told me she had to go out, but I forget where. Oh, yes, +she has gone down to the village to a wedding.' + +BILLY. 'A wedding?' + +BARBARA. 'It's curious how he harps on that.' + +COLONEL. 'She said to me to listen and I would hear the wedding bells.' + +BARBARA. 'Not to-day, dear.' + +BILLY. 'Best not to worry him.' + +BARBARA. 'But granny says we should try to make things clear to him.' + +BILLY. 'Was any one with granny when she said she was going to a wedding?' + +COLONEL, like one begging her to admit it, 'You were there, Barbara.' + +BARBARA. 'No, dear. He said that to me before. And something about a +nurse.' + +COLONEL, obstinately, 'She was there, too.' + +BILLY. 'Any one else?' + +COLONEL. 'There was that soldier.' + +BARBARA. 'A soldier also!' + +COLONEL. 'Just those three.' + +BILLY. 'But that makes four. Granny and Barbara and a nurse and a +soldier.' + +COLONEL. 'They were all there; but there were only three.' + +BILLY. 'Odd.' + +BARBARA, soothingly, 'Never mind, dear, Granny will make it all right. +She is the one for you.' + +COLONEL. 'She is the one for me.' + +KARL. 'If there had been a wedding, wouldn't she have taken the Colonel +with her?' + +BARBARA. 'Of course she would.' + +KARL. 'You are not too old to have a kind eye for a wedding, sir.' + +COLONEL, wagging his head, 'Aha, aha! You know, if I had gone, very +likely I should have kissed the bride. Brides look so pretty on their +wedding day. They are often not pretty at other times, but they are all +pretty on their wedding day.' + +KARL. 'You have an eye for a pretty girl still, sir!' + +COLONEL. 'Yes, I have; yes, I have!' + +BARBARA. 'I do believe I see it all. Granny has been talking to you +about Billy boy and me, and you haven't been able to wait; you have +hurried on the wedding!' + +BILLY. 'Bravo, Barbara, you've got it.' + +COLONEL, doubtfully, 'That may be it. Because I am sure you were to be +there, Barbara.' + +BARBARA. 'Our wedding, Billy!' + +KARL. 'It doesn't explain those other people, though.' + +The Colonel moves about in agitation. + +BARBARA. 'What is it, dear?' + +COLONEL. 'I can't quite remember, but I think that is why she didn't +take me. It is your wedding, Barbara, but I don't think Billy boy is to +be there, my love.' + +BARBARA. 'Not at my wedding!' + +BILLY. 'Grandfather!' + +COLONEL. 'There's something sad about it.' + +BARBARA. 'There can't be anything sad about a wedding, dear. Granny +didn't say it was a sad wedding, did she?' + +COLONEL. 'She was smiling.' + +BARBARA. 'Of course she was.' + +COLONEL. 'But I think that was only to please the nurse.' + +BARBARA. 'That nurse again! Dear, don't think any more about it. There's +no wedding.' + +COLONEL, gently, though he wonders why they can go on deceiving him, 'Is +there not?' + +The village wedding bells begin to ring. + +The Colonel is triumphant. 'I told you! There is a wedding!' + +The bells ring on gaily. Billy and Barbara take a step nearer to each +other, but can go no closer. The bells ring on, and the three young +people fade from the scene. + +When they are gone and he is alone, the Colonel still addresses them. +'It's Barbara's wedding. Billy boy, why are you not at Barbara's +wedding?' + +Soon the bells stop. He knows that he is alone now, but he does not +understand it. The sun is shining brightly, but he sits very cold in his +chair. He shivers. He is very glad to see his wife coming to him +through the open window. She is a dear old lady, and is dressed +brightly, as becomes one who has been to a wedding. Her face beams to +match her gown. She is really quite a happy woman again, for it is +several years since any deep sorrow struck her; and that is a long time. +No one, you know, understands the Colonel as she does, no one can soothe +him and bring him out of his imaginings as she can. He hastens to her. +He is no longer cold. That is her great reward for all she does for him. + +'I have come back, John,' she says, smiling tranquilly on him. 'It +hasn't seemed very long, has it?' + +'No, not long, Ellen. Had you a nice walk?' + +She continues to smile, but she is watching him closely. 'I haven't been +for a walk. Don't you remember where I told you I was going, John?' + +'Yes, it was to a wedding.' + +Rather tremulously, 'You haven't forgotten whose wedding, have you?' + +'Tell me, Ellen.' He is no longer troubled. He knows that Ellen will +tell him. + +'I have been seeing Barbara married, John.' + +'Yes, it was Barbara's wedding. They wouldn't--Ellen, why wasn't I +there?' + +Like one telling him amusing gossip, 'I thought you might be a little +troubled if you went, John. Sometimes your mind--not often, but +sometimes if you are agitated--and then you think you see--people who +aren't here any longer. Oh dear, oh dear, help me with these bonnet +strings.' + +'Yes, I know. I'm all right when you are with me, Ellen. Funny, isn't +it?' + +She raises her shoulders in a laugh. 'It _is_ funny, John. I ran +back to you, John. I was thinking of you all the time--even more than +of Billy boy.' + +The Colonel is very gay. 'Tell me all about it, Ellen. Did Billy boy +lose the ring? We always said he would lose the ring.' + +She looks straight into his eyes. 'You have forgotten again, John. +Barbara isn't married to Billy boy.' + +He draws himself up. 'Not marry Billy! I'll see about that.' + +She presses him into his chair. 'Sit down, dear, and I'll tell you +something again. It is nothing to trouble you, because your soldiering +is done, John; and greatly done. My dear, there is war again, and our +old land is in it. Such a war as my soldier never knew.' + +He rises. He is a stern old man. 'A war! That's it, is it? So now I +know! Why wasn't I told? Why haven't I my marching orders? I'm not too +old yet.' + +'Yes, John, you are too old, and all you can do now is to sit here +and--and take care of me. You knew all about it quite clearly this +morning. We stood together upstairs by the window listening to the +aircraft guns.' + +'I remember! I thought it was a thunderstorm, Dering told me he heard +nothing.' + +'Dering?' + +'Our gardener, you know.' His voice becomes husky. 'Haven't I been +talking with him, Ellen?' + +'It is a long time since we had a gardener, John.' + +'Is it? So it is! A war! That is why there is no more cricket on the +green.' + +'They have all gone to the war, John.' + +'That's it; even the little shavers.' He whispers, 'Why isn't Billy boy +fighting, Ellen?' + +'Oh, John!' + +'Is Billy boy dead?' She nods. 'Was he killed in action? Tell me, tell +me!' She nods again. 'Good for Billy boy. I knew Billy boy was all +right. Don't cry, Ellen. I'll take care of you. All's well with Billy +boy.' + +'Yes, I know, John.' + +He hesitates before speaking again. 'Ellen, who is the soldier? He comes +here. He is a captain.' + +'He is a very gallant man, John. It is he who was married to Barbara +to-day.' + +Bitterly, 'She has soon forgotten.' + +His wife shakes her brave head. 'She hasn't forgotten, dear. And it's +nearly three years now since Billy died.' + +'So long! We have a medal he got, haven't we?' + +'No, John; he died before he could win any medals.' + +The Colonel moves about, 'Karl will be sorry. They were very fond of +each other, those two boys, Ellen.' + +'Karl fought against us, John. He died in the same engagement. They may +even have killed each other.' + +'They hadn't known, Ellen.' + +She with, thin lips, 'I daresay they knew.' + +'Billy boy and Karl!' + +She tells him some more gossip. 'John, I had Barbara married from here +because she has no people of her own. I think Billy would have liked +it.' + +'That was the thing to do, Ellen. Nice of you. I remember everything +now. It's Dering she has married. He was once my gardener!' + +'The world is all being re-made, dear. He is worthy of her.' + +He lets this pass. He has remembered something almost as surprising, +'Ellen, is Barbara a nurse?' + +'Yes, John, and one of the staidest and most serene. Who would have +thought it of the merry madcap of other days! They are coming here, +John, to say good-bye to you. They have only a few days' leave. She is +in France, too, you know. She was married in her nurse's uniform.' + +'Was she? She told me to-day that--no, it couldn't have been to-day.' + +'You have been fancying you saw them, I suppose.' She grows tremulous +again. 'You will be nice to them, John, won't you, and wish them luck? +They have their trials before them.' + +He says eagerly, 'Tell me what to do, Ellen.' + +'Don't say anything about Billy boy, John.' + +'No, no, let's pretend.' + +'And I wouldn't talk about the garden, John; just in case he is a little +touchy about that.' + +The Colonel is beginning to fancy himself as a tactician. 'Not a word!' + +She knows what is the way to put him on his mettle. 'You see, I'm sure +I would make a mess of it, so I'm trusting to you, John.' + +He is very pleased, 'Leave it all to me, Ellen. I'll be frightfully sly. +You just watch me.' + +She goes to the window and calls to the married couple. Captain Dering, +in khaki, is a fine soldierly figure. Barbara, in her Red Gross uniform, +is quiet and resourceful. An artful old boy greets them. +'Congratulations, Barbara. No, no, none of your handshaking; you don't +get past an old soldier in that way. Excuse me, young man.' He kisses +Barbara and looks at his wife to make sure that she is admiring him, +'And to you, Captain Dering--you have won a prize.' + +A gallant gentleman answers, 'I know it; I'll try to show I know it.' + +The Colonel is perturbed. 'I haven't given Barbara a wedding present, +Ellen, I should like----' + +Barbara breaks in, 'Indeed you have, dear, and a lovely one. You haven't +forgotten?' + +Granny signs to the Colonel and he immediately says, with remarkable +cunning, 'Oh--that! I was just quizzing you, Barbara. I hope you will be +as happy, dear, staid Barbara, as if you had married----' He sees that +he has nearly given away the situation. He looks triumphantly at granny +as much as to say, 'Observe me; I'm not going to say a word about him.' + +Granny comes to his aid. 'Perhaps Captain Dering has some little things +to do: and you, too, Barbara. They are leaving in an hour, John.' + +For a moment the Colonel is again in danger. 'If you would like to take +Barbara into the garden, Captain Dering----' He recovers himself +instantly. 'No, not the garden, you wouldn't know your way about in the +garden.' + +'Wouldn't I, Colonel?' the Captain says, smiling. + +The answer is quite decisive. 'No, certainly not. I'll show it you some +day.' + +He makes gleeful signs to granny. 'But there is a nice meadow just +beyond the shrubbery. Barbara knows the way; she often went there +with--' He checks himself. Granny signs to them to go, and Barbara, +kisses both the Colonel's hands. 'The Captain will be jealous, you +know,' he says, twinkling. + +'Let me, dear,' says Barbara, arranging his cushions professionally. + +Granny nods. 'She is much better at it than I am now, John.' + +The Colonel has one last piece of advice to give. 'I wouldn't go +down by the stream, Barbara--not to the pool where the alder is. +There's--there's not a good view there, sir; and a boy--a boy I knew, +he often--nobody in particular--just a boy who used to come about the +house--he is not here now--he is on duty. I don't think you should go +to the alder pool, Barbara.' + +'We won't go there, dear.' She and her husband go out, and the Colonel +scarcely misses them, he is so eager to hear what his wife thinks of +him. + +'Did I do all right, Ellen?' + +'Splendidly. I was proud of you.' + +He exults. 'I put them completely off the scent! They haven't a notion! +I can be very sly, you know, at times. Ellen, I think I should like to +have that alder tree cut down. There is no boy now, you see.' + +'I would leave it alone, John. There will be boys again. Shall I read to +you; you like that, don't you?' + +'Yes, read to me--something funny, if you please. About Sam Weller! No, +I expect Sam has gone to the wars. Read about Mr. Pickwick. He is very +amusing. I feel sure that if he had tried to catch the bull-trout he +would have fallen in. Just as Barbara did this morning.' + +'Barbara?' + +'She is down at the alder pool. Billy is there with that nice German +boy. The noise they make, shouting and laughing!' + +She gets from its shelf the best book for war-time. 'Which bit shall I +read?' + +'About Mr. Pickwick going into the lady's bedroom by mistake.' + +'Yes, dear, though you almost know it by heart. You see, you have begun +to laugh already.' + +'You are laughing too, Ellen. I can't help it!' + +She begins to read; they are both chuckling. + + + + + + +A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE + + +Out of the darkness comes the voice of a woman speaking to her dead son. + +'But that was against your wish, was it not? Was that against your wish? +Would you prefer me not to ask that question?' + +The room is so dark that we cannot see her. All we know is that she is +one of four shapes gathered round a small table. Beyond the darkness is +a great ingle-nook, in which is seated on a settle a man of fifty. Him +we can discern fitfully by the light of the fire. It is not sufficiently +bright to enable him to read, but an evening paper lies on his knee. He +seems wistful and meek. He is paying no attention to the party round the +table. When he hears their voices it is only as empty sounds. + +The mother continues. 'Perhaps I am putting the question in the wrong +way. Are you not able to tell us any more?' + +A man's voice breaks in. 'There was a distinct movement that time, but +it is so irregular.' + +'I thought so, but please don't talk. Do you want to tell us more? Is it +that you can't hear me distinctly? He seems to want to tell us more, but +something prevents him.' + +'In any case, Mrs. Don, it is extraordinary. This is the first seance I +have ever taken part in, but I must believe now.' + +'Of course, Major, these are the simplest manifestations. They are only +the first step. But if we are to go on, the less we talk the better. +Shall we go on? It is not agitating you too much, Laura?' + +A girl answers, 'There was a moment when I--but I wish I was braver. I +think it is partly the darkness. I suppose we can't have a little +light?' + +'Certainly we can, dear. Darkness is quite unnecessary, but I think it +helps one to concentrate.' + +The Major lights a lamp, and though it casts shadows we see now that the +room is an artist's studio. The silent figure in the ingle-nook is the +artist. Mrs. Don is his wife, the two men are Major Armitage and an +older friend, Mr. Rogers. The girl is Laura Bell. These four are sitting +round the table, their hands touching: they are endeavouring to commune +with one who has 'crossed the gulf.' + +The Major and Mr. Rogers are but passing shadows in the play, and even +nice Laura is only to flit across its few pages for a moment on her way +to happier things. We scarcely notice them in the presence of Mrs. Don, +the gracious, the beautiful, the sympathetic, whose magnetic force and +charm are such that we wish to sit at her feet at once. She is +intellectual, but with a disarming smile, religious, but so charitable, +masterful, and yet loved of all. None is perfect, and there must be a +flaw in her somewhere, but to find it would necessitate such a rummage +among her many adornments as there is now no time for. Perhaps we may +come upon it accidentally in the course of the play. + +She is younger than Mr. Don, who, despite her efforts for many years to +cover his deficiencies, is a man of no great account in a household +where the bigger personality of his wife swallows him like an Aaron's +rod. Mr. Don's deficiencies! She used to try very hard, or fairly hard, +to conceal them from Dick; but Dick knew. His mother was his chum. All +the lovely things which happened in that house in the days when Dick was +alive were between him and her; those two shut the door softly on old +Don, always anxious not to hurt his feelings, and then ran into each +other's arms. + +In the better light Mr. Don is now able to read his paper if he chooses. +If he has forgotten the party at the table, they have equally forgotten +him. + +MRS. DON. 'You have not gone away, have you? We must be patient. Are you +still there?' + +ROGERS. 'I think I felt a movement.' + +MRS. DON. 'Don't talk, please. Are you still there?' + +The table moves. + +'Yes! It is your mother who is speaking; do you understand that?' + +The table moves. + +'Yes. What shall I ask him now?' + +ROGERS. 'We leave it to you, Mrs. Don.' + +MRS. DON. 'Have you any message you want to send us? Yes. Is it +important? Yes. Are we to spell it out in the usual way? Yes. Is the +first letter of the first word A? Is it B?' + +She continues through the alphabet to L, when the table responds. +Similarly she finds that the second letter is O. + +'Is the word _Love_? Yes. But I don't understand that movement. You +are not displeased with us, are you? No. Does the second word begin with +A?--with B? Yes.' + +The second word is spelt out _Bade_ and the third _Me_. + +'Love Bade Me----If it is a quotation, I believe I know it! Is the +fourth word _Welcome_? Yes.' + +LAURA. 'Love Bade Me Welcome.' + +MRS. DON. 'That movement again! Don't you want me to go on?' + +LAURA. 'Let us stop.' + +MRS. DON. 'Not unless he wishes it. Why are those words so important? +Does the message end there? Is any one working against you? Some one +antagonistic? Yes. Not one of ourselves surely? No. Is it any one we +know? Yes. Can I get the name in the usual way? Yes. Is the first letter +of this person's name A?--B?----' + +It proves to be F. One begins to notice a quaint peculiarity of Mrs. +Don's. She is so accustomed to homage that she expects a prompt response +even from the shades. + +'Is the second letter A?' + +The table moves. + +'FA. Fa----?' + +She is suddenly enlightened. + +'Is the word Father? Yes.' + +They all turn and look for the first time at Mr. Don. He has heard, and +rises apologetically. + +MR. DON, distressed, 'I had no intention--Should I go away, Grace?' + +She answers sweetly without a trace of the annoyance she must surely +feel. + +MRS. DON. 'Perhaps you had better, Robert.' + +ROGERS. 'I suppose it is because he is an unbeliever? He is not openly +antagonistic, is he?' + +MRS. DON, sadly enough, 'I am afraid he is.' They tend to discuss the +criminal as if he was not present. + +MAJOR. 'But he must admit that we do get messages.' + +MRS. DON, reluctantly, 'He says we think we do. He says they would not +want to communicate with us if they had such trivial things to say.' + +ROGERS. 'But we are only on the threshold, Don. This is just a +beginning.' + +LAURA. 'Didn't you hear, Mr. Don--"Love Bade Me Welcome"?' + +MR. DON. 'Does that strike you as important, Laura?' + +LAURA. 'He said it was.' + +MRS. DON. 'It might be very important to him, though we don't understand +why.' + +She speaks gently, but there is an obstinacy in him, despite his +meekness. + +MR. DON. 'I didn't mean to be antagonistic, Grace. I thought. I wasn't +thinking of it at all.' + +MRS. DON. 'Not thinking of Dick, Robert? And it was only five months +ago!' + +MR. DON, who is somehow, without meaning it, always in the wrong, +'I'll go.' + +ROGERS. 'A boy wouldn't turn his father out. Ask him.' + +MR. DON, forlornly, 'As to that--as to that----' + +MRS. DON. 'I will ask him if you wish me to, Robert.' + +MR. DON. 'No, don't.' + +ROGERS. 'It can't worry you as you are a disbeliever.' + +MR. DON. 'No, but--I shouldn't like you to think that he sent me away.' + +ROGERS. 'He won't. Will he, Mrs. Don?' + +MR. DON, knowing what her silence implies, 'You see, Dick and I were not +very--no quarrel or anything of that sort--but I, I didn't much matter +to Dick. I'm too old, perhaps.' + +MRS. DON, gently, 'I won't ask him, Robert, if you would prefer me +not to.' + +MR. DON. 'I'll go.' + +MRS. DON. 'I'm afraid it is too late now.' She turns away from earthly +things. 'Do you want me to break off?' + +The table moves. + +'Yes. Do you send me your love, Dick? Yes. And to Laura? Yes.' She +raises her eyes to Don, and hesitates. 'Shall I ask him----?' + +MR. DON. 'No, no, don't.' + +ROGERS. 'It would be all right, Don.' + +MR. DON. 'I don't know.' + +They leave the table. + +LAURA, a little agitated, 'May I go to my room, Mrs. Don? I feel +I--should like to be alone.' + +MRS. DON. 'Yes, yes, Laura dear. I shall come in and see you.' + +Laura bids them good-night and goes. She likes Mr. Don, she strokes his +hand when he holds it out to her, but she can't help saying, 'Oh, Mr. +Don, how could you?' + +ROGERS. 'I think we must all want to be alone after such an evening. +I shall say good-night, Mrs. Don.' + +MAJOR. 'Same here. I go your way, Rogers, but you will find me a silent +companion. One doesn't want to talk ordinary things to-night. Rather +not. Thanks, awfully.' + +ROGERS. 'Good-night, Don. It's a pity, you know; a bit hard on your +wife.' + +MR. DON. 'Good-night, Rogers. Good-night, Major.' + +The husband and wife, left together, have not much to say to each other. +He is depressed because he has spoilt things for her. She is not angry. +She knows that he can't help being as he is, and that there are fine +spaces in her mind where his thoughts can never walk with her. But she +would forgive him seventy times seven because he is her husband. She is +standing looking at a case of fishing-rods against the wall. There is +a Jock Scott still sticking in one of them. Mr. Don says, as if somehow +they were evidence against him: + +'Dick's fishing-rods.' + +She says forgivingly, 'I hope you don't mind my keeping them in the +studio, Robert. They are sacred things to _me_.' + +'That's all right, Grace.' + +'I think I shall go to Laura now.' + +'Yes,' in his inexpressive way. + +'Poor child!' + +'I'm afraid I hurt her.' + +'Dick wouldn't have liked it--but Dick's gone.' She looks a little +wonderingly at him. After all these years, she can sometimes wonder +a little still. 'I suppose you will resume your evening paper!' + +He answers quietly, but with the noble doggedness which is the reason +why we write this chapter in his life. 'Why not, Grace?' + +She considers, for she is so sure that she must know the answer better +than he. 'I suppose it is just that a son is so much more to a mother +than to a father.' + +'I daresay.' + +A little gust of passion shakes her. 'How you can read about the war +nowadays!' + +He says firmly to her--he has had to say it a good many times to +himself, 'I'm not going to give in.' But he adds, 'I am so sorry I was +in the way, Grace. I wasn't scouting you, or anything of that sort. It's +just that I can't believe in it.' + +'Ah, Robert, you would believe if Dick had been to you what he was +to me.' + +'I don't know.' + +'In a sense you may be glad that you don't miss him in the way I do.' + +'Yes, perhaps.' + +'Good-night, Robert.' + +'Good-night, dear.' + +He is alone now. He stands fingering the fishing-rods tenderly, then +wanders back into the ingle-nook. In the room we could scarcely see him, +for it has gone slowly dark there, a grey darkness, as if the lamp, +though still burning, was becoming unable to shed light. Through the +greyness we see him very well beyond it in the glow of the fire. He sits +on the settle and tries to read his paper. He breaks down. He is a +pitiful lonely man. + +In the silence something happens. A well-remembered voice says, +'Father.' Mr. Don looks into the greyness from which this voice comes, +and he sees his son. We see no one, but we are to understand that, to +Mr. Don, Dick is standing there in his habit as he lived. He goes to his +boy. + +'Dick!' + +'I have come to sit with you for a bit, father.' + +It is the gay, young, careless voice. + +'It's you, Dick; it's you!' + +'It's me all right, father. I say, don't be startled, or anything of that +kind. We don't like that.' + +'My boy!' + +Evidently Dick is the taller, for Mr. Don has to look up to him. He puts +his hands on the boy's shoulders. + +'How am I looking, father?' + +'You haven't altered, Dick.' + +'Rather not. It's jolly to see the old studio again!' In a cajoling +voice, 'I say, father, don't fuss. Let us be our ordinary selves, won't +you?' + +'I'll try, I'll try. You didn't say you had come to sit with _me_, +Dick? Not with _me_!' + +'Rather!' + +'But your mother----' + +'It's you I want.' + +'Me?' + +'We can only come to one, you see.' + +'Then why me?' + +'That's the reason.' He is evidently moving about, looking curiously at +old acquaintances. 'Hello, here's your old jacket, greasier than ever!' + +'Me? But, Dick, it is as if you had forgotten. It was your mother who +was everything to you. It can't be you if you have forgotten that. +I used to feel so out of it; but, of course, you didn't know.' + +'I didn't know it till lately, father; but heaps of things that I didn't +know once are clear to me now. I didn't know that you were the one who +would miss me most; but I know now.' + +Though the voice is as boyish as ever, there is a new note in it of +which his father is aware. Dick may not have grown much wiser, but +whatever he does know now he seems to know for certain. + +'_Me_ miss you most? Dick, I try to paint just as before. I go to the +club. Dick, I have been to a dinner-party. I said I wouldn't give in.' + +'We like that.' + +'But, my boy----' + +Mr. Don's arms have gone out to him again. Dick evidently wriggles away +from them. He speaks coaxingly. + +'I say, father, let's get away from that sort of thing.' + +'That is so like you, Dick! I'll do anything you ask.' + +'Then keep a bright face.' + +'I've tried to.' + +'Good man! I say, put on your old greasy; you are looking so beastly +clean.' + +The old greasy is the jacket, and Mr. Don obediently gets into it. + +'Anything you like. No, that's the wrong sleeve. Thanks, Dick.' + +They are in the ingle-nook now, and the mischievous boy catches his +father by the shoulders. + +'Here, let me shove you into your old seat.' + +Mr. Don is propelled on to the settle. + +'How's that, umpire!' + +'Dick,' smiling, 'that's just how you used to butt me into it long ago!' + +Dick is probably standing with his back to the fire, chuckling. + +'When I was a kid.' + +'With the palette in my hand.' + +'Or sticking to your trousers.' + +'The mess we made of ourselves, Dick.' + +'I sneaked behind the settle and climbed up it.' + +'Till you fell off.' + +'On top of you and the palette.' + +It is good fun for a father and son; and the crafty boy has succeeded +in making the father laugh. But soon, + +'Ah, Dick.' + +The son frowns. He is not going to stand any nonsense. + +'Now then, behave! What did I say about that face?' + +Mr. Don smiles at once, obediently. + +'That's better. I'll sit here.' + +We see from his father's face which is smiling with difficulty that Dick +has plopped into the big chair on the other side of the ingle-nook. His +legs are probably dangling over one of its arms. + +Rather sharply, 'Got your pipe?' + +'I don't--I don't seem to care to smoke nowadays, Dick.' + +'Rot! Just because I am dead! You that pretend to be plucky! I won't +have it, you know. You get your pipe, and look slippy about it.' + +'Yes, Dick,' the old man says obediently. He fills his pipe from a jar +on the mantelshelf. We may be sure that Dick is watching closely to see +that he lights it properly. + +'Now, then, burn your thumb with the match--you always did, you know. +That's the style. You've forgotten to cock your head to the side. Not so +bad. That's you. Like it?' + +'It's rather nice, Dick. Dick, you and me by the fire!' + +'Yes, but sit still. How often we might have been like this, father, +and weren't.' + +'Ah!' + +'Face. How is Fido?' + +'Never a dog missed her master more.' + +'Oh,' frowning. 'She doesn't want to go and sit on my grave, or any of +that tosh, does she? As if I were there!' + +'No, no,' hastily; 'she goes ratting, Dick.' + +'Good old Fido!' + +'Dick, here's a good one. We oughtn't to keep a dog at all because we +are on rations now; but what do you think Fido ate yesterday?' + +'Let me guess. The joint?' + +'Almost worse than that. She ate all the cook's meat tickets.' + +They laugh, together, but when Dick says light-heartedly, 'That dog will +be the death of me.' his father shivers. Dick does not notice this; his +eyes have drawn him to the fishing-rods. + +'Hullo!' + +'Yes, those are your old fishing-rods.' + +'Here's the little hickory! Do you remember, father, how I got the +seven-pounder on a burn-trout cast? No, you weren't there. That was +a day. It was really only six and three-quarters. I put a stone in +its mouth the second time we weighed it!' + +'You loved fishing, Dick.' + +'Didn't I? Why weren't you oftener with me? I'll tell you a funny thing, +When I went a soldiering I used to pray--just standing up, you +know--that I shouldn't lose my right arm, because it would be so awkward +for casting.' He cogitates as he returns to the ingle-nook. 'Somehow I +never thought I should be killed. Lots of fellows thought that about +themselves, but I never did. It was quite a surprise to me.' + +'Oh, Dick!' + +'What's the matter? Oh, I forgot. Face!' He is apparently looking down +at his father wonderingly. 'Haven't you got over it yet, father? I got +over it so long ago. I wish you people would understand what a little +thing it is.' + +'Tell me,' very humbly; 'tell me, Dick.' + +'All right.' He is in the chair again. + +'Mind, I can't tell you where I was killed; it's against the +regulations.' + +'I know where.' + +Curiously, 'You got a wire, I suppose?' + +'Yes.' + +'There's always a wire for officers, even for 2nd Lieutenants. It's +jolly decent of them.' + +'Tell me, Dick, about the--the veil. I mean the veil that is drawn +between the living and the----.' + +'The dead? Funny how you jib at that word.' + +'I suppose the veil is like a mist?' + +'The veil's a rummy thing, father. Yes, like a mist. But when one has +been at the Front for a bit, you can't think how thin the veil seems to +get; just one layer of it. I suppose it seems thin to you out there +because one step takes you through it. We sometimes mix up those who +have gone through with those who haven't. I daresay if I were to go back +to my old battalion the living chaps would just nod to me.' + +'Dick!' + +'Where's that pipe? Death? Well, to me, before my day came, it was like +some part of the line I had heard a lot about but never been in. I mean, +never been in to stay, because, of course, one often popped in and out.' + +'Dick, the day that you----' + +'My day? I don't remember being hit, you know. I don't remember anything +till the quietness came. When you have been killed it suddenly becomes +very quiet; quieter even than you have ever known it at home. Sunday +used to be a pretty quiet day at my tutor's, when Trotter and I +flattened out on the first shady spot up the river; but it is quieter +than that. I am not boring you, am I?' + +'My boy!' + +'When I came to, the veil was so thin that I couldn't see it at all; and +my first thought was, Which side of it have I come out on? The living +ones lying on the ground were asking that about themselves, too. There +we were, all sitting up and asking whether we were alive or dead; and +some were one, and some were the other. Sort of fluke, you know.' + +'I--I--oh, Dick!' + +'As soon as each had found out about himself he wondered how it had gone +with his chums, I halloo'd to Johnny Randall, and he halloo'd back that +he was dead, but that Trotter was living. That's the way of it. A good +deal of chaff, of course. By that time the veil was there, and getting +thicker, and we lined up on our right sides. Then I could only see the +living ones in shadow and hear their voices from a distance. They sang +out to us for a while; but just at first, father, it was rather lonely +when we couldn't hear their tread any longer. What are you fidgeting +about? You needn't worry; that didn't last long; we were heaps more +interested in ourselves than in them. You should have heard the +gabbling! It was all so frightfully novel, you see; and no one quite +knew what to do next, whether all to start off together, or wait for +some one to come for us. I say, what a lot I'm talking!' + +'What happened, Dick?' + +'Oh!' a proud ring coming into the voice, 'Ockley came for us. He used +to be alive, you know--the Ockley who was keeper of the fives in my +first half. I once pointed him out to mother. I was jolly glad he was +the one who came for us. As soon as I saw it was Ockley I knew we should +be all right.' + +'Dick, I like that Ockley.' + +'Rather. I wish I could remember something funny to tell you though. +There are lots of jokes, but I am such a one for forgetting them.' + +He laughs boisterously. We may be sure that he flings back his head. You +remember how Dick used to fling back his head when he laughed?--No, you +didn't know him. + +'Father, do you remember little Wantage who was at my private and came +on to Ridley's house in my third half? His mother was the one you called +Emily.' + +'Emily Wantage's boy.' + +'That's the card. We used to call him Jemima, because he and his mother +were both caught crying when lock-up struck, and she had to clear out.' + +'She was very fond of him, Dick.' + +'Oh, I expect no end. Tell her he's killed.' + +'She knows.' + +'She had got a wire. That isn't the joke, though. You see he got into a +hopeless muddle about which side of the veil he had come out on; and he +went off with the other ones, and they wouldn't have him, and he got +lost in the veil, running up and down it, calling to us; and just for +the lark we didn't answer.' He chuckles, 'I expect he has become a +ghost!' With sudden consideration, 'Best not tell his mother that.' + +Mr. Don rises, wincing, and Dick also is at once on his feet, full of +compunction. + +'Was that shabby of me? Sorry, father. We are all pretty young, you +know, and we can't help having our fun still.' + +'I'm glad you still have your fun,' the father says, once more putting +his hands on Dick's shoulders. 'Let me look at you again, Dick. There is +such a serenity about you now.' + +'Serenity, that's the word! None of us could remember what the word was. +It's a ripping good thing to have. I should be awfully bucked if you +would have it, too.' + +'I'll try.' + +'I say, how my tongue runs on! But, after all, it was my show. Now, you +tell me some things.' + +'What about, Dick? The war?' + +'No,' almost in a shout. 'We have a fine for speaking about the war. And +you know, those fellows we were fighting--I forget who they were?' + +'The Germans.' + +'Oh yes. Some of them were on the same side of the veil with us, and +they were rather decent; so we chummed up in the end and Ockley took us +all away together. They were jolly lucky in getting Ockley. There I go +again! Come on, it's your turn. Has the bathroom tap been mended yet?' + +'I'm afraid it is--just tied up with that string still, Dick. It works +all right.' + +'It only needs two screw-nails, you know.' + +'I'll see to it.' + +'Do you know whether any one at my tutors got his fives choice this +half?' + +'I'm sorry, Dick, but----' + +'Or who is the captain of the boats?' + +'No, I----' + +'Whatever have you been doing?' He is moving about the room. 'Hullo, +here's mother's work-box! Is mother all right?' + +'Very sad about you, Dick.' + +'Oh, I say, that isn't fair. Why doesn't she cheer up?' + +'It isn't so easy, my boy.' + +'It's pretty hard lines on me, you know.' + +'How is that?' + +'If you are sad, I have to be sad. That's how we have got to work it +off. You can't think how we want to be bright.' + +'I'll always remember that, and I'll tell your mother. Ah, but she won't +believe me, Dick; you will have to tell her yourself.' + +'I can't do that, father. I can only come to one.' + +'She should have been the one; she loved you best, Dick.' + +'Oh, I don't know. Do you ever,' with a slight hesitation, 'see Laura +now?' + +'She is staying with us at present.' + +'Is she? I think I should like to see her.' + +'If Laura were to see you----' + +'Oh, she wouldn't see me. She is not dressed in black, is she?' + +'No, in white.' + +'Good girl! I suppose mother is in black?' + +'Surely, Dick.' + +'It's too bad, you know.' + +'You weren't exactly--engaged to Laura, were you, Dick?' A bold question +from a father, but the circumstances were unusual. Apologetically, 'I +never rightly knew.' + +'No!' Dick has flung back his head again. Confidentially, 'Father, I +sometimes thought of it, but it rather scared me! I expect that is about +how it was with her, too.' + +'She is very broken about you now.' + +Irritated, 'Oh, hang!' + +'Would you like her to forget you, Dick?' + +'Rather not. But she might help a fellow a bit. Hullo!' + +What calls forth this exclamation, is the little table at which the +seance had taken place. The four chairs are still standing round it, as +if they were guarding something. + +'Here's something new, father; this table.' + +'Yes, It is usually in the drawing-room.' + +'Of course. I remember.' + +Mr. Don sets his teeth. 'Does that table suggest anything to you, Dick?' + +'To me? Let me think. Yes, I used to play backgammon on it. What is it +doing here?' + +'Your mother brought it in.' + +'To play games on? Mother!' + +'I don't--know that it was a game, Dick.' + +'But to play anything! I'm precious glad she can do that. Was Laura +playing with her?' + +'She was helping her.' + +'Good for Laura.' He is looking at some slips of paper on the table. +'Are those pieces of paper used in the game? There is writing on them: +"The first letter is H--the second letter is A--the third letter is R." +What does it mean?' + +'Does it convey no meaning to you, Dick?' + +'To me? No; why should it?' + +Mr. Don is enjoying no triumph. 'Let us go back to the fire, my boy.' + +Dick follows him into the ingle-nook. 'But, why should it convey a +meaning to me? I was never much of a hand at indoor games.' Brightly, +'I bet you Ockley would be good at it.' After a joyous ramble, 'Ockley's +nickname still sticks to him!' + +'I don't think I know it.' + +'He was a frightful swell, you know. Keeper of the field, and played +against Harrow the same year. I suppose it did go just a little to his +head.' + +They are back in their old seats, and Mr. Don leans forward in gleeful +anticipation. Probably Dick is leaning forward in the same way, and this +old father is merely copying him. + +'What did you nickname him, Dick?' + +'It was his fags that did it!' + +'I should like to know it. I say, do tell me, Dick.' + +'He is pretty touchy about it now, you know.' + +'I won't tell any one. Come on, Dick.' + +'His fags called him K.C.M.G.' + +'Meaning, meaning, Dick?' + +'Meaning "Kindly Call Me God!"' + +Mr. Don flings back his head; so we know what Dick is doing. They are +a hilarious pair, perhaps too noisy, for suddenly Mr. Don looks at the +door. + +'I think I heard some one, Dick!' + +'Perhaps it's mother!' + +'She may,' nervously, 'have heard the row.' + +Dick's eyes must be twinkling. 'I say, father, you'll catch it!' + +'I can't believe, Dick,' gazing wistfully into the chair, 'that she +won't see you.' + +It is a sadder voice than his own for the moment that answers, 'Only one +may see me.' + +'You will speak to her, Dick. Let her hear your voice.' + +'Only one may hear me. I could make her the one; but it would mean your +losing me.' + +'I can't give you up, Dick.' + +Mrs. Don comes in, as beautiful as ever, but a little aggrieved. + +'I called to you, Robert.' + +'Yes, I thought--I was just going to----' + +He has come from the ingle-nook to meet her. He looks from her to Dick, +whom he sees so clearly, standing now by the fire. An awe falls upon Mr. +Don. He says her name, meaning, 'See, Grace, who is with us.' + +Her eyes follow his, but she sees nothing, not even two arms +outstretched to her. 'What is it, Robert? What is the matter?' + +She does not hear a voice say, 'Mother!' + +'I heard you laughing, Robert; what on earth at?' + +The father cannot speak. + +'Now you're in a hole, father!' says a mischievous, voice. + +'Can I not be told, Robert?' + +'Something in the paper,' the voice whispers. + +Mr. Don lifts the paper feebly, and his wife understands. 'Oh, a +newspaper joke! Please, I don't want to hear it.' + +'Was it my laughing that brought you back, Grace?' + +'No, that would only have made me shut my door. If Dick thought you +could laugh!' She goes to the little table. 'I came back for these +slips of paper.' She lifts them and presses them to her breast. 'These +precious slips of paper!' + +Dick was always a curious boy, and forgetting that she cannot hear him, +he blurts out, 'How do you mean, mother? Why are they precious?' + +Mr. Don forgets also and looks to her for an answer. + +'What is it, Robert?' + +'Didn't you--hear anything, Grace?' + +'No. Perhaps Laura was calling; I left her on the stair.' + +'I wish,' Mr. Don is fighting for Dick now, 'I wish Laura would come +back and say good-night to me.' + +'I daresay she will.' + +'And,' valiantly, 'if she could be--rather brighter, Grace.' + +'Robert!' + +'I think Dick would like it.' + +Her fine eyes reproach him mutely, but she says, ever forgiving, 'Is +that how you look at it, Robert? Very well, laugh your fill--if you can. +But if Dick were to appear before me to-night----' + +In his distress Mr. Don cries aloud to the figure by the fire, 'Dick, if +you can appear to your mother, do it.' + +There is a pause in which anything may happen, but nothing happens. +Yes, something happened: Dick has stuck to his father. + +'Really, Robert!' Mrs. Don says, and, without a word of reproach, she +goes away. Evidently Dick comes to his father, who has sank into a chair, +and puts a loving hand on him. Mr. Don clasps it without looking up. + +'Father, that was top-hole of you! Poor mother, I should have liked to +hug her; but I can't.' + +'You should have gone to her, Dick; you shouldn't have minded me.' + +The wiser boy says, 'Mother's a darling, but she doesn't need me as much +as you do.' + +'I don't know.' + +'That's all right. I'm glad she's so keen about that game, though.' + +He has returned to the ingle-nook when Laura comes in, eager to make +amends to Dick's father if she hurt him when she went out. + +Softly, 'I have come to say good-night, Mr. Don.' + +'It's nice of you, Laura,' taking both her hands. + +Dick speaks. 'I want her to come nearer to the fire; I can't see her +very well there.' + +For a moment Mr. Don is caught out again; but Laura has heard nothing. +He becomes quite cunning in Dick's interests. + +'Your hands are cold, Laura; go over to the fire. I want to look at +you.' + +She sits on the hearthstone by Dick's feet. + +Shyly, 'Am I all right?' + +It is Dick who answers. 'You're awfully pretty, Laura. You are even +prettier than I thought. I remember I used to think, she can't be quite +as pretty as I think her; and then when you came you were just a little +prettier.' + +She has been warming her hands. 'Why don't you say anything?' she asks +Mr. Don. + +'I was thinking of you and Dick, Laura.' + +'What a pretty soul she has, father,' says the boy; 'I can see right +down into it now.' + +'If Dick had lived, Laura, do you think that you and he--?' + +With shining eyes, 'I think--if he had wanted it very much.' + +'I expect he would, my dear.' + +There is an odd candour about Dick's contribution. 'I think so, too, but +I never was quite sure.' They are a very young pair. + +Laura is trembling a little. 'Mr. Don--' + +'Yes, Laura?' + +'I think there is something wicked about me. I sometimes feel quite +light-hearted--though Dick has gone.' + +'Perhaps, nowadays, the fruit trees have that sort of shame when they +blossom, Laura; but they can't help doing it. I hope you are yet to be +a happy woman, a happy wife.' + +'It seems so heartless to Dick.' + +'Not a bit; it's what I should like,' Dick says. + +'It's what he would like, Laura.' + +'Do you remember, Laura,' Dick goes on, 'I kissed you once. It was under +a lilac in the Loudon Woods. I knew at the time that you were angry, and +I should have apologised. I'm sorry, Laura.' + +His sweetheart has risen, tasting something bitter-sweet. 'What is it, +Laura?' Mr. Don asks. + +'Somehow--I don't know how--but, for a moment I seemed to feel the smell +of lilac. Dick was once--nice to me under a lilac. Oh, Mr. Don--' She +goes to him like a child, and he soothes and pets her. + +'There, there! That will be all right, quite all right.' He takes her to +the door. 'Good-night, my dear.' + +'Good-night, Mr. Don.' + +'Good-bye, Laura,' says the third voice. + +Mr. Don is looking so glum that the moment they are alone Dick has to +cry warningly, 'Face!' He is probably looking glum himself, for he says +candidly, 'Pretty awful things, these partings. Father, don't feel hurt +though I dodge the good-bye business when I leave you.' + +'That's so like you, Dick!' + +'I'll have to go soon.' + +'Oh, Dick! Can't you--' + +'There's something I want not to miss, you see.' + +'I'm glad of that.' + +'I'm not going yet; but I mean that when I do I'll just slip away.' + +'What I am afraid of is that you won't come back.' + +'I will--honest Injun--if you keep bright.' + +'But, if I do that, Dick, you might think I wasn't missing you so much.' + +'We know better than that. You see, if you're bright, I'll get a good +mark for it.' + +'I'll be bright.' + +Dick pops him into the settle again. + +'Remember your pipe.' + +'Yes, Dick.' + +'Do you still go to that swimming-bath, and do your dumb-bell +exercises?' + +'No, I--' + +'You must.' + +'All right, Dick, I will.' + +'And I want you to be smarter next time. Your hair's awful.' + +'I'll get it cut, Dick.' + +'Are you hard at work over your picture of those three Graces?' + +'No. I put that away. I'm just doing little things nowadays. I can't--' + +'Look here, sonny, you've got to go on with it. You don't seem to know +how interested I am in your future.' + +'Very well, Dick; I'll bring it out again.' + +Mr. Don hesitates. + +'Dick, there is something I have wanted to ask you all the time.' + +Some fear seems to come into the boy's voice. 'Don't ask it, father.' + +'I shall go on worrying about it if I don't--but just as you like, +Dick.' + +'Go ahead, father; ask me.' + +'It is this. Would you rather be--here--than there?' + +After a pause the boy says, 'Not always.' + +'What is the great difference, Dick?' + +'Well, down here one knows he has risks to run.' + +'And you miss that?' + +'It must be rather jolly.' + +'Did you know that was what I was to ask?' + +'Yes. But, remember, I'm young at it.' + +'And your gaiety, Dick; is it all real, or only put on to help me?' + +'It's--it's half and half, father.' + +'Face!' he cries, next moment. Then cajolingly, 'Father, K.C.M.G.!' + +'When will you come again, Dick?' + +'There's no saying. One can't always get through. They keep changing the +password.' His voice grows troubled. 'It's awfully difficult to get the +password.' + +'What was it to-night?' + +'Love Bade Me Welcome.' + +Mr. Don rises; he stares at his son. + +'How did you get it, Dick?' + +'I'm not sure.' Dick seems to go closer to his father, as if for +protection. 'There are lots of things I don't understand yet.' + +'There are things I don't understand either. Dick, did you ever try to +send messages--from there---to us?' + +'Me? No.' + +'Or get messages from us?' + +'No. How could we?' + +'Is there anything in it?' + +Mr. Don is not speaking to his son. He goes to the little table and +looks long at it. Has it taken on a sinister aspect? Those chairs, are +they guarding a secret? + +'Dick, this table--your mother--how could they----' + +He turns, to find that Dick has gone. + +'Dick! My boy! Dick!' + +The well-remembered voice leaves a message behind it. + +'Be bright, father.' + +Mr. Don sits down by the fire to think it all out. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Echoes of the War, by J. M. Barrie + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ECHOES OF THE WAR *** + +This file should be named wecho10.txt or wecho10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, wecho11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, wecho10a.txt + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, David Garcia +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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M. + Barrie. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + <!-- + * { font-family: Times;} + P { text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: .75em; + font-size: 12pt; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; } + HR { width: 33%; } + // --> + </style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Echoes of the War, by J. M. Barrie +#11 in our series by J. M. Barrie + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Echoes of the War + +Author: J. M. Barrie + +Release Date: January, 2006 [EBook #9617] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on October 10, 2003] +[Date last updated: December 13, 2004] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ECHOES OF THE WAR *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, David Garcia and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + +</pre> + + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <h1> + ECHOES OF THE WAR + </h1> + <center> + <b>BY J. M. BARRIE</b> + </center> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="TOC"><!-- TOC --></a> + <h2> + CONTENTS + </h2> + <center> + <a href="#RULE4_1">THE OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS</a><br> + <a href="#RULE4_2">THE NEW WORD</a><br> + <a href="#RULE4_3">BARBARA'S WEDDING</a><br> + <a href="#RULE4_4">A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE</a> + </center> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_1"><!-- RULE4 1 --></a> + <h2> + THE OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS + </h2> + <p> + Three nice old ladies and a criminal, who is even nicer, are + discussing the war over a cup of tea. The criminal, who is + the hostess, calls it a dish of tea, which shows that she + comes from Caledonia; but that is not her crime. + </p> + <p> + They are all London charwomen, but three of them, including + the hostess, are what are called professionally 'charwomen + <i>and</i>' or simply 'ands.' An 'and' is also a caretaker + when required; her name is entered as such in ink in a + registry book, financial transactions take place across a + counter between her and the registrar, and altogether she is + of a very different social status from one who, like Mrs. + Haggerty, is a charwoman but nothing else. Mrs. Haggerty, + though present, is not at the party by invitation; having + seen Mrs. Dowey buying the winkles, she followed her + downstairs, so has shuffled into the play and sat down in it + against our wish. We would remove her by force, or at least + print her name in small letters, were it not that she takes + offence very readily and says that nobody respects her. So, + as you have slipped in, you sit there, Mrs. Haggerty; but + keep quiet. + </p> + <p> + There is nothing doing at present in the caretaking way for + Mrs. Dowey, our hostess; but this does not damp her, + caretaking being only to such as she an extra financially and + a halo socially. If she had the honour of being served with + an income-tax paper she would probably fill in one of the + nasty little compartments with the words, + 'Trade—charring; Profession (if any)—caretaking.' + This home of hers (from which, to look after your house, she + makes occasionally temporary departures in great style, + escorting a barrow) is in one of those what-care-I streets + that you discover only when you have lost your way; on + discovering them, your duty is to report them to the + authorities, who immediately add them to the map of London. + That is why we are now reporting Friday Street. We shall call + it, in the rough sketch drawn for to-morrow's press, 'Street + in which the criminal resided'; and you will find Mrs. + Dowey's home therein marked with a X. + </p> + <p> + Her abode really consists of one room, but she maintains that + there are two; so, rather than argue, let us say that there + are two. The other one has no window, and she could not swish + her old skirts in it without knocking something over; its + grandest display is of tin pans and crockery on top of a + dresser which has a lid to it; you have but to whip off the + utensils and raise the lid, and, behold, a bath with hot and + cold. Mrs. Dowey is very proud of this possession, and when + she shows it off, as she does perhaps too frequently, she + first signs to you with closed fist (funny old thing that she + is) to approach softly. She then tiptoes to the dresser and + pops off the lid, as if to take the bath unawares. Then she + sucks her lips, and is modest if you have the grace to do the + exclamations. + </p> + <p> + In the real room is a bed, though that is putting the matter + too briefly. The fair way to begin, if you love Mrs. Dowey, + is to say to her that it is a pity she has no bed. If she is + in her best form she will chuckle, and agree that the want of + a bed tries her sore; she will keep you on the hooks, so to + speak, as long as she can; and then, with that mouse-like + movement again, she will suddenly spring the bed on you. You + thought it was a wardrobe, but she brings it down from the + wall; and lo, a bed. There is nothing else in her abode + (which we now see to contain four rooms—kitchen, + pantry, bedroom, and bathroom) that is absolutely a surprise; + but it is full of 'bits,' every one of which has been paid + ready money for, and gloated over and tended until it has + become part of its owner. Genuine Doweys, the dealers might + call them, though there is probably nothing in the place + except the bed that would fetch half-a-crown. + </p> + <p> + Her home is in the basement, so that the view is restricted + to the lower half of persons passing overhead beyond the area + stairs. Here at the window Mrs. Dowey sometimes sits of a + summer evening gazing, not sentimentally at a flower-pot + which contains one poor bulb, nor yearningly at some tiny + speck of sky, but with unholy relish at holes in stockings, + and the like, which are revealed to her from her point of + vantage. You, gentle reader, may flaunt by, thinking that + your finery awes the street, but Mrs. Dowey can tell (and + does) that your soles are in need of neat repair. + </p> + <p> + Also, lower parts being as expressive as the face to those + whose view is thus limited, she could swear to scores of the + passers-by in a court of law. + </p> + <p> + These four lively old codgers are having a good time at the + tea-table, and wit is flowing free. As you can see by their + everyday garments, and by their pails and mops (which are + having a little tea-party by themselves in the corner), it is + not a gathering by invitations stretching away into + yesterday, it is a purely informal affair; so much more + attractive, don't you think? than banquets elaborately + prearranged. You know how they come about, especially in + war-time. Very likely Mrs. Dowey met Mrs. Twymley and Mrs. + Mickleham quite casually in the street, and meant to do no + more than the time of day; then, naturally enough, the word + camouflage was mentioned, and they got heated, but in the end + Mrs. Twymley apologised; then, in the odd way in which one + thing leads to another, the winkle man appeared, and Mrs. + Dowey remembered that she had that pot of jam and that Mrs. + Mickleham had stood treat last time; and soon they were all + three descending the area stairs, followed cringingly by the + Haggerty Woman. + </p> + <p> + They have been extremely merry, and never were four + hard-worked old ladies who deserved it better. All a woman + can do in war-time they do daily and cheerfully. Just as + their men-folk are doing it at the Front; and now, with the + mops and pails laid aside, they sprawl gracefully at ease. + There is no intention on their part to consider peace terms + until a decisive victory has been gained in the field (Sarah + Ann Dowey), until the Kaiser is put to the right-about (Emma + Mickleham), and singing very small (Amelia Twymley). + </p> + <p> + At this tea-party the lady who is to play the part of Mrs. + Dowey is sure to want to suggest that our heroine has a + secret sorrow, namely, the crime; but you should see us + knocking that idea out of her head! Mrs. Dowey knows she is a + criminal, but, unlike the actress, she does not know that she + is about to be found out; and she is, to put it bluntly in + her own Scotch way, the merriest of the whole clanjamfry. She + presses more tea on her guests, but they wave her away from + them in the pretty manner of ladies who know that they have + already had more than enough. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Just one more winkle, Mrs. Mickleham?' Indeed + there is only one more. + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Mickleham indicates politely that if she took this + one it would have to swim for it. (The Haggerty Woman takes + it long afterwards when she thinks, erroneously, that no one + is looking.) + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Twymley is sulking. Evidently some one has contradicted + her. Probably the Haggerty Woman. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I say it is so.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I say it may be so.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I suppose I ought to know: me that has a son a + prisoner in Germany.' She has so obviously scored that all + good feeling seems to call upon her to end here. But she + continues rather shabbily, 'Being the only lady present that + has that proud misfortune.' The others are stung. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'My son is fighting in France.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Mine is wounded in two places.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Mine is at Salonaiky.' + </p> + <p> + The absurd pronunciation of this uneducated person moves the + others to mirth. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'You'll excuse us, Mrs. Haggerty, but the correct + pronunciation is Salonikky.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, to cover her confusion. 'I don't think.' + She feels that even this does not prove her case. 'And I + speak as one that has War Savings Certificates.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'We all have them.' + </p> + <p> + The Haggerty Woman whimpers, and the other guests regard her + with unfeeling disdain. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, to restore cheerfulness, 'Oh, it's a terrible + war.' + </p> + <p> + ALL, brightening, 'It is. You may say so.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, encouraged, 'What I say is, the men is splendid, + but I'm none so easy about the staff. That's your weak point, + Mrs. Mickleham.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM, on the defence, but determined to reveal + nothing that might be of use to the enemy, 'You may take it + from me, the staff's all right.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'And very relieved I am to hear you say it.' + </p> + <p> + It is here that the Haggerty Woman has the remaining winkle. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'You don't understand properly about trench + warfare. If I had a map——' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, wetting her finger to draw lines on the table. + 'That's the river Sommy. Now, if we had barrages + here——' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Very soon you would be enfilided. Where's your + supports, my lady?' Mrs. Dowey is damped. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'What none of you grasps is that this is a + artillery war——' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, strengthened by the winkle, 'I say that + the word is Salonaiky.' + </p> + <p> + The others purse their lips. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY, with terrible meaning, 'We'll change the + subject. Have you seen this week's <i>Fashion Chat</i>?' She + has evidently seen and devoured it herself, and even licked + up the crumbs. 'The gabardine with accordion pleats has quite + gone out.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, her old face sparkling. 'My sakes! You tell me?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY, with the touch of haughtiness that comes of + great topics, 'The plain smock has come in again, with silk + lacing, giving that charming chic effect.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Oho!' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I must say I was always partial to the + straight line'—thoughtfully regarding the want of line + in Mrs. Twymley's person—'though trying to them as is + of too friendly a figure.' + </p> + <p> + It is here that the Haggerty Woman's fingers close + unostentatiously upon a piece of sugar. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY, sailing into the Empyrean, 'Lady Dolly Kanister + was seen conversing across the railings in a dainty <i>de + jou</i>.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Fine would I have liked to see her.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'She is equally popular as maid, wife, and + munition-worker. Her two children is inset. Lady Pops + Babington was married in a tight tulle.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'What was her going-away dress?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'A champagny cream velvet with dreamy corsage. + She's married to Colonel the Hon. Chingford—"Snubs," + they called him at Eton.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, having disposed of the sugar, 'Very + likely he'll be sent to Salonaiky.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Wherever he is sent, she'll have the same + tremors as the rest of us. She'll be as keen to get the + letters wrote with pencils as you or me.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Them pencil letters!' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, in her sweet Scotch voice, timidly, afraid she + may be going too far, 'And women in enemy lands gets those + pencil letters and then stop getting them, the same as + ourselves. Let's occasionally think of that.' + </p> + <p> + She has gone too far. Chairs are pushed back. + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I ask you!' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'That's hardly language, Mrs. Dowey.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, scared, 'Kindly excuse. I swear to death I'm none + of your pacifists.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Freely granted.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I've heard of females that have no male + relations, and so they have no man-party at the wars. I've + heard of them, but I don't mix with them.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'What can the likes of us have to say to + them? It's not their war.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, wistfully, 'They are to be pitied.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'But the place for them, Mrs. Dowey, is + within doors with the blinds down.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, hurriedly, 'That's the place for them.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I saw one of them to-day buying a flag. I + thought it was very impudent of her.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, meekly, 'So it was.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM, trying to look modest with indifferent + success, 'I had a letter from my son, Percy, yesterday.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Alfred sent me his photo.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Letters from Salonaiky is less common.' + </p> + <p> + Three bosoms heave, but not, alas, Mrs. Dowey's. Nevertheless + she doggedly knits her lips. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, the criminal, 'Kenneth writes to me every week.' + There are exclamations. The dauntless old thing holds aloft a + packet of letters. 'Look at this. All his.' + </p> + <p> + The Haggerty Woman whimpers. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Alfred has little time for writing, being a + bombardier.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, relentlessly, 'Do your letters begin "Dear + mother"?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Generally.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Invariable.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Every time.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, delivering the knock-out blow, 'Kenneth's begin + "Dearest mother.'" + </p> + <p> + No one can think of the right reply. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY, doing her best, 'A short man, I should say, + judging by yourself.' + </p> + <p> + She ought to have left it alone. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Six feet two-and a half.' + </p> + <p> + The gloom deepens. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM, against her better judgment, 'A kilty, did + you tell me?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Most certainly. He's in the famous Black Watch.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, producing her handkerchief, 'The Surrey + Rifles is the famousest.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'There you and the King disagrees, Mrs. + Haggerty. His choice is the Buffs, same as my Percy's.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY, magnanimously, 'Give me the R.H.A. and you can + keep all the rest.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'I'm sure I have nothing to say against the + Surreys and the R.H.A. and the Buffs; but they are just + breeches regiments, I understand.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'We can't all be kilties.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, crushingly, 'That's very true.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. It is foolish of her, but she can't help saying + it. 'Has your Kenneth great hairy legs?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Tremendous.' + </p> + <p> + The wicked woman: but let us also say 'Poor Sarah Ann Dowey.' + For at this moment, enter Nemesis. In other words, the less + important part of a clergyman appears upon the stair. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'It's the reverent gent!' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, little knowing what he is bringing her, 'I see he + has had his boots heeled.' + </p> + <p> + It may be said of Mr. Willings that his happy smile always + walks in front of him. This smile makes music of his life, + it means that once again he has been chosen, in his opinion, + as the central figure in romance. No one can well have led a + more drab existence, but he will never know it; he will + always think of himself, humbly though elatedly, as the + chosen of the gods. Of him must it have been originally + written that adventures are for the adventurous. He meets + them at every street corner. For instance, he assists an old + lady off a bus, and asks her if he can be of any further + help. She tells him that she wants to know the way to Maddox + the butcher's. Then comes the kind, triumphant smile; it + always comes first, followed by its explanation, 'I was there + yesterday!' This is the merest sample of the adventures that + keep Mr. Willings up to the mark. + </p> + <p> + Since the war broke out, his zest for life has become almost + terrible. He can scarcely lift a newspaper and read of a hero + without remembering that he knows some one of the name. The + Soldiers' Rest he is connected with was once a china + emporium, and (mark my words), he had bought his tea service + at it. Such is life when you are in the thick of it. + Sometimes he feels that he is part of a gigantic spy drama. + In the course of his extraordinary comings and goings he + meets with Great Personages, of course, and is the + confidential recipient of secret news. Before imparting the + news he does not, as you might expect, first smile + expansively; on the contrary, there comes over his face an + awful solemnity, which, however, means the same thing. When + divulging the names of the personages, he first looks around + to make sure that no suspicious character is about, and then, + lowering his voice, tells you, 'I had that from Mr. Farthing + himself—he is the secretary of the Bethnal Green + Branch,—h'sh!' + </p> + <p> + There is a commotion about finding a worthy chair for the + reverent, and there is also some furtive pulling down of + sleeves, but he stands surveying the ladies through his + triumphant smile. This amazing man knows that he is about to + score again. + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS, waving aside the chairs, 'I thank you. But not + at all. Friends, I have news.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'News?' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'From the Front?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'My Alfred, sir?' + </p> + <p> + They are all grown suddenly anxious—all except the + hostess, who knows that there can never be any news from the + Front for her. + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS. 'I tell you at once that all is well. The news + is for Mrs. Dowey.' + </p> + <p> + She stares. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'News for me?' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS. 'Your son, Mrs. Dowey—he has got five + days' leave.' She shakes her head slightly, or perhaps it + only trembles a little on its stem. 'Now, now, good news + doesn't kill.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'We're glad, Mrs. Dowey.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'You're sure?' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS. 'Quite sure. He has arrived.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'He is in London?' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS. 'He is. I have spoken to him.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'You lucky woman.' + </p> + <p> + They might see that she is not looking lucky, but experience + has told them how differently these things take people. + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS, marvelling more and more as he unfolds his + tale, 'Ladies, it is quite a romance, I was in + the——' he looks around cautiously, but he knows + that they are all to be trusted—'in the Church Army + quarters in Central Street, trying to get on the track of one + or two of our missing men. Suddenly my eyes—I can't + account for it—but suddenly my eyes alighted on a + Highlander seated rather drearily on a bench, with his kit at + his feet.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'A big man?' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS. 'A great brawny fellow.' The Haggerty Woman + groans. '"My friend," I said at once, "welcome back to + Blighty." I make a point of calling it Blighty. "I wonder," I + said, "if there is anything I can do for you?" He shook his + head. "What regiment?" I asked.' Here Mr. Willings very + properly lowers his voice to a whisper. '"Black Watch, 5th + Battalion," he said. "Name?" I asked. "Dowey," he said.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I declare. I do declare.' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS, showing how the thing was done, with the help + of a chair, 'I put my hand on his shoulder as it might be + thus. "Kenneth Dowey," I said, "I know your mother."' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, wetting her lips, 'What did he say to that?' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS. 'He was incredulous. Indeed, he seemed to think + I was balmy. But I offered to bring him straight to you. I + told him how much you had talked to me about him.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Bring him here!' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I wonder he needed to be brought.' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS. 'He had just arrived, and was bewildered by the + great city. He listened to me in the taciturn Scotch way, and + then he gave a curious laugh.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Laugh?' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS, whose wild life has brought him into contact + with the strangest people, 'The Scotch, Mrs. Twymley, express + their emotions differently from us. With them tears signify a + rollicking mood, while merriment denotes that they are + plunged in gloom. When I had finished he said at once, "Let + us go and see the old lady."' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY, backing, which is the first movement she has made + since he began his tale, 'Is he—coming?' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS, gloriously, 'He has come. He is up there. I + told him I thought I had better break the joyful news to + you.' + </p> + <p> + Three women rush to the window. Mrs. Dowey looks at her + pantry door, but perhaps she remembers that it does not lock + on the inside. She stands rigid, though her face has gone + very grey. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Kindly get them to go away.' + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS. 'Ladies, I think this happy occasion scarcely + requires you.' He is not the man to ask of woman a sacrifice + that he is not prepared to make himself. 'I also am going + instantly.' They all survey Mrs. Dowey, and + understand—or think they understand. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY, pail and mop in hand, 'I would thank none for + their company if my Alfred was at the door.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM, similarly burdened, 'The same from me. Shall + I send him down, Mrs. Dowey?' The old lady does not hear her. + She is listening, terrified, for a step on the stairs. 'Look + at the poor, joyous thing, sir. She has his letters in her + hand.' + </p> + <p> + The three women go. Mr. Willings puts a kind hand on Mrs. + Dowey's shoulder. He thinks he so thoroughly understands the + situation. + </p> + <p> + MR. WILLINGS. 'A good son, Mrs. Dowey, to have written to you + so often.' + </p> + <p> + Our old criminal quakes, but she grips the letters more + tightly. Private Dowey descends. + </p> + <p> + 'Dowey, my friend, there she is, waiting for you, with your + letters in her hand.' + </p> + <p> + DOWEY, grimly, 'That's great.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Willings ascends the stair without one backward glance, + like the good gentleman he is; and the Doweys are left + together, with nearly the whole room between them. He is a + great rough chunk of Scotland, howked out of her not so much + neatly as liberally; and in his Black Watch uniform, all + caked with mud, his kit and nearly all his worldly + possessions on his back, he is an apparition scarcely less + fearsome (but so much less ragged) than those ancestors of + his who trotted with Prince Charlie to Derby. He stands + silent, scowling at the old lady, daring her to raise her + head; and she would like very much to do it, for she longs to + have a first glimpse of her son. When he does speak, it is to + jeer at her. + </p> + <p> + 'Do you recognise your loving son, missis?' ('Oh, the fine + Scotch tang of him,' she thinks.) 'I'm pleased I wrote so + often.' ('Oh, but he's <i>raized</i>,' she thinks.) He + strides towards her, and seizes the letters roughly, 'Let's + see them.' + </p> + <p> + There is a string round the package, and he unties it, and + examines the letters at his leisure with much curiosity. The + envelopes are in order, all addressed in pencil to Mrs. + Dowey, with the proud words 'Opened by Censor' on them. But + the letter paper inside contains not a word of writing. + </p> + <p> + 'Nothing but blank paper! Is this your writing in pencil on + the envelope?' She nods, and he gives the matter further + consideration. + </p> + <p> + 'The covey told me you were a charwoman; so I suppose you + picked the envelopes out of waste-paper baskets, or such + like, and then changed the addresses?' She nods again; still + she dare not look up, but she is admiring his legs. When, + however, he would cast the letters into the fire, she flames + up with sudden spirit. She clutches them. + </p> + <p> + 'Don't you burn them letters, mister.' + </p> + <p> + 'They're not real letters.' + </p> + <p> + 'They're all I have.' + </p> + <p> + He returns to irony. 'I thought you had a son?' + </p> + <p> + 'I never had a man nor a son nor anything. I just call myself + Missis to give me a standing.' + </p> + <p> + 'Well, it's past my seeing through.' + </p> + <p> + He turns to look for some explanation from the walls. She + gets a peep at him at last. Oh, what a grandly set-up man! + Oh, the stride of him. Oh, the noble rage of him. Oh, Samson + had been like this before that woman took him in hand. + </p> + <p> + He whirls round on her. 'What made you do it?' + </p> + <p> + 'It was everybody's war, mister, except mine.' She beats her + arms. 'I wanted it to be my war too.' + </p> + <p> + 'You'll need to be plainer. And yet I'm d——d if I + care to hear you, you lying old trickster.' + </p> + <p> + The words are merely what were to be expected, and so are + endurable; but he has moved towards the door. + </p> + <p> + 'You're not going already, mister?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, I just came to give you an ugly piece of my mind.' + </p> + <p> + She holds out her arms longingly. 'You haven't gave it to me + yet.' + </p> + <p> + 'You have a cheek!' + </p> + <p> + She gives further proof of it. 'You wouldn't drink some tea?' + </p> + <p> + 'Me! I tell you I came here for the one purpose of blazing + away at you.' + </p> + <p> + It is such a roaring negative that it blows her into a chair. + But she is up again in a moment, is this spirited old lady. + 'You could drink the tea while you was blazing away. There's + winkles.' + </p> + <p> + 'Is there?' He turns interestedly towards the table, but his + proud Scots character checks him, which is just as well, for + what she should have said was that there had been winkles. + 'Not me. You're just a common rogue.' He seats himself far + from the table. 'Now, then, out with it. Sit down!' She sits + meekly; there is nothing she would not do for him. 'As you + char, I suppose you are on your feet all day.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm more on my knees.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's where you should be to me.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, mister, I'm willing.' + </p> + <p> + 'Stop it. Go on, you accomplished liar.' + </p> + <p> + 'It's true that my name is Dowey.' + </p> + <p> + 'It's enough to make me change mine.' + </p> + <p> + 'I've been charring and charring and charring as far back as + I mind. I've been in London this twenty years.' + </p> + <p> + 'We'll skip your early days. I have an appointment.' + </p> + <p> + 'And then when I was old the war broke out.' + </p> + <p> + 'How could it affect you?' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, mister, that's the thing. It didn't affect me. It + affected everybody but me. The neighbours looked down on me. + Even the posters, on the walls, of the woman saying, "Go, my + boy," leered at me. I sometimes cried by myself in the dark. + You won't have a cup of tea?' + </p> + <p> + 'No.' + </p> + <p> + 'Sudden like the idea came to me to pretend I had a son.' + </p> + <p> + 'You depraved old limmer! But what in the name of Old Nick + made you choose me out of the whole British Army?' + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dowey giggles. There is little doubt that in her youth + she was an accomplished flirt. 'Maybe, mister, it was because + I liked you best.' + </p> + <p> + 'Now, now, woman.' + </p> + <p> + 'I read one day in the papers, "In which, he was assisted by + Private K. Dowey, 5th Battalion, Black Watch."' + </p> + <p> + Private K. Dowey is flattered, 'Did you, now! Well, I expect + that's the only time I was ever in the papers.' + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dowey tries it on again, 'I didn't choose you for that + alone. I read a history of the Black Watch first, to make + sure it was the best regiment in the world.' + </p> + <p> + 'Anybody could have told you that.' He is moving about now in + better humour, and, meeting the loaf in his stride, he cuts a + slice from it. He is hardly aware of this, but Mrs. Dowey + knows. 'I like the Scotch voice of you, woman. It drummles on + like a hill burn.' + </p> + <p> + 'Prosen Water runs by where I was born.' Flirting again, 'May + be it teached me to speak, mister.' + </p> + <p> + 'Canny, woman, canny.' + </p> + <p> + 'I read about the Black Watch's ghostly piper that plays + proudly when the men of the Black Watch do well, and prouder + when they fall.' + </p> + <p> + 'There's some foolish story of that kind.' He has another + careless slice off the loaf. 'But you couldn't have been + living here at that time or they would have guessed. I + suppose you flitted?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, it cost me eleven and sixpence.' + </p> + <p> + 'How did you guess the <i>K</i> in my name stood for + Kenneth?' + </p> + <p> + 'Does it?' + </p> + <p> + 'Umpha.' + </p> + <p> + 'An angel whispered it to me in my sleep.' + </p> + <p> + 'Well, that's the only angel in the whole black business.' He + chuckles. + </p> + <p> + 'You little thought I would turn up!' Wheeling suddenly on + her. 'Or did you?' + </p> + <p> + 'I was beginning to weary for a sight of you, Kenneth.' + </p> + <p> + 'What word was that?' + </p> + <p> + 'Mister.' + </p> + <p> + He helps himself to butter, and she holds out the jam pot to + him, but he haughtily rejects it. Do you think she gives in + now? Not a bit of it. + </p> + <p> + He returns to sarcasm, 'I hope you're pleased with me now you + see me.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm very pleased. Does your folk live in Scotland?' + </p> + <p> + 'Glasgow.' + </p> + <p> + 'Both living?' + </p> + <p> + 'Ay.' + </p> + <p> + 'Is your mother terrible proud of you?' + </p> + <p> + 'Naturally.' + </p> + <p> + 'You'll be going to them?' + </p> + <p> + 'After I've had a skite in London first.' + </p> + <p> + The old lady sniffs, 'So she is in London!' + </p> + <p> + 'Who?' + </p> + <p> + 'Your young lady.' + </p> + <p> + 'Are you jealyous?' + </p> + <p> + 'Not me.' + </p> + <p> + 'You needna be. She's a young thing.' + </p> + <p> + 'You surprises me. A beauty, no doubt?' + </p> + <p> + 'You may be sure.' He tries the jam. 'She's a titled person. + She is equally popular as maid, wife and munition-worker.' + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dowey remembers Lady Dolly Kanister, so familiar to + readers of fashionable gossip, and a very leery expression + indeed comes into her face. + </p> + <p> + 'Tell me more about her, man.' + </p> + <p> + 'She has sent me a lot of things, especially cakes, and a + worsted waistcoat, with a loving message on the enclosed + card.' + </p> + <p> + The old lady is now in a quiver of excitement. She loses + control of her arms, which jump excitedly this way and that. + </p> + <p> + 'You'll try one of my cakes, mister?' + </p> + <p> + 'Not me.' + </p> + <p> + 'They're of my own making.' + </p> + <p> + 'No, I thank you.' + </p> + <p> + But with a funny little run she is in the pantry and back + again. She planks down a cake before him, at sight of which + he gapes. + </p> + <p> + 'What's the matter? Tell me, oh, tell me, mister.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's exactly the kind of cake that her ladyship sends me.' + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dowey is now a very glorious old character indeed. + </p> + <p> + 'Is the waistcoat right, mister? I hope the Black Watch + colours pleased you.' + </p> + <p> + 'Wha——t! Was it you?' + </p> + <p> + 'I daredna give my own name, you see, and I was always + reading hers in the papers.' + </p> + <p> + The badgered man looms over her, terrible for the last time. + </p> + <p> + 'Woman, is there no getting rid of you!' + </p> + <p> + 'Are you angry?' + </p> + <p> + He sits down with a groan. + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, hell! Give me some tea.' + </p> + <p> + She rushes about preparing a meal for him, every bit of her + wanting to cry out to every other bit, 'Oh, glory, glory, + glory!' For a moment she hovers behind his chair. 'Kenneth'! + she murmurs. 'What?' he asks, no longer aware that she is + taking a liberty. 'Nothing,' she says, 'just Kenneth,' and is + off gleefully for the tea-caddy. But when his tea is poured + out, and he has drunk a saucerful, the instinct of + self-preservation returns to him between two bites. + </p> + <p> + 'Don't you be thinking, missis, for one minute that you have + got me.' + </p> + <p> + 'No, no.' + </p> + <p> + On that understanding he unbends. + </p> + <p> + 'I have a theatre to-night, followed by a randy-dandy.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oho! Kenneth, this is a queer first meeting!' + </p> + <p> + 'It is, woman, oh, it is,' guardedly, 'and it's also a last + meeting.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, yes.' + </p> + <p> + 'So here's to you—you old mop and pail. <i>Ave atque + vale</i>.' + </p> + <p> + 'What's that?' + </p> + <p> + 'That means Hail and Farewell.' + </p> + <p> + 'Are you a scholar?' + </p> + <p> + 'Being Scotch, there's almost nothing I don't know.' + </p> + <p> + 'What was you to trade?' + </p> + <p> + 'Carter, glazier, orraman, any rough jobs.' + </p> + <p> + 'You're a proper man to look at.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm generally admired.' + </p> + <p> + 'She's an enviable woman.' + </p> + <p> + 'Who?' + </p> + <p> + 'Your mother.' + </p> + <p> + 'Eh? Oh, that was just protecting myself from you. I have + neither father nor mother nor wife nor grandmama.' Bitterly, + 'This party never even knew who his proud parents were.' + </p> + <p> + 'Is that'—gleaming—'is that true?' + </p> + <p> + 'It's gospel.' + </p> + <p> + 'Heaven be praised!' + </p> + <p> + 'Eh? None of that! I was a fool to tell you. But don't think + you can take advantage of it. Pass the cake.' + </p> + <p> + 'I daresay it's true we'll never meet again, Kenneth, + but—but if we do, I wonder where it will be?' + </p> + <p> + 'Not in this world.' + </p> + <p> + 'There's no telling'—leering ingratiatingly—'It + might be at Berlin.' + </p> + <p> + 'Tod, if I ever get to Berlin, I believe I'll find you there + waiting for me!' + </p> + <p> + 'With a cup of tea for you in my hand.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, and'—heartily—'very good tea too.' + </p> + <p> + He has partaken heavily, he is now in high good humour. + </p> + <p> + 'Kenneth, we could come back by Paris!' + </p> + <p> + 'All the ladies,' slapping his knees, 'likes to go to Paris.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, if just once before I die I could be + fitted for a Paris gown with dreamy corsage!' + </p> + <p> + 'You're all alike, old covey. We have a song about it.' He + sings: + </p> + <pre> + 'Mrs. Gill is very ill, + Nothing can improve her + But to see the Tuileries + And waddle through the Louvre.' +</pre> + <p> + No song ever had a greater success. Mrs. Dowey is doubled up + with mirth. When she comes to, when they both come to, for + there are a pair of them, she cries: + </p> + <p> + 'You must learn me that,' and off she goes in song also: + </p> + <pre> + 'Mrs. Dowey's very ill, + Nothing can improve her.' +</pre> + <p> + 'Stop!' cries clever Kenneth, and finishes the verse: + </p> + <pre> + 'But dressed up in a Paris gown + To waddle through the Louvre.' +</pre> + <p> + They fling back their heads, she points at him, he points at + her. She says ecstatically: + </p> + <p> + 'Hairy legs!' + </p> + <p> + A mad remark, which brings him to his senses; he remembers + who and what she is. + </p> + <p> + 'Mind your manners!' Rising, 'Well, thank you for my tea. I + must be stepping.' + </p> + <p> + Poor Mrs. Dowey, he is putting on his kit. + </p> + <p> + 'Where are you living?' + </p> + <p> + He sighs. + </p> + <p> + 'That's the question. But there's a place called The Hut, + where some of the 2nd Battalion are. They'll take me in. + Beggars,' bitterly, 'can't be choosers.' + </p> + <p> + 'Beggars?' + </p> + <p> + 'I've never been here before. If you knew'—a shadow + coming over him—'what it is to be in such a place + without a friend. I was crazy with glee, when I got my leave, + at the thought of seeing London at last, but after wandering + its streets for four hours, I would almost have been glad to + be back in the trenches.' + </p> + <p> + 'If you knew,' he has said, but indeed the old lady knows. + </p> + <p> + 'That's my quandorum too, Kenneth.' + </p> + <p> + He nods sympathetically. + </p> + <p> + 'I'm sorry for you, you poor old body,' shouldering his kit. + 'But I see no way out for either of us.' + </p> + <p> + A cooing voice says, 'Do you not?' + </p> + <p> + 'Are you at it again!' + </p> + <p> + She knows that it must be now or never. She has left her + biggest guns for the end. In her excitement she is rising up + and down on her toes. + </p> + <p> + 'Kenneth, I've heard that the thing a man on leave longs for + more than anything else is a bed with sheets, and a bath.' + </p> + <p> + 'You never heard anything truer.' + </p> + <p> + 'Go into that pantry, Kenneth Dowey, and lift the + dresser-top, and tell me what you see.' + </p> + <p> + He goes. There is an awful stillness. He returns, impressed. + </p> + <p> + 'It's a kind of a bath!' + </p> + <p> + 'You could do yourself there pretty, half at a time.' + </p> + <p> + 'Me?' + </p> + <p> + 'There's a woman through the wall that would be very willing + to give me a shakedown till your leave is up.' + </p> + <p> + He snorts. + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, is there!' + </p> + <p> + She has not got him yet, but there is still one more gun. + </p> + <p> + 'Kenneth, look!' + </p> + <p> + With these simple words she lets down the bed. She says no + more; an effect like this would be spoilt by language. + Fortunately he is not made of stone. He thrills. + </p> + <p> + 'My word! That's the dodge we need in the trenches.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's your bed, Kenneth.' + </p> + <p> + 'Mine?' He grins at her. 'You queer old divert. What can make + you so keen to be burdened by a lump like me?' + </p> + <p> + 'He! he! he! he!' + </p> + <p> + 'I tell you, I'm the commonest kind of man.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm just the commonest kind of old wifie myself.' + </p> + <p> + 'I've been a kick-about all my life, and I'm no great shakes + at the war.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, you are. How many Germans have you killed?' + </p> + <p> + 'Just two for certain, and there was no glory in it. It was + just because they wanted my shirt.' + </p> + <p> + 'Your shirt?' + </p> + <p> + 'Well, they said it was their shirt.' + </p> + <p> + 'Have you took prisoners?' + </p> + <p> + 'I once took half a dozen, but that was a poor affair too.' + </p> + <p> + 'How could one man take half a dozen?' + </p> + <p> + 'Just in the usual way. I surrounded them.' + </p> + <p> + 'Kenneth, you're just my ideal.' + </p> + <p> + 'You're easily pleased.' + </p> + <p> + He turns again to the bed, 'Let's see how the thing works.' + He kneads the mattress with his fist, and the result is so + satisfactory that he puts down his kit. + </p> + <p> + 'Old lady, if you really want me, I'll bide.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh! oh! oh! oh!' + </p> + <p> + Her joy is so demonstrative that he has to drop a word of + warning. + </p> + <p> + 'But, mind you, I don't accept you as a relation. For your + personal glory, you can go on pretending to the neighbours; + but the best I can say for you is that you're on your + probation. I'm a cautious character, and we must see how + you'll turn out.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, Kenneth.' + </p> + <p> + 'And now, I think, for that bath. My theatre begins at + six-thirty. A cove I met on a 'bus is going with me.' + </p> + <p> + She is a little alarmed. + </p> + <p> + 'You're sure you'll come back?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, yes,' handsomely, 'I leave my kit in pledge.' + </p> + <p> + 'You won't liquor up too freely, Kenneth?' + </p> + <p> + 'You're the first,' chuckling, 'to care whether I do or not.' + Nothing she has said has pleased the lonely man so much as + this. 'I promise. Tod, I'm beginning to look forward to being + wakened in the morning by hearing you cry, "Get up, you lazy + swine." I've kind of envied men that had womenfolk with the + right to say that.' + </p> + <p> + He is passing to the bathroom when a diverting notion strikes + him. + </p> + <p> + 'What is it, Kenneth?' + </p> + <p> + 'The theatre. It would be showier if I took a lady.' + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Dowey feels a thumping at her breast. + </p> + <p> + 'Kenneth, tell me this instant what you mean. Don't keep me + on the jumps.' + </p> + <p> + He turns her round. + </p> + <p> + 'No, It couldn't be done.' + </p> + <p> + 'Was it me you were thinking of?' + </p> + <p> + 'Just for the moment,' regretfully, 'but you have no style.' + </p> + <p> + She catches hold of him by the sleeve. + </p> + <p> + 'Not in this, of course. But, oh, Kenneth, if you saw me in + my merino! It's laced up the back in the very latest.' + </p> + <p> + 'Hum,' doubtfully; 'but let's see it.' + </p> + <p> + It is produced from a drawer, to which the old lady runs with + almost indecent haste. The connoisseur examines it + critically. + </p> + <p> + 'Looks none so bad. Have you a bit of chiffon for the neck? + It's not bombs nor Kaisers nor Tipperary that men in the + trenches think of, it's chiffon.' + </p> + <p> + 'I swear I have, Kenneth, And I have a bangle, and a muff, + and gloves.' + </p> + <p> + 'Ay, ay.' He considers. 'Do you think you could give your + face less of a homely look?' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm sure I could.' + </p> + <p> + 'Then you can have a try. But, mind you, I promise nothing. + All will depend on the effect.' + </p> + <p> + He goes into the pantry, and the old lady is left alone. Not + alone, for she is ringed round by entrancing hopes and + dreadful fears. They beam on her and jeer at her, they pull + her this way and that; with difficulty she breaks through + them and rushes to her pail, hot water, soap, and a + looking-glass. Our last glimpse of her for this evening shows + her staring (not discontentedly) at her soft old face, + licking her palm, and pressing it to her hair. Her eyes are + sparkling. + </p> + <hr> + <p> + One evening a few days later Mrs. Twymley and Mrs. Mickleham + are in Mrs. Dowey's house, awaiting that lady's return from + some fashionable dissipation. They have undoubtedly been + discussing the war, for the first words we catch are: + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I tell you flat, Amelia, I bows no knee to + junkerdom.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Sitting here by the fire, you and me, as one + to another, what do you think will happen after the war? Are + we to go back to being as we were?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Speaking for myself, Amelia, not me. The war + has wakened me up to a understanding of my own importance + that is really astonishing.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Same here. Instead of being the poor worms the + like of you and me thought we was, we turns out to be visible + departments of a great and haughty empire.' + </p> + <p> + They are well under weigh, and with a little luck we might + now hear their views on various passing problems of the day, + such as the neglect of science in our public schools. But in + comes the Haggerty Woman, and spoils everything. She is + attired, like them, in her best, but the effect of her is + that her clothes have gone out for a walk, leaving her at + home. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM, with deep distaste, 'Here's that submarine + again.' + </p> + <p> + The Haggerty Woman cringes to them, but gets no + encouragement. + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'It's a terrible war.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Is that so?' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I wonder what will happen when it ends?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I have no idea.' + </p> + <p> + The intruder produces her handkerchief, but does not use it. + After all, she is in her best. + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Are they not back yet?' + </p> + <p> + Perfect ladies must reply to a direct question. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'No,' icily. 'We have been waiting this half + hour. They are at the theatre again.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'You tell me! I just popped in with an + insignificant present for him, as his leave is up.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'The same errand brought us.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'My present is cigarettes.' + </p> + <p> + They have no intention of telling her what their presents + are, but the secret leaps from them. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'So is mine.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Mine too.' + </p> + <p> + Triumph of the Haggerty Woman. But it is short-lived. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Mine has gold tips.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'So has mine.' + </p> + <p> + The Haggerty Woman need not say a word. You have only to look + at her to know that her cigarettes are not gold-tipped. She + tries to brazen it out, which is so often a mistake. + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'What care I? Mine is Exquisytos.' + </p> + <p> + No wonder they titter. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Excuse us, Mrs. Haggerty (if that's your + name), but the word is Exquiseetos.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Much obliged' (weeps). + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I think I heard a taxi.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'It will be her third this week.' + </p> + <p> + They peer through the blind. They are so excited that rank is + forgotten. + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'What is she in?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'A new astrakhan jacket he gave her, with + Venus sleeves.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Has she sold her gabardine coat?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Not her! She has them both at the theatre, + warm night though it is. She's wearing the astrakhan, and + carrying the gabardine, flung careless-like over her arm.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'I saw her strutting about with him + yesterday, looking as if she thought the two of them made a + procession.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Hsh!' peeping, 'Strike me dead, if she's not + coming mincing down the stair, hooked on his arm!' + </p> + <p> + Indeed it is thus that Mrs. Dowey enters. Perhaps she had + seen shadows lurking on the blind, and at once hooked on to + Kenneth to impress the visitors. She is quite capable of it. + </p> + <p> + Now we see what Kenneth saw that afternoon five days ago when + he emerged from the bathroom and found the old trembler + awaiting his inspection. Here are the muff and the gloves and + the chiffon, and such a kind old bonnet that it makes you + laugh at once; I don't know how to describe it, but it is + trimmed with a kiss, as bonnets should be when the wearer is + old and frail. We must take the merino for granted until she + steps out of the astrakhan. She is dressed up to the nines, + there is no doubt about it. Yes, but is her face less homely? + Above all, has she style? The answer is in a stout + affirmative. Ask Kenneth. He knows. Many a time he has had to + go behind a door to roar hilariously at the old lady. He has + thought of her as a lark to tell his mates about by and by; + but for some reason that he cannot fathom, he knows now that + he will never do that. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Kenneth,' affecting surprise, 'we have + visitors!' + </p> + <p> + DOWEY. 'Your servant, ladies.' + </p> + <p> + He is no longer mud-caked and dour. A very smart figure is + this Private Dowey, and he winks engagingly at the visitors, + like one who knows that for jolly company you cannot easily + beat charwomen. The pleasantries that he and they have + exchanged this week! The sauce he has given them. The wit of + Mrs. Mickleham's retorts. The badinage of Mrs. Twymley. The + neat giggles of the Haggerty Woman. There has been nothing + like it since you took the countess in to dinner. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'We should apologise. We're not meaning to + stay.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'You are very welcome. Just wait'—the + ostentation of this!—'till I get out of my + astrakhan—and my muff—and my gloves—and' + (it is the bonnet's turn now) 'my Excelsior.' + </p> + <p> + At last we see her in the merino (a triumph). + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'You've given her a glory time, Mr. Dowey.' + </p> + <p> + DOWEY. 'It's her that has given it to me, missis.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Hey! hey! hey! hey! He just pampers me,' + waggling her fists. 'The Lord forgive us, but this being the + last night, we had a sit-down supper at a restaurant!' + Vehemently: 'I swear by God that we had champagny wine.' + There is a dead stillness, and she knows very well what it + means, she has even prepared for it: 'And to them as doubts + my word—here's the cork.' + </p> + <p> + She places the cork, in its lovely gold drapery, upon the + table. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'I'm sure!' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I would thank you, Mrs. Dowey, not to say a + word against my Alfred.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DOWEY. 'Me!' + </p> + <p> + DOWEY. 'Come, come, ladies,' in the masterful way that is so + hard for women to resist; 'if you say another word, I'll kiss + the lot of you.' + </p> + <p> + There is a moment of pleased confusion. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Really, them sodgers!' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'The kilties is the worst!' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'I'm sure,' heartily, 'we don't grudge you your + treats, Mrs. Dowey; and sorry we are that this is the end.' + </p> + <p> + DOWEY. 'Yes, it's the end,' with a troubled look at his old + lady; 'I must be off in ten minutes.' + </p> + <p> + The little soul is too gallant to break down in company. She + hurries into the pantry and shuts the door. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Poor thing! But we must run, for you'll be + having some last words to say to her.' + </p> + <p> + DOWEY. 'I kept her out long on purpose so as to have less + time to say them in.' + </p> + <p> + He more than half wishes that he could make a bolt to a + public-house. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TWYMLEY. 'It's the best way.' In the important affairs + of life there is not much that any one can teach a charwoman. + 'Just a mere nothing, to wish you well, Mr. Dowey.' + </p> + <p> + All three present him with the cigarettes. + </p> + <p> + MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'A scraping, as one might say.' + </p> + <p> + THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'The heart,' enigmatically, 'is warm + though it may not be gold-tipped.' + </p> + <p> + DOWEY. 'You bricks!' + </p> + <p> + THE LADIES. 'Good luck, cocky.' + </p> + <p> + DOWEY. 'The same to you. And if you see a sodger man up there + in a kilt, he is one that is going back with me. Tell him not + to come down, but—but to give me till the last minute, + and then to whistle.' + </p> + <p> + It is quite a grave man who is left alone, thinking what to + do next. He tries a horse laugh, but that proves of no help. + He says 'Hell!' to himself, but it is equally ineffective. + Then he opens the pantry door and calls. + </p> + <p> + 'Old lady.' + </p> + <p> + She comes timidly to the door, her hand up as if to ward off + a blow. + </p> + <p> + 'Is it time?' + </p> + <p> + An encouraging voice answers her. + </p> + <p> + 'No, no, not yet. I've left word for Dixon to whistle when go + I must.' + </p> + <p> + 'All is ended.' + </p> + <p> + 'Now, then, you promised to be gay. We were to help one + another.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, Kenneth.' + </p> + <p> + 'It's bad for me, but it's worse for you.' + </p> + <p> + 'The men have medals to win, you see.' + </p> + <p> + 'The women have their medals, too.' He knows she likes him to + order her about, so he tries it again. + </p> + <p> + 'Come here. No, I'll come to you.' He stands gaping at her + wonderingly. He has no power of words, nor does he quite know + what he would like to say. 'God!' + </p> + <p> + 'What is it, Kenneth?' + </p> + <p> + 'You're a woman.' + </p> + <p> + 'I had near forgot it.' + </p> + <p> + He wishes he was at the station with Dixon. Dixon is sure to + have a bottle in his pocket. They will be roaring a song + presently. But in the meantime—there is that son + business. Blethers, the whole thing, of course—or + mostly blethers. But it's the way to please her. + </p> + <p> + 'Have you noticed you have never called me son?' + </p> + <p> + 'Have I noticed it! I was feared, Kenneth. You said I was on + probation.' + </p> + <p> + 'And so you were. Well, the probation's ended.' He laughs + uncomfortably. + 'The like of me! But if you want me you can have me.' + </p> + <p> + 'Kenneth, will I do?' + </p> + <p> + 'Woman,' artfully gay, 'don't be so forward. Wait till I have + proposed.' + </p> + <p> + 'Propose for a mother?' + </p> + <p> + 'What for no?' In the grand style, 'Mrs. Dowey, you queer + carl, you spunky tiddy, have I your permission to ask you the + most important question a neglected orphan can ask of an old + lady?' + </p> + <p> + She bubbles with mirth. Who could help it, the man has such a + way with him. + </p> + <p> + 'None of your sauce, Kenneth.' + </p> + <p> + 'For a long time, Mrs. Dowey, you cannot have been unaware of + my sonnish feelings for you.' + </p> + <p> + 'Wait till I get my mop to you!' + </p> + <p> + 'And if you're not willing to be my mother, I swear I'll + never ask another.' + </p> + <p> + The old divert pulls him down to her and strokes his hair. + </p> + <p> + 'Was I a well-behaved infant, mother?' + </p> + <p> + 'Not you, sonny, you were a rampaging rogue.' + </p> + <p> + 'Was I slow in learning to walk?' + </p> + <p> + 'The quickest in our street. He! he! he!' She starts up. 'Was + that the whistle?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, no. See here. In taking me over you have, in a manner of + speaking, joined the Black Watch.' + </p> + <p> + 'I like to think that, Kenneth.' + </p> + <p> + 'Then you must behave so that the ghost piper can be proud of + you. 'Tion!' She stands bravely at attention. 'That's the + style. Now listen, I've sent in your name as being my nearest + of kin, and your allowance will be coming to you weekly in + the usual way.' + </p> + <p> + 'Hey! hey! hey! Is it wicked, Kenneth?' + </p> + <p> + 'I'll take the responsibility for it in both worlds. You see, + I want you to be safeguarded in case anything hap—' + </p> + <p> + 'Kenneth!' + </p> + <p> + ''Tion! Have no fear. I'll come back, covered with mud and + medals. Mind you have that cup of tea waiting for me.' He is + listening for the whistle. He pulls her on to his knee. + </p> + <p> + 'Hey! hey! hey! hey!' + </p> + <p> + 'What fun we'll have writing to one another! Real letters + this time!' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes.' + </p> + <p> + 'It would be a good plan if you began the first letter as + soon as I've gone.' + </p> + <p> + 'I will.' + </p> + <p> + 'I hope Lady Dolly will go on sending me cakes.' + </p> + <p> + 'You may be sure.' + </p> + <p> + He ties his scarf round her neck. + </p> + <p> + 'You must have been a bonny thing when you were young.' + </p> + <p> + 'Away with you!' + </p> + <p> + 'That scarf sets you fine.' + </p> + <p> + 'Blue was always my colour.' + </p> + <p> + The whistle sounds. + </p> + <p> + 'Old lady, you are what Blighty means to me now.' + </p> + <p> + She hides in the pantry again. She is out of sight to us, but + she does something that makes Private Dowey take off his + bonnet. Then he shoulders his equipment and departs. That is + he laughing coarsely with Dixon. + </p> + <p> + We have one last glimpse of the old lady—a month or two + after Kenneth's death in action. It would be rosemary to us + to see her in her black dress, of which she is very proud; + but let us rather peep at her in the familiar garments that + make a third to her mop and pail. It is early morning, and + she is having a look at her medals before setting off on the + daily round. They are in a drawer, with the scarf covering + them, and on the scarf a piece of lavender. First, the black + frock, which she carries in her arms like a baby. Then her + War Savings Certificates, Kenneth's bonnet, a thin packet of + real letters, and the famous champagne cork. She kisses the + letters, but she does not blub over them. She strokes the + dress, and waggles her head over the certificates and presses + the bonnet to her cheeks, and rubs the tinsel of the cork + carefully with her apron. She is a tremulous old 'un; yet she + exults, for she owns all these things, and also the penny + flag on her breast. She puts them away in the drawer, the + scarf over them, the lavender on the scarf. Her air of + triumph well becomes her. She lifts the pail and the mop, and + slouches off gamely to the day's toil. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_2"><!-- RULE4 2 --></a> + <h2> + THE NEW WORD + </h2> + <p> + Any room nowadays must be the scene, for any father and any + son are the <i>dramatis personae</i>. We could pick them up + in Mayfair, in Tooting, on the Veldt, in rectories or in + grocers' back parlours, dump them down on our toy stage and + tell them to begin. It is a great gathering to choose from, + but our needs are small. Let the company shake hands, and all + go away but two. + </p> + <p> + The two who have remained (it is discovered on inquiry) are + Mr. Torrance and his boy; so let us make use of them. + Torrance did not linger in order to be chosen, he was + anxious, like all of them, to be off; but we recognised him, + and sternly signed to him to stay. Not that we knew him + personally, but the fact is, we remembered him (we never + forget a face) as the legal person who reads out the names of + the jury before the court opens, and who brushes aside your + reasons for wanting to be let off. It pleases our humour to + tell Mr. Torrance that we cannot let him off. + </p> + <p> + He does not look so formidable as when last we saw him, and + this is perhaps owing to our no longer being hunched with + others on those unfeeling benches. It is not because he is + without a wig, for we saw him, on the occasion to which we + are so guardedly referring, both in a wig and out of it; he + passed behind a screen without it, and immediately (as + quickly as we write) popped out in it, giving it a finishing + touch rather like the butler's wriggle to his coat as he goes + to the door. There are the two kinds of learned brothers, + those who use the screen, and those who (so far as the jury + knows) sleep in their wigs. The latter are the swells, and + include the judges; whom, however, we have seen in the public + thoroughfares without their wigs, a horrible sight that has + doubtless led many an onlooker to crime. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance, then, is no great luminary; indeed, when we + accompany him to his house, as we must, in order to set our + scene properly, we find that it is quite a suburban affair, + only one servant kept, and her niece engaged twice a week to + crawl about the floors. There is no fire in the drawing-room, + so the family remain on after dinner in the dining-room, + which rather gives them away. There is really no one in the + room but Roger. That is the truth of it, though to the + unseeing eye all the family are there except Roger. They + consist of Mr., Mrs., and Miss Torrance. Mr. Torrance is + enjoying his evening paper and a cigar, and every line of him + is insisting stubbornly that nothing unusual is happening in + the house. In the home circle (and now that we think of it, + even in court) he has the reputation of being a somewhat + sarcastic gentleman; he must be dogged, too, otherwise he + would have ceased long ago to be sarcastic to his wife, on + whom wit falls like pellets on sandbags; all the dents they + make are dimples. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Torrance is at present exquisitely employed; she is + listening to Roger's step overhead. You, know what a + delightful step the boy has. And what is more remarkable is + that Emma is listening to it too, Emma who is seventeen, and + who has been trying to keep Roger in his place ever since he + first compelled her to bowl to him. Things have come to a + pass when a sister so openly admits that she is only number + two in the house. + </p> + <p> + Remarks well worthy of being recorded fall from these two + ladies as they gaze upward. 'I think—didn't I, Emma?' + is the mother's contribution, while it is Emma who replies in + a whisper, 'No, not yet!' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance calmly reads, or seems to read, for it is not + possible that there can be anything in the paper as good as + this. Indeed, he occasionally casts a humorous glance at his + women-folk. Perhaps he is trying to steady them. Let us hope + he has some such good reason for breaking in from time to + time on their entrancing occupation. + </p> + <p> + 'Listen to this, dear. It is very important. The paper says, + upon apparently good authority, that love laughs at + locksmiths.' + </p> + <p> + His wife answers without lowering her eyes. 'Did you speak, + John? I am listening.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, I was telling you that the Hidden Hand has at last been + discovered in a tub in Russell Square.' + </p> + <p> + 'I hear, John. How thoughtful.' + </p> + <p> + 'And so they must have been made of margarine, my love.' + </p> + <p> + 'I shouldn't wonder, John.' + </p> + <p> + 'Hence the name Petrograd.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, was that the reason?' + </p> + <p> + 'You will be pleased to hear, Ellen, that the honourable + gentleman then resumed his seat.' + </p> + <p> + 'That was nice of him.' + </p> + <p> + 'As I,' good-naturedly, 'now resume mine, having made my + usual impression.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, John.' + </p> + <p> + Emma slips upstairs to peep through a keyhole, and it strikes + her mother that John has been saying something. They are on + too good terms to make an apology necessary. She observes + blandly, 'John, I haven't heard a word you said.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm sure you haven't, woman.' + </p> + <p> + 'I can't help being like this, John.' + </p> + <p> + 'Go on being like yourself, dear.' + </p> + <p> + 'Am I foolish?' + </p> + <p> + 'Um.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, but, John, how can you be so calm—with him up + there?' + </p> + <p> + 'He has been up there a good deal, you know, since we + presented him to an astounded world nineteen years ago.' + </p> + <p> + 'But he—he is not going to be up there much longer, + John.' She sits on the arm of his chair, so openly to wheedle + him that it is not worth his while to smile. Her voice is + tremulous; she is a woman who can conceal nothing. 'You will + be nice to him—to-night—won't you, John?' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance is a little pained. 'Do I just begin to-night, + Ellen?' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh no, no; but I think he is rather—shy of you at + times.' + </p> + <p> + 'That,' he says a little wryly, 'is because he is my son, + Ellen.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes—it's strange; but—yes.' + </p> + <p> + With a twinkle that is not all humorous, 'Did it ever strike + you, Ellen, that I am a bit—shy of him?' + </p> + <p> + She is indeed surprised. 'Of Rogie!' + </p> + <p> + 'I suppose it is because I am his father.' + </p> + <p> + She presumes that this is his sarcasm again, and lets it pass + at that. It reminds her of what she wants to say. + </p> + <p> + 'You are so sarcastic,' she has never quite got the meaning + of this word, 'to Rogie at times. Boys don't like that, + John.' + </p> + <p> + 'Is that so, Ellen?' + </p> + <p> + 'Of course I don't mind your being sarcastic to + <i>me</i>—' + </p> + <p> + 'Much good,' groaning, 'my being sarcastic to you! You are so + seldom aware of it.' + </p> + <p> + 'I am not asking you to be a mother to him, John.' + </p> + <p> + 'Thank you, my dear.' + </p> + <p> + She does not know that he is sarcastic again. 'I quite + understand that a man can't think all the time about his son + as a mother does.' + </p> + <p> + 'Can't he, Ellen? What makes you so sure of that?' + </p> + <p> + 'I mean that a boy naturally goes to his mother with his + troubles rather than to his father. Rogie tells me + everything.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance is stung. 'I daresay he might tell me things he + wouldn't tell you.' + </p> + <p> + She smiles at this. It is very probably sarcasm. + </p> + <p> + 'I want you to be serious just now. Why not show more warmth + to him, John?' + </p> + <p> + With an unspoken sigh, 'It would terrify him, Ellen. Two men + show warmth to each other! Shame, woman!' + </p> + <p> + 'Two men!' indignantly. 'John, he is only nineteen.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's all,' patting her hand. 'Ellen, it is the great age + to be to-day, nineteen.' + </p> + <p> + Emma darts in. + </p> + <p> + 'Mother, he has unlocked the door! He is taking a last look + at himself in the mirror before coming down!' + </p> + <p> + Having made the great announcement, she is off again. + </p> + <p> + 'You won't be sarcastic, John?' + </p> + <p> + 'I give you my word—if you promise not to break down.' + </p> + <p> + Rashly, 'I promise.' She hurries to the door and back again. + 'John, I'll contrive to leave you and him alone together for + a little.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance is as alarmed as if the judge had looked over + the bench and asked where he was. 'For God's sake, woman, + don't do that! Father and son! He'll bolt; or if he doesn't, + I will.' + </p> + <p> + Emma Torrance flings open the door grandly, and we learn what + all the to-do is about. + </p> + <p> + EMMA. 'Allow me to introduce 2nd Lieutenant Torrance of the + Royal Sussex. Father—your son; 2nd Lieutenant + Torrance—your father. Mother—your little Rogie.' + </p> + <p> + Roger, in uniform, walks in, strung up for the occasion. Or + the uniform comes forward with Roger inside it. He has been a + very ordinary nice boy up to now, dull at his 'books'; by an + effort Mr. Torrance had sent him to an obscure + boarding-school, but at sixteen it was evident that an office + was the proper place for Roger. Before the war broke out he + was treasurer of the local lawn tennis club, and his golf + handicap was seven; he carried his little bag daily to and + from the city, and his highest relaxation was giggling with + girls or about them. Socially he had fallen from the + standards of the home; even now that he is in his uniform the + hasty might say something clever about 'temporary gentlemen.' + </p> + <p> + But there are great ideas buzzing in Roger's head, which + would never have been there save for the war. At present he + is chiefly conscious of his clothes. His mother embraces him + with cries of rapture, while Mr. Torrance surveys him + quizzically over the paper; and Emma, rushing to the piano, + which is of such an old-fashioned kind that it can also be + used as a sideboard, plays 'See the Conquering Hero Comes.' + </p> + <p> + ROGER, in an agony, 'Mater, do stop that chit making an ass + of me.' + </p> + <p> + He must be excused for his 'mater.' That was the sort of + school; and his mother is rather proud of the phrase, though + it sometimes makes his father wince. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'Emma, please, don't. But I'm sure you deserve + it, my darling. Doesn't he, John?' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE, missing his chance, 'Hardly yet, you know. + Can't be exactly a conquering hero the first night you put + them on, can you, Roger?' + </p> + <p> + ROGER, hotly, 'Did I say I was?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'Oh, John! Do turn round, Rogie. I never + did—I never did!' + </p> + <p> + EMMA. 'Isn't he a pet!' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'Shut up, Emma.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE, challenging the world, 'Though I say it who + shouldn't—and yet, why shouldn't I?' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'In any case you will—so go ahead, + "mater."' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'I knew he would look splendid; but I—of + course I couldn't know that he would look quite so splendid + as this.' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'I know I look a bally ass. That is why I was such a + time in coming down.' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'We thought we heard you upstairs strutting + about.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'John! Don't mind him, Rogie.' + </p> + <p> + ROGER, haughtily, 'I don't.' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'Oh!' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'But I wasn't strutting.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'That dreadful sword! No, I would prefer you + not to draw it, dear—not till necessity makes you.' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'Come, come, Ellen; that's rather hard lines on + the boy. If he isn't to draw it here, where is he to draw + it?' + </p> + <p> + EMMA, with pride, 'At the Front, father.' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'I thought they left them at home nowadays, + Roger?' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'Yes, mater; you see, they are a bit in the way.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE, foolishly, 'Not when you have got used to + them.' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'That isn't what Roger means.' (His son + glares.) + </p> + <p> + EMMA, who, though she has not formerly thought much of Roger, + is now proud to trot by his side and will henceforth count + the salutes, 'I know what he means. If you carry a sword the + snipers know you are an officer, and they try to pick you + off.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'It's no wonder they are called Huns. Fancy a + British sniper doing that! Roger, you will be very careful, + won't you, in the trenches?' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'Honour bright, mater.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'Above all, don't look up.' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'The trenches ought to be so deep that they + can't look up.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'What a good idea, John.' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'He's making game of you, mater.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE, unruffled, 'Is he, my own?—very likely. + Now about the question of provisions—' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'Oh, lummy, you talk as if I was going off to-night! I + mayn't go for months and months.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'I know—and, of course, there is a + chance that you may not be needed at all.' + </p> + <p> + ROGER, poor boy, 'None of that, mater.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'There is something I want to ask you, + John—How long do you think the war is likely to last?' + Her John resumes his paper. 'Rogie, I know you will laugh at + me, but there are some things that I could not help getting + for you.' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'You know, you have knitted enough things already to + fit up my whole platoon.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE, proud almost to tears, 'His platoon.' + </p> + <p> + EMMA. 'Have you noticed how fine all the words in -oon are? + Platoon! Dragoon!' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'Spitoon!' + </p> + <p> + EMMA. 'Colonel is good, but rather papaish; Major is nosey; + Admiral of the Fleet is scrumptious, but Marechal de + France—that is the best of all.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'I think there is nothing so nice as 2nd + Lieutenant.' Gulping, 'Lot of little boys.' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'Mater!' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'I mean, just think of their cold feet.' She + produces many parcels and displays their strange contents. + 'Those are for putting inside your socks. Those are for + outside your socks. I am told that it is also advisable to + have straw in your boots.' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'Have you got him some straw?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'I thought, John, he could get it there. But + if you think—' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'He's making fun of you again, mater.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'I shouldn't wonder. Here are some overalls. + One is leather and one fur, and this one is waterproof. The + worst of it is that they are from different shops, and each + says that the others keep the damp in, or draw the feet. They + have such odd names, too. There are new names for everything + nowadays. Vests are called cuirasses. Are you laughing at me, + Rogie?' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE, sharply, 'If he is laughing, he ought to be + ashamed of himself.' + </p> + <p> + ROGER, barking, 'Who was laughing?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'John!' + </p> + <p> + Emma cuffs her father playfully. + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'All very well, Emma, but it's past your + bedtime.' + </p> + <p> + EMMA, indignantly, 'You can't expect me to sleep on a night + like this.' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'You can try.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. '2nd Lieutenant! 2nd Lieutenant!' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE, alarmed, 'Ellen, don't break down. You + promised.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'I am not going to break down; but—but + there is a photograph of Rogie when he was very small—' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'Go to bed!' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'I happen—to have it in my + pocket—' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'Don't bring it out, mater.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'If I break down, John, it won't be owing to + the picture itself so much as because of what is written on + the back.' + </p> + <p> + She produces it dolefully. + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'Then don't look at the back.' + </p> + <p> + He takes it from her. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE, not very hopeful of herself, 'But I know what + is written on the back, "Roger John Torrance, aged two years + four months, and thirty-three pounds."' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'Correct.' She weeps softly. 'There, there, + woman.' He signs imploringly to Emma. + </p> + <p> + EMMA, kissing him, 'I'm going to by-by. 'Night, mammy. + 'Night, Rog.' She is about to offer him her cheek, then + salutes instead, and rushes off, with Roger in pursuit. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'I shall leave you together, John.' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE, half liking it, but nervous, 'Do you think it's + wise?' With a groan, 'You know what I am.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'Do be nice to him, dear.' Roger's return + finds her very artful indeed, 'I wonder where I put my + glasses?' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'I'll look for them.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'No, I remember now. They are upstairs in such + a funny place that I must go myself. Do you remember, Rogie, + that I hoped they would reject you on account of your eyes?' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'I suppose you couldn't help it.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE, beaming on her husband, 'Did you believe I + really meant it, John?' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE, curious, 'Did <i>you</i>, Roger?' + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'Of course. Didn't you, father?' + </p> + <p> + MR. TORRANCE. 'No! I knew the old lady better.' + </p> + <p> + He takes her hand. + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE, sweetly, 'I shouldn't have liked it, Rogie + dear. I'll tell you something. You know your brother Harry + died when he was seven. To you, I suppose, it is as if he had + never been. You were barely five. + </p> + <p> + ROGER. 'I don't remember him, mater.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. TORRANCE. 'No—no. But I do, Rogie. He would be + twenty-one now; but though you and Emma grew up I have always + gone on seeing him as just seven. Always till the war broke + out. And now I see him a man of twenty-one, dressed in khaki, + fighting for his country, same as you. I wouldn't have had + one of you stay at home, though I had had a dozen. That is, + if it is the noble war they all say it is. I'm not clever, + Rogie, I have to take it on trust. Surely they wouldn't + deceive mothers. I'll get my glasses.' + </p> + <p> + She goes away, leaving the father and son somewhat moved. It + is Mr. Torrance who speaks first, gruffly. + </p> + <p> + 'Like to change your mother, Roger?' + </p> + <p> + The answer is also gruff. 'What do <i>you</i> think?' + </p> + <p> + Then silence falls. These two are very conscious of being + together, without so much as the tick of a clock to help + them. The father clings to his cigar, sticks his knife into + it, studies the leaf, tries crossing his legs another way. + The son examines the pictures on the walls as if he had never + seen them before, and is all the time edging toward the door. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance wets his lips; it must be now or never, 'Not + going, Roger?' + </p> + <p> + Roger counts the chairs. 'Yes, I thought—' + </p> + <p> + 'Won't you—sit down and—have a chat?' + </p> + <p> + Roger is bowled over. 'A what? You and me!' + </p> + <p> + 'Why not?' rather truculently. + </p> + <p> + 'Oh—oh, all right,' sitting uncomfortably. + </p> + <p> + The cigar gets several more stabs. + </p> + <p> + 'I suppose you catch an early train to-morrow?' + </p> + <p> + 'The 5.20. I have flag-signalling at half-past six.' + </p> + <p> + 'Phew! Hours before I shall be up.' + </p> + <p> + 'I suppose so.' + </p> + <p> + 'Well, you needn't dwell on it, Roger.' + </p> + <p> + Indignantly. 'I didn't.' He starts up. 'Good-night, father.' + </p> + <p> + 'Good-night. Damn. Come back. My fault. Didn't I say I wanted + to have a chat with you?' + </p> + <p> + 'I thought we had had it.' + </p> + <p> + Gloomingly, 'No such luck.' + </p> + <p> + There is another pause. A frightened ember in the fire makes + an appeal to some one to say something. Mr. Torrance rises. + It is now he who is casting eyes at the door. He sits again, + ashamed of himself. + </p> + <p> + 'I like your uniform, Roger,' he says pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + Roger wriggles. 'Haven't you made fun of me enough?' + </p> + <p> + Sharply, 'I'm not making fun of you. Don't you see I'm trying + to tell you that I'm proud of you?' + </p> + <p> + Roger is at last aware of it, with a sinking. He appeals, + 'Good lord, father, <i>you</i> are not going to begin now.' + </p> + <p> + The father restrains himself. + </p> + <p> + 'Do you remember, Roger, my saying that I didn't want you to + smoke till you were twenty?' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, it's that, is it?' Shutting his mouth tight, 'I never + promised.' + </p> + <p> + Almost with a shout, 'It's not that.' Then kindly, 'Have a + cigar, my boy?' + </p> + <p> + 'Me?' + </p> + <p> + A rather shaky hand, passes him a cigar case. Roger selects + from it and lights up nervously. He is now prepared for the + worst. + </p> + <p> + 'Have you ever wondered, Roger, what sort of a fellow I am?' + </p> + <p> + Guardedly, 'Often.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance casts all sense of decency to the winds; such is + one of the effects of war. + </p> + <p> + 'I have often wondered what sort of fellow you are, Roger. We + have both been at it on the sly. I suppose that is what makes + a father and son so uncomfortable in each other's presence.' + </p> + <p> + Roger is not yet prepared to meet him half-way, but he casts + a line. + </p> + <p> + 'Do you feel the creeps when you are left alone with me?' + </p> + <p> + 'Mortally, Roger. My first instinct is to slip away.' + </p> + <p> + 'So is mine,' with deep feeling. + </p> + <p> + 'You don't say so!' with such surprise that the father + undoubtedly goes up a step in the son's estimation. 'I always + seem to know what you are thinking, Roger.' + </p> + <p> + 'Do you? Same here.' + </p> + <p> + 'As a consequence it is better, it is right, it is only + decent that you and I should be very chary of confidences + with each other.' + </p> + <p> + Roger is relieved. 'I'm dashed glad you see it in that way.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, quite. And yet, Roger, if you had to answer this + question on oath, "Whom do you think you are most like in + this world?" I don't mean superficially, but deep down in + your vitals, what would you say? Your mother, your uncle, one + of your friends on the golf links?' + </p> + <p> + 'No.' + </p> + <p> + 'Who?' + </p> + <p> + Darkly, 'You.' + </p> + <p> + 'Just how I feel.' + </p> + <p> + There is such true sympathy in the manly avowal that Roger + cannot but be brought closer to his father. + </p> + <p> + 'It's pretty ghastly, father.' + </p> + <p> + 'It is. I don't know which it is worse for.' + </p> + <p> + They consider each other without bitterness. + </p> + <p> + 'You are a bit of a wag at times, Roger.' + </p> + <p> + 'You soon shut me up.' + </p> + <p> + 'I have heard that you sparkle more freely in my absence.' + </p> + <p> + 'They say the same about you.' + </p> + <p> + 'And now that you mention it, I believe it is true; and yet, + isn't it a bigger satisfaction to you to catch me relishing + your jokes than any other person?' + </p> + <p> + Roger's eyes open wide. 'How did you know that?' + </p> + <p> + 'Because I am so bucked if I see you relishing mine.' + </p> + <p> + '<i>Are</i> you?' Roger's hold on the certain things in life + are slipping. 'You don't show it.' + </p> + <p> + 'That is because of our awkward relationship.' + </p> + <p> + Roger lapses into gloom. 'We have got to go through with it.' + </p> + <p> + His father kicks the coals. 'There's no way out.' + </p> + <p> + 'No.' + </p> + <p> + 'We have, as it were, signed a compact, Roger, never to let + on that we care for each other. As gentlemen we must stick to + it.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes. What are you getting at, father?' + </p> + <p> + 'There is a war on, Roger.' + </p> + <p> + 'That needn't make any difference.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, it does. Roger, be ready; I hate to hit you without + warning. I'm going to cast a grenade into the middle of you. + It's this, I'm fond of you, my boy.' + </p> + <p> + Roger squirms. 'Father, if any one were to hear you!' + </p> + <p> + 'They won't. The door is shut, Amy is gone to bed, and all is + quiet in our street. Won't you—won't you say something + civil to me in return, Roger?' + </p> + <p> + Roger looks at him and away from him. 'I + sometimes—bragged about you at school.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance is absurdly pleased. 'Did you? What sort of + things, Roger?' + </p> + <p> + 'I—I forget.' + </p> + <p> + 'Come on, Roger.' + </p> + <p> + 'Is this fair, father?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, I suppose it isn't.' Mr. Torrance attacks the coals + again. 'You and your mother have lots of confidences, haven't + you?' + </p> + <p> + 'I tell her a good deal. Somehow—' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, somehow one can.' With the artfulness that comes of + years, 'I'm glad you tell her everything.' + </p> + <p> + Roger looks down his cigar. 'Not everything, father. There + are things—about oneself—' + </p> + <p> + 'Aren't there, Roger!' + </p> + <p> + 'Best not to tell her.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes—yes. If there are any of them you would care to + tell me instead—just if you want to, mind—just if + you are in a hole or anything?' + </p> + <p> + 'No thanks,' very stiffly. + </p> + <p> + 'Any little debts, for instance?' + </p> + <p> + 'That's all right now. Mother—' + </p> + <p> + 'She did?' + </p> + <p> + Roger is ready to jump at him. 'I was willing to speak to you + about them, but—' + </p> + <p> + 'She said, "Not worth while bothering father."' + </p> + <p> + 'How did you know?' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, I have met your mother before, you see. Nothing else?' + </p> + <p> + 'No.' + </p> + <p> + 'Haven't been an ass about a girl or anything of that sort?'' + </p> + <p> + 'Good lord, father!' + </p> + <p> + 'I shouldn't have said it. In my young days we + sometimes—It's all different now.' + </p> + <p> + 'I don't know, I could tell you things that would surprise + you.' + </p> + <p> + 'No! Not about yourself?' + </p> + <p> + 'No. At least—' + </p> + <p> + 'Just as you like, Roger.' + </p> + <p> + 'It blew over long ago.' + </p> + <p> + 'Then there's no need?' + </p> + <p> + 'No—oh no. It was just—you know—the old, + old story.' + </p> + <p> + He eyes his father suspiciously, but not a muscle in Mr. + Torrance's countenance is out of place. + </p> + <p> + 'I see. It hasn't—left you bitter about the sex, Roger, + I hope?' + </p> + <p> + 'Not now. She—you know what women are.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, yes.' + </p> + <p> + 'You needn't mention it to mother.' + </p> + <p> + 'I won't.' Mr. Torrance is elated to share a secret with + Roger about which mother is not to know. 'Think your mother + and I are an aged pair, Roger?' + </p> + <p> + 'I never—of course you are not young.' + </p> + <p> + 'How long have you known that? I mean, it's true—but I + didn't know it till quite lately.' + </p> + <p> + 'That you're old?' + </p> + <p> + 'Hang it, Roger, not so bad as that—elderly. This will + stagger you; but I assure you that until the other day I + jogged along thinking of myself as on the whole still one of + the juveniles.' He makes a wry face. 'I crossed the bridge, + Roger, without knowing it.' + </p> + <p> + 'What made you know?' + </p> + <p> + 'What makes us know all the new things, Roger?—the war. + I'll tell you a secret. When we realised in August of 1914 + that myriads of us were to be needed, my first thought wasn't + that I had a son, but that I must get fit myself.' + </p> + <p> + 'You!' + </p> + <p> + 'Funny, isn't it?' says Mr. Torrance quite nastily. 'But, as + I tell you, I didn't know I had ceased to be young, I went + into Regent's Park and tried to run a mile.' + </p> + <p> + 'Lummy, you might have killed yourself.' + </p> + <p> + 'I nearly did—especially as I had put a weight on my + shoulders to represent my kit. I kept at it for a week, but I + knew the game was up. The discovery was pretty grim, Roger.' + </p> + <p> + 'Don't you bother about that part of it. You are doing your + share, taking care of mother and Emma.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance emits a laugh of self-contempt. 'I am not taking + care of them. It is you who are taking care of them. My + friend, you are the head of the house now.' + </p> + <p> + 'Father!' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, we have come back to hard facts, and the defender of + the house is the head of it.' + </p> + <p> + 'Me? Fudge.' + </p> + <p> + 'It's true. The thing that makes me wince most is that some + of my contemporaries have managed to squeeze back: back into + youth, Roger, though I guess they were a pretty tight fit in + the turnstile. There is Coxon; he is in khaki now, with his + hair dyed, and when he and I meet at the club we know that we + belong to different generations. I'm a decent old fellow, but + I don't really count any more, while Coxon, lucky dog, is + being damned daily on parade.' + </p> + <p> + 'I hate your feeling it in that way, father.' + </p> + <p> + 'I don't say it is a palatable draught, but when the war is + over we shall all shake down to the new conditions. No fear + of my being sarcastic to you then, Roger. I'll have to be + jolly respectful.' + </p> + <p> + 'Shut up, father!' + </p> + <p> + 'You've begun, you see. Don't worry, Roger. Any rawness I + might feel in having missed the chance of seeing whether I + was a man—like Coxon, confound him!—is swallowed + up in the pride of giving the chance to you. I'm in a shiver + about you, but—It's all true, Roger, what your mother + said about 2nd Lieutenants. Till the other day we were so + little of a military nation that most of us didn't know there + <i>were</i> 2nd Lieutenants. And now, in thousands of homes + we feel that there is nothing else. 2nd Lieutenant! It is + like a new word to us—one, I daresay, of many that the + war will add to our language. We have taken to it, Roger. If + a son of mine were to tarnish it—' + </p> + <p> + 'I'll try not to,' Roger growls. + </p> + <p> + 'If you did, I should just know that there had been something + wrong about me.' + </p> + <p> + Gruffly, 'You're all right.' + </p> + <p> + 'If I am, you are.' It is a winning face that Mr. Torrance + turns on his son. 'I suppose you have been asking yourself of + late, what if you were to turn out to be a funk!' + </p> + <p> + 'Father, how did you know?' + </p> + <p> + 'I know because you are me. Because ever since there was talk + of this commission I have been thinking and thinking what + were you thinking—so as to help you.' + </p> + <p> + This itself is a help. Roger's hand—but he withdraws it + hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + 'They all seem to be so frightfully brave, father,' he says + wistfully. + </p> + <p> + 'I expect, Roger, that the best of them had the same qualms + as you before their first engagement.' + </p> + <p> + 'I—I kind of think, father, that I won't be a funk.' + </p> + <p> + 'I kind of think so too, Roger.' Mr. Torrance forgets + himself. 'Mind you don't be rash, my boy; and for God's sake, + keep your head down in the trenches.' + </p> + <p> + Roger has caught him out. He points a gay finger at his + anxious father. + </p> + <p> + 'You know you laughed at mother for saying that!' + </p> + <p> + 'Did I? Roger, your mother thinks that I have an unfortunate + manner with you.' + </p> + <p> + The magnanimous Roger says, 'Oh, I don't know. It's just the + father-and-son complication.' + </p> + <p> + 'That is really all it is. But she thinks I should show my + affection for you more openly.' + </p> + <p> + Roger wriggles again. Earnestly, 'I wouldn't do that.' + Nicely, 'Of course for this once—but in a general way I + wouldn't do that. <i>We</i> know, you and I.' + </p> + <p> + 'As long as we know, it's no one else's affair, is it?' + </p> + <p> + 'That's the ticket, father.' + </p> + <p> + 'Still—' It is to be feared that Mr. Torrance is now + taking advantage of his superior slyness. 'Still, before your + mother—to please her—eh?' + </p> + <p> + Faltering, 'I suppose it would.' + </p> + <p> + 'Well, what do you say?' + </p> + <p> + 'I know she would like it.' + </p> + <p> + 'Of course you and I know that display of that sort is all + bunkum—repellent even to our natures.' + </p> + <p> + 'Lord, yes!' + </p> + <p> + 'But to gratify her.' + </p> + <p> + 'I should be so conscious.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance is here quite as sincere as his son. 'So should + I.' + </p> + <p> + Roger considers it. 'How far would you go?' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, not far. Suppose I called you "Old Rogie"? There's not + much in that.' + </p> + <p> + 'It all depends on the way one says these things.' + </p> + <p> + 'I should be quite casual.' + </p> + <p> + 'Hum. What would you like me to call you?' + </p> + <p> + Severely, 'It isn't what would <i>I</i> like. But I daresay + your mother would beam if you called me "dear father"' + </p> + <p> + 'I don't think so?' + </p> + <p> + 'You know quite well that you think so, Roger.' + </p> + <p> + 'It's so effeminate.' + </p> + <p> + 'Not if you say it casually.' + </p> + <p> + With something very like a snort Roger asks, 'How does one + say a thing like that casually?' + </p> + <p> + 'Well, for instance, you could whistle while you said + it—or anything of that sort.' + </p> + <p> + 'Hum. Of course you—if we were to—be like that, + you wouldn't do anything.' + </p> + <p> + 'How do you mean?' + </p> + <p> + 'You wouldn't paw me?' + </p> + <p> + 'Roger,' with some natural indignation, 'you forget + yourself.' But apparently it is for him to continue. 'That + reminds me of a story I heard the other day of a French + general. He had asked for volunteers from his airmen for some + specially dangerous job—and they all stepped forward. + Pretty good that. Then three were chosen and got their orders + and saluted, and were starting off when he stopped them. + "Since when," he said, "have brave boys departing to the post + of danger omitted to embrace their father?" They did it then. + Good story?' + </p> + <p> + Roger lowers. 'They were French.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, I said so. Don't you think it's good?' + </p> + <p> + 'Why do you tell it to me?' + </p> + <p> + 'Because it's a good story.' + </p> + <p> + 'You are sure, father,' sternly, 'that there is no other + reason?' Mr. Torrance tries to brazen it out, but he looks + guilty. 'You know, father, that is barred.' + </p> + <p> + Just because he knows that he has been playing it low, Mr. + Torrance snaps angrily, 'What is barred?' + </p> + <p> + 'You know,' says his monitor. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance shouts. + </p> + <p> + 'I know that you are a young ass.' + </p> + <p> + 'Really, father—' + </p> + <p> + 'Hold your tongue.' + </p> + <p> + Roger can shout also. + </p> + <p> + 'I must say, father—' + </p> + <p> + 'Be quiet, I tell you.' + </p> + <p> + It is in the middle of this competition that the lady who + dotes on them both chooses to come back, still without her + spectacles. + </p> + <p> + 'Oh dear! And I had hoped—-Oh, John!' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance would like to kick himself. + </p> + <p> + 'My fault,' he says with a groan. + </p> + <p> + 'But whatever is the matter?' + </p> + <p> + 'Nothing, mater.' The war is already making Roger quite + smart. 'Only father wouldn't do as I told him.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Torrance cannot keep pace with his son's growth. He raps + out, 'Why the dickens should I?' + </p> + <p> + Roger is imperturbable; this will be useful in France. 'You + see, mater, he said I was the head of the house.' + </p> + <p> + 'You, Rogie!' She goes to her husband's side. 'What + nonsense!' + </p> + <p> + Roger grins. 'Do you like my joke, father?' + </p> + <p> + The father smiles upon him and is at once uproariously happy. + He digs his boy boldly in the ribs. + </p> + <p> + 'Roger, you scoundrel!' + </p> + <p> + 'That's better,' says Mrs. Torrance at a venture. + </p> + <p> + Roger feels that things have perhaps gone far enough. 'I + think I'll go to my room now. You will come up, mater?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, dear. I shan't be five minutes, John.' + </p> + <p> + 'More like half an hour.' + </p> + <p> + She hesitates. 'There is nothing wrong, is there? I thought I + noticed a—a——' + </p> + <p> + 'A certain liveliness, my dear. No, we were only having a + good talk.' + </p> + <p> + 'What about, John?' wistfully. + </p> + <p> + 'About the war,' Roger breaks in hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + 'About tactics and strategy, wasn't it, Roger?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes.' + </p> + <p> + 'The fact is, Ellen, I have been helping Roger to take his + first trench.' With a big breath, 'And we took it too, + together, didn't we, Roger?' + </p> + <p> + 'You bet,' says Roger valiantly. + </p> + <p> + 'Though I suppose,' sighing, 'it is one of those trenches + that the enemy retake during the night.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, I—I don't know, father.' + </p> + <p> + The lady asks, 'Whatever are you two talking about?' + </p> + <p> + 'Aha,' says Mr. Torrance in high feather, patting her, but + unable to resist a slight boast, 'it is very private. + <i>We</i> don't tell you everything, you know, Ellen.' + </p> + <p> + She beams, though she does not understand. + </p> + <p> + 'Come on, mater, it's only his beastly sarcasm again. 'Night, + father; I won't see you in the morning.' + </p> + <p> + ''Night,' says Mr. Torrance. + </p> + <p> + But Roger has not gone yet. He seems to be looking for + something—a book, perhaps. Then he begins to + whistle—casually. + </p> + <p> + 'Good-night, dear father.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. John Torrance is left alone, rubbing his hands. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_3"><!-- RULE4 3 --></a> + <h2> + BARBARA'S WEDDING + </h2> + <p> + The Colonel is in the sitting-room of his country cottage, + staring through the open windows at his pretty garden. He is + a very old man, and is sometimes bewildered nowadays. He + calls to Dering, the gardener, who is on a ladder, pruning. + Dering, who comes to him, is a rough, capable young fellow + with fingers that are already becoming stumpy because he so + often uses his hands instead of a spade. This is a sign that + Dering will never get on in the world. His mind is in the + same condition as his fingers, working back to clods. He will + get a rise of one and sixpence in a year or two, and marry on + it and become duller and heavier; and, in short, the clever + ones could already write his epitaph. + </p> + <hr> + <p> + 'A beautiful morning, Dering.' + </p> + <p> + 'Too much sun, sir. The roses be complaining, and, to make + matters worse, Miss Barbara has been watering of + them—in the heat of the day.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel is a very gentle knight nowadays. 'Has she? She + means well.' But that is not what is troubling him. He + approaches the subject diffidently. 'Dering, you heard it, + didn't you?' He is longing to be told that Dering heard it. + </p> + <p> + 'What was that, sir?' + </p> + <p> + 'The thunderstorm—early this morning.' + </p> + <p> + 'There was no thunderstorm, sir.' + </p> + <p> + Dispirited, 'That is what they all say.' The Colonel is too + courteous to contradict any one, but he tries again; there is + about him the insistence of one who knows that he is right. + 'It was at four o'clock. I got up and looked out at the + window. The evening primroses were very beautiful.' + </p> + <p> + Dering is equally dogged. 'I don't hold much with evening + primroses, sir; but I was out and about at four; there was no + thunderstorm.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel still thinks that there was a thunderstorm, but + he wants to placate Dering. 'I suppose I just thought there + was one. Perhaps it was some thunderstorm of long ago that I + heard. They do come back, you know.' + </p> + <p> + Heavily, 'Do they, sir?' + </p> + <p> + 'I am glad to see you moving about in the garden, Dering, + with everything just as usual.' + </p> + <p> + There is a cautious slyness about this, as if the Colonel was + fishing for information; but it is too clever for Dering, who + is going with a 'Thank you, sir.' + </p> + <p> + 'No, don't go.' The old man lowers his voice and makes a + confession reluctantly, 'I am—a little troubled, + Dering.' + </p> + <p> + Dering knows that his master has a wandering mind, and he + answers nicely, 'Everything be all right, sir.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm glad of that,' the Colonel says with relief. 'It is + pleasant to see that you have come back, Dering. Why did you + go away for such a long time?' + </p> + <p> + 'Me, sir?' Dering is a little aggrieved. 'I haven't had a day + off since Christmas.' + </p> + <p> + 'Haven't you? I thought—' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel tries to speak casually, but there is a trembling + eagerness in his voice. 'Is everything just as usual, + Dering?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, sir. There never were a place less changed than this.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's true.' The Colonel is appeased. 'Thank you, Dering, + for saying that.' But next moment he has lowered his voice + again. 'Dering, there is nothing wrong, is there? Is anything + happening that I am not being told about?' + </p> + <p> + 'Not that I know of, sir.' + </p> + <p> + 'That is what they all say, but—I don't know.' He + stares at his old sword which is hanging on the wall. + 'Dering, I feel as if I was needed somewhere. I don't know + where it is. No one will tell me. Where is every one?' + </p> + <p> + 'They're all about, sir. There's a cricket match on at the + village green.' + </p> + <p> + 'Is there?' + </p> + <p> + 'If the wind had a bit of south in it you could hear their + voices. You were a bit of a nailer at cricket yourself, sir.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel sees himself standing up to fast ones. He is + gleeful over his reminiscences. + </p> + <p> + 'Ninety-nine against Mallowfield, and then bowled off my + pads. Biggest score I ever made. Mallowfield wanted to add + one to make it the hundred, but I wouldn't let them. I was + pretty good at steering them through the slips, Dering! Do + you remember my late cut? It didn't matter where point stood, + I got past him. You used to stand at point, Dering.' + </p> + <p> + 'That was my grandfather, sir. If he was to be believed, he + used to snap you regular at point.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel is crestfallen, but he has a disarming smile. + 'Did he? I daresay he did. I can't play now, but I like to + watch it still.' He becomes troubled again. 'Dering, there is + no cricket on the green to-day. I have been down to look. I + don't understand it, Dering. When I got there the green was + all dotted with them—it's the prettiest sight and + sound in England. But as I watched them they began to go + away, one and two at a time; they weren't given out, you + know, they went as if they had been called away. Some of the + little shavers stayed on—and then they went off, as if + they had been called away too. The stumps were left lying + about. Why is it?' + </p> + <p> + 'It's just fancy, sir,' Dering says soothingly, 'I saw Master + Will oiling his bat yesterday.' + </p> + <p> + 'Did you?' avidly. 'I should have liked to see that. I have + often oiled their bats for them. Careless lads, they always + forget. Was that nice German boy with him?' + </p> + <p> + 'Mr. Karl? Not far off, sir. He was sitting by the bank of + the stream playing on his flute; and Miss Barbara, she had + climbed one of my apple-trees,—she says they are your + trees.' He lowers. + </p> + <p> + 'They are, you know, Dering,' the Colonel says meekly. + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, sir, in a sense,' brushing the spurious argument aside, + 'but I don't like any of you to meddle with them. And there + she sat, pelting the two of them with green apples.' + </p> + <p> + 'How like her!' The Colonel shakes his head indulgently. 'I + don't know how we are to make a demure young lady of her.' + </p> + <p> + Dering smirks. 'They say in the village, sir, that Master + Will would like to try.' + </p> + <p> + To the Colonel this is wit of a high order. + </p> + <p> + 'Ha! ha! he is just a colt himself.' But the laughter breaks + off. He seems to think that he will get the truth if Dering + comes closer, 'Who are all here now, Dering; in the house, I + mean? I sometimes forget. They grow old so quickly. They go + out at one door in the bloom of youth, and come back by + another, tired and grey. Haven't you noticed it?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, sir. The only visitors staying here are Miss Barbara and + Mr. Karl. There's just them and yourselves, sir, you and the + mistress and Master Will. That's all.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, that's all,' his master says, still unconvinced. 'Who + is the soldier, Dering?' + </p> + <p> + 'Soldier, sir? There is no soldier here except yourself.' + </p> + <p> + 'Isn't there? There was a nurse with him. Who is ill?' + </p> + <p> + 'No one, sir. There's no nurse.' Dering backs away from the + old man. 'Would you like me to call the mistress, sir?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, she has gone down to the village. She told me why, but I + forget. Miss Barbara is with her.' + </p> + <p> + 'Miss Barbara is down by the stream, sir.' + </p> + <p> + 'Is she? I think they said they were going to a wedding.' + With an old man's curiosity, 'Who is being married to-day, + Dering?' + </p> + <p> + 'I have heard of no wedding, sir. But here is Miss Barbara.' + </p> + <p> + It is perhaps the first time that Dering has been glad to see + Miss Barbara, who romps in, a merry hoyden, running over with + animal spirits. + </p> + <p> + 'Here's the tomboy!' the Colonel cries gaily. + </p> + <p> + Barbara looks suspiciously from one to the other. + </p> + <p> + 'Dering, I believe you are complaining to the Colonel about + my watering the flowers at the wrong time of day.' + </p> + <p> + 'Aha! Aha!' The Colonel thinks she is even wittier than + Dering, who is properly abashed. + </p> + <p> + 'I did just mention it, miss.' + </p> + <p> + 'You horrid!' Barbara shakes her mop of hair at the gardener. + 'Dear, don't mind him. And every time he says they are + <i>his</i> flowers and <i>his</i> apples, you tell me, and I + shall say to his face that they are <i>yours</i>.' + </p> + <p> + 'The courage of those young things!' says the happy Colonel. + </p> + <p> + Dering's underlip becomes very pronounced, but he goes off + into the garden. Barbara attempts to attend to the Colonel's + needs. + </p> + <p> + 'Let me make you comfy—the way granny does it.' + </p> + <p> + She arranges his cushions clumsily. + </p> + <p> + 'That is not quite the way she does it,' the Colonel says + softly, 'Do you call her granny, Barbara?' + </p> + <p> + 'She asked me to—for practice.' Barbara is curious. + 'Don't you remember why?' + </p> + <p> + Of course the Colonel remembers. + </p> + <p> + 'I know! Billy boy.' + </p> + <p> + 'You <i>are</i> quick to-day. Now, wait till I get your + cane.' + </p> + <p> + 'I don't need my cane while I'm sitting.' + </p> + <p> + 'You look so beau'ful, sitting holding your cane.' She knocks + over his cushions. 'Oh dear! I am a clumsy.' + </p> + <p> + Politely, 'Not at all, but perhaps if I were to do it for + myself.' He makes himself comfortable. 'That's better. Thank + you, Barbara, very much.' + </p> + <p> + '<i>I</i> didn't do it. I'm all thumbs. What a ghastly nurse + I should make.' + </p> + <p> + 'Nurse?' The Colonel's troubles return to him. 'Who is she, + Barbara?' + </p> + <p> + 'Who is who, dear?' + </p> + <p> + 'That nurse.' + </p> + <p> + 'There's no nurse here.' + </p> + <p> + 'Isn't there?' + </p> + <p> + Barbara feels that she is of less use than ever to-day. + 'Where is granny?' + </p> + <p> + 'She has gone down to the village to a wedding.' + </p> + <p> + 'There's no wedding. Who could be being married?' + </p> + <p> + 'I think it's people I know, but I can't remember who they + are. I thought you went too, Barbara.' + </p> + <p> + 'Not I. Catch me missing it if there had been a wedding!' + </p> + <p> + 'You and the nurse.' + </p> + <p> + 'Dear, you have just been imagining things again. Shall I + play to you, or sing?' She knocks over a chair, 'Oh dear, + everything catches in me. Would you like me to "Robin Adair," + dear?' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel is polite, but firm, 'No, thank you, Barbara.' + For a few moments he forgets her; his mind has gone wandering + again. 'Barbara, the house seems so empty. Where are Billy + and Karl?' + </p> + <p> + 'Billy is where Karl is, you may be sure.' + </p> + <p> + 'And where is Karl?' + </p> + <p> + 'He is where Billy boy is, you may be sure.' + </p> + <p> + 'And where are they both?' + </p> + <p> + 'Not far from where Barbara is, you bet.' She flutters to the + window and waves her hand. 'Do you hear Karl's flute? They + have been down all the morning at the pool where the alder + is, trying to catch that bull-trout.' + </p> + <p> + 'They didn't get him, I'll swear!' + </p> + <p> + 'You can ask them.' + </p> + <p> + 'I spent a lot of my youth trying to get that bull-trout. I + tumbled in there sixty years ago.' + </p> + <p> + 'I tumbled in sixty minutes ago! It can't be the same trout, + dear.' + </p> + <p> + 'Same old rascal!' + </p> + <p> + Billy and Karl come in by the window, leaving a fishing-rod + outside. They are gay, careless, attractive youths. + </p> + <p> + BARBARA, with her nose in the air, 'You muddy things!' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, gaily firing his dart, 'Did you get the bull-trout, + Billy boy?' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'He's a brute that.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'He is, you know.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'He came up several times and had a look at my fly. + Didn't flick it, or do anything as complimentary as that. + Just yawned and went down.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'Yawned, did he? Used to wink in my time. Did you + and Billy fish at Heidelberg, Karl?' + </p> + <p> + KARL. 'We were more worthily employed, sir, but we did unbend + at times. Billy, do you remember—' He begins a gay + dance. + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'Not I.' Then he joins in. + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'Young gentlemen, how disgraceful!' She joins in. + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'Harum-scarums!' + </p> + <p> + KARL. 'Does he know about you two?' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'He often forgets, I'll tell him again. Grandfather, + Barbara and I have something to say to you. It's this.' He + puts his arm round Barbara. + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, smiling, 'I know—I know. There's nothing like + it. I'm very glad, Barbara.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'You see, dear, I've loved Billy boy since the days + when he tried to catch the bull-trout with a string and a + bent pin, and I held on to his pinafore to prevent his + tumbling in. We used to play at school at marrying and giving + in marriage, and the girl who was my bridegroom had always to + take the name of Billy. "Do you, woman, take this man + Billy—" the clergyman in skirts began, and before I + could answer diffidently, some other girl was sure to shout, + "I should rather think she does."' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, in high good humour, 'Don't forget the ring, Billy. + You know, when I was married I think I couldn't find the + ring!' + </p> + <p> + KARL. 'Were you married here, sir?' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'Yes, at the village church.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'So were my father and mother.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, as his eyes wander to the garden, 'I remember + walking back with my wife and bringing her in here through + the window. She kissed some of the furniture.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'I suppose you would like a grander affair, Barbara?' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'No, just the same.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'I hoped you would say that.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'But, Billy, I'm to have such a dream of a wedding + gown. Granny is going with me to London, to choose + it'—laying her head on the Colonel's shoulder—'if + you can do without her for a day, dear.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, gallantly, 'I shall go with you, I couldn't trust + you and granny to choose the gown.' + </p> + <p> + KARL. 'You must often be pretty lonely, sir, when we are all + out and about enjoying ourselves.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'They all say that. But that is the time when I'm + not lonely, Karl. It's then I see things most + clearly—the past, I suppose. It all comes crowding back + to me—India, the Crimea, India again—and it's so + real, especially the people. They come and talk to me. I seem + to see them; I don't know they haven't been here, Billy, till + your granny tells me afterwards.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'Yes, I know, I wonder where granny is.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'It isn't often she leaves you for so long, dear.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'She told me she had to go out, but I forget where. + Oh, yes, she has gone down to the village to a wedding.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'A wedding?' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'It's curious how he harps on that.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'She said to me to listen and I would hear the + wedding bells.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'Not to-day, dear.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'Best not to worry him.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'But granny says we should try to make things clear + to him.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'Was any one with granny when she said she was going + to a wedding?' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, like one begging her to admit it, 'You were there, + Barbara.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'No, dear. He said that to me before. And something + about a nurse.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, obstinately, 'She was there, too.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'Any one else?' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'There was that soldier.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'A soldier also!' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'Just those three.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'But that makes four. Granny and Barbara and a nurse + and a soldier.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'They were all there; but there were only three.' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'Odd.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA, soothingly, 'Never mind, dear, Granny will make it + all right. She is the one for you.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'She is the one for me.' + </p> + <p> + KARL. 'If there had been a wedding, wouldn't she have taken + the Colonel with her?' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'Of course she would.' + </p> + <p> + KARL. 'You are not too old to have a kind eye for a wedding, + sir.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, wagging his head, 'Aha, aha! You know, if I had + gone, very likely I should have kissed the bride. Brides look + so pretty on their wedding day. They are often not pretty at + other times, but they are all pretty on their wedding day.' + </p> + <p> + KARL. 'You have an eye for a pretty girl still, sir!' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'Yes, I have; yes, I have!' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'I do believe I see it all. Granny has been talking + to you about Billy boy and me, and you haven't been able to + wait; you have hurried on the wedding!' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'Bravo, Barbara, you've got it.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, doubtfully, 'That may be it. Because I am sure you + were to be there, Barbara.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'Our wedding, Billy!' + </p> + <p> + KARL. 'It doesn't explain those other people, though.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel moves about in agitation. + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'What is it, dear?' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'I can't quite remember, but I think that is why she + didn't take me. It is your wedding, Barbara, but I don't + think Billy boy is to be there, my love.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'Not at my wedding!' + </p> + <p> + BILLY. 'Grandfather!' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'There's something sad about it.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'There can't be anything sad about a wedding, dear. + Granny didn't say it was a sad wedding, did she?' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'She was smiling.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'Of course she was.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL. 'But I think that was only to please the nurse.' + </p> + <p> + BARBARA. 'That nurse again! Dear, don't think any more about + it. There's no wedding.' + </p> + <p> + COLONEL, gently, though he wonders why they can go on + deceiving him, 'Is there not?' + </p> + <p> + The village wedding bells begin to ring. + </p> + <p> + The Colonel is triumphant. 'I told you! There is a wedding!' + </p> + <p> + The bells ring on gaily. Billy and Barbara take a step nearer + to each other, but can go no closer. The bells ring on, and + the three young people fade from the scene. + </p> + <p> + When they are gone and he is alone, the Colonel still + addresses them. 'It's Barbara's wedding. Billy boy, why are + you not at Barbara's wedding?' + </p> + <p> + Soon the bells stop. He knows that he is alone now, but he + does not understand it. The sun is shining brightly, but he + sits very cold in his chair. He shivers. He is very glad to + see his wife coming to him through the open window. She is a + dear old lady, and is dressed brightly, as becomes one who + has been to a wedding. Her face beams to match her gown. She + is really quite a happy woman again, for it is several years + since any deep sorrow struck her; and that is a long time. No + one, you know, understands the Colonel as she does, no one + can soothe him and bring him out of his imaginings as she + can. He hastens to her. He is no longer cold. That is her + great reward for all she does for him. + </p> + <p> + 'I have come back, John,' she says, smiling tranquilly on + him. 'It hasn't seemed very long, has it?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, not long, Ellen. Had you a nice walk?' + </p> + <p> + She continues to smile, but she is watching him closely. 'I + haven't been for a walk. Don't you remember where I told you + I was going, John?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, it was to a wedding.' + </p> + <p> + Rather tremulously, 'You haven't forgotten whose wedding, + have you?' + </p> + <p> + 'Tell me, Ellen.' He is no longer troubled. He knows that + Ellen will tell him. + </p> + <p> + 'I have been seeing Barbara married, John.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, it was Barbara's wedding. They wouldn't—Ellen, + why wasn't I there?' + </p> + <p> + Like one telling him amusing gossip, 'I thought you might be + a little troubled if you went, John. Sometimes your + mind—not often, but sometimes if you are + agitated—and then you think you see—people who + aren't here any longer. Oh dear, oh dear, help me with these + bonnet strings.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, I know. I'm all right when you are with me, Ellen. + Funny, isn't it?' + </p> + <p> + She raises her shoulders in a laugh. 'It <i>is</i> funny, + John. I ran back to you, John. I was thinking of you all the + time—even more than of Billy boy.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel is very gay. 'Tell me all about it, Ellen. Did + Billy boy lose the ring? We always said he would lose the + ring.' + </p> + <p> + She looks straight into his eyes. 'You have forgotten again, + John. Barbara isn't married to Billy boy.' + </p> + <p> + He draws himself up. 'Not marry Billy! I'll see about that.' + </p> + <p> + She presses him into his chair. 'Sit down, dear, and I'll + tell you something again. It is nothing to trouble you, + because your soldiering is done, John; and greatly done. My + dear, there is war again, and our old land is in it. Such a + war as my soldier never knew.' + </p> + <p> + He rises. He is a stern old man. 'A war! That's it, is it? So + now I know! Why wasn't I told? Why haven't I my marching + orders? I'm not too old yet.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, John, you are too old, and all you can do now is to sit + here and—and take care of me. You knew all about it + quite clearly this morning. We stood together upstairs by the + window listening to the aircraft guns.' + </p> + <p> + 'I remember! I thought it was a thunderstorm, Dering told me + he heard nothing.' + </p> + <p> + 'Dering?' + </p> + <p> + 'Our gardener, you know.' His voice becomes husky. 'Haven't I + been talking with him, Ellen?' + </p> + <p> + 'It is a long time since we had a gardener, John.' + </p> + <p> + 'Is it? So it is! A war! That is why there is no more cricket + on the green.' + </p> + <p> + 'They have all gone to the war, John.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's it; even the little shavers.' He whispers, 'Why isn't + Billy boy fighting, Ellen?' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, John!' + </p> + <p> + 'Is Billy boy dead?' She nods. 'Was he killed in action? Tell + me, tell me!' She nods again. 'Good for Billy boy. I knew + Billy boy was all right. Don't cry, Ellen. I'll take care of + you. All's well with Billy boy.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, I know, John.' + </p> + <p> + He hesitates before speaking again. 'Ellen, who is the + soldier? He comes here. He is a captain.' + </p> + <p> + 'He is a very gallant man, John. It is he who was married to + Barbara to-day.' + </p> + <p> + Bitterly, 'She has soon forgotten.' + </p> + <p> + His wife shakes her brave head. 'She hasn't forgotten, dear. + And it's nearly three years now since Billy died.' + </p> + <p> + 'So long! We have a medal he got, haven't we?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, John; he died before he could win any medals.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel moves about, 'Karl will be sorry. They were very + fond of each other, those two boys, Ellen.' + </p> + <p> + 'Karl fought against us, John. He died in the same + engagement. They may even have killed each other.' + </p> + <p> + 'They hadn't known, Ellen.' + </p> + <p> + She with, thin lips, 'I daresay they knew.' + </p> + <p> + 'Billy boy and Karl!' + </p> + <p> + She tells him some more gossip. 'John, I had Barbara married + from here because she has no people of her own. I think Billy + would have liked it.' + </p> + <p> + 'That was the thing to do, Ellen. Nice of you. I remember + everything now. It's Dering she has married. He was once my + gardener!' + </p> + <p> + 'The world is all being re-made, dear. He is worthy of her.' + </p> + <p> + He lets this pass. He has remembered something almost as + surprising, 'Ellen, is Barbara a nurse?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, John, and one of the staidest and most serene. Who + would have thought it of the merry madcap of other days! They + are coming here, John, to say good-bye to you. They have only + a few days' leave. She is in France, too, you know. She was + married in her nurse's uniform.' + </p> + <p> + 'Was she? She told me to-day that—no, it couldn't have + been to-day.' + </p> + <p> + 'You have been fancying you saw them, I suppose.' She grows + tremulous again. 'You will be nice to them, John, won't you, + and wish them luck? They have their trials before them.' + </p> + <p> + He says eagerly, 'Tell me what to do, Ellen.' + </p> + <p> + 'Don't say anything about Billy boy, John.' + </p> + <p> + 'No, no, let's pretend.' + </p> + <p> + 'And I wouldn't talk about the garden, John; just in case he + is a little touchy about that.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel is beginning to fancy himself as a tactician. + 'Not a word!' + </p> + <p> + She knows what is the way to put him on his mettle. 'You see, + I'm sure I would make a mess of it, so I'm trusting to you, + John.' + </p> + <p> + He is very pleased, 'Leave it all to me, Ellen. I'll be + frightfully sly. You just watch me.' + </p> + <p> + She goes to the window and calls to the married couple. + Captain Dering, in khaki, is a fine soldierly figure. + Barbara, in her Red Gross uniform, is quiet and resourceful. + An artful old boy greets them. 'Congratulations, Barbara. No, + no, none of your handshaking; you don't get past an old + soldier in that way. Excuse me, young man.' He kisses Barbara + and looks at his wife to make sure that she is admiring him, + 'And to you, Captain Dering—you have won a prize.' + </p> + <p> + A gallant gentleman answers, 'I know it; I'll try to show I + know it.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel is perturbed. 'I haven't given Barbara a wedding + present, Ellen, I should like——' + </p> + <p> + Barbara breaks in, 'Indeed you have, dear, and a lovely one. + You haven't forgotten?' + </p> + <p> + Granny signs to the Colonel and he immediately says, with + remarkable cunning, 'Oh—that! I was just quizzing you, + Barbara. I hope you will be as happy, dear, staid Barbara, as + if you had married——' He sees that he has nearly + given away the situation. He looks triumphantly at granny as + much as to say, 'Observe me; I'm not going to say a word + about him.' + </p> + <p> + Granny comes to his aid. 'Perhaps Captain Dering has some + little things to do: and you, too, Barbara. They are leaving + in an hour, John.' + </p> + <p> + For a moment the Colonel is again in danger. 'If you would + like to take Barbara into the garden, Captain + Dering——' He recovers himself instantly. 'No, not + the garden, you wouldn't know your way about in the garden.' + </p> + <p> + 'Wouldn't I, Colonel?' the Captain says, smiling. + </p> + <p> + The answer is quite decisive. 'No, certainly not. I'll show + it you some day.' + </p> + <p> + He makes gleeful signs to granny. 'But there is a nice meadow + just beyond the shrubbery. Barbara knows the way; she often + went there with—' He checks himself. Granny signs to + them to go, and Barbara, kisses both the Colonel's hands. + 'The Captain will be jealous, you know,' he says, twinkling. + </p> + <p> + 'Let me, dear,' says Barbara, arranging his cushions + professionally. + </p> + <p> + Granny nods. 'She is much better at it than I am now, John.' + </p> + <p> + The Colonel has one last piece of advice to give. 'I wouldn't + go down by the stream, Barbara—not to the pool where + the alder is. There's—there's not a good view there, + sir; and a boy—a boy I knew, he often—nobody in + particular—just a boy who used to come about the + house—he is not here now—he is on duty. I don't + think you should go to the alder pool, Barbara.' + </p> + <p> + 'We won't go there, dear.' She and her husband go out, and + the Colonel scarcely misses them, he is so eager to hear what + his wife thinks of him. + </p> + <p> + 'Did I do all right, Ellen?' + </p> + <p> + 'Splendidly. I was proud of you.' + </p> + <p> + He exults. 'I put them completely off the scent! They haven't + a notion! I can be very sly, you know, at times. Ellen, I + think I should like to have that alder tree cut down. There + is no boy now, you see.' + </p> + <p> + 'I would leave it alone, John. There will be boys again. + Shall I read to you; you like that, don't you?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, read to me—something funny, if you please. About + Sam Weller! No, I expect Sam has gone to the wars. Read about + Mr. Pickwick. He is very amusing. I feel sure that if he had + tried to catch the bull-trout he would have fallen in. Just + as Barbara did this morning.' + </p> + <p> + 'Barbara?' + </p> + <p> + 'She is down at the alder pool. Billy is there with that nice + German boy. The noise they make, shouting and laughing!' + </p> + <p> + She gets from its shelf the best book for war-time. 'Which + bit shall I read?' + </p> + <p> + 'About Mr. Pickwick going into the lady's bedroom by + mistake.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, dear, though you almost know it by heart. You see, you + have begun to laugh already.' + </p> + <p> + 'You are laughing too, Ellen. I can't help it!' + </p> + <p> + She begins to read; they are both chuckling. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p><a name="RULE4_4"><!-- RULE4 4 --></a> + <h2> + A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE + </h2> + <p> + Out of the darkness comes the voice of a woman speaking to + her dead son. + </p> + <p> + 'But that was against your wish, was it not? Was that against + your wish? Would you prefer me not to ask that question?' + </p> + <p> + The room is so dark that we cannot see her. All we know is + that she is one of four shapes gathered round a small table. + Beyond the darkness is a great ingle-nook, in which is seated + on a settle a man of fifty. Him we can discern fitfully by + the light of the fire. It is not sufficiently bright to + enable him to read, but an evening paper lies on his knee. He + seems wistful and meek. He is paying no attention to the + party round the table. When he hears their voices it is only + as empty sounds. + </p> + <p> + The mother continues. 'Perhaps I am putting the question in + the wrong way. Are you not able to tell us any more?' + </p> + <p> + A man's voice breaks in. 'There was a distinct movement that + time, but it is so irregular.' + </p> + <p> + 'I thought so, but please don't talk. Do you want to tell us + more? Is it that you can't hear me distinctly? He seems to + want to tell us more, but something prevents him.' + </p> + <p> + 'In any case, Mrs. Don, it is extraordinary. This is the + first seance I have ever taken part in, but I must believe + now.' + </p> + <p> + 'Of course, Major, these are the simplest manifestations. + They are only the first step. But if we are to go on, the + less we talk the better. Shall we go on? It is not agitating + you too much, Laura?' + </p> + <p> + A girl answers, 'There was a moment when I—but I wish I + was braver. I think it is partly the darkness. I suppose we + can't have a little light?' + </p> + <p> + 'Certainly we can, dear. Darkness is quite unnecessary, but I + think it helps one to concentrate.' + </p> + <p> + The Major lights a lamp, and though it casts shadows we see + now that the room is an artist's studio. The silent figure in + the ingle-nook is the artist. Mrs. Don is his wife, the two + men are Major Armitage and an older friend, Mr. Rogers. The + girl is Laura Bell. These four are sitting round the table, + their hands touching: they are endeavouring to commune with + one who has 'crossed the gulf.' + </p> + <p> + The Major and Mr. Rogers are but passing shadows in the play, + and even nice Laura is only to flit across its few pages for + a moment on her way to happier things. We scarcely notice + them in the presence of Mrs. Don, the gracious, the + beautiful, the sympathetic, whose magnetic force and charm + are such that we wish to sit at her feet at once. She is + intellectual, but with a disarming smile, religious, but so + charitable, masterful, and yet loved of all. None is perfect, + and there must be a flaw in her somewhere, but to find it + would necessitate such a rummage among her many adornments as + there is now no time for. Perhaps we may come upon it + accidentally in the course of the play. + </p> + <p> + She is younger than Mr. Don, who, despite her efforts for + many years to cover his deficiencies, is a man of no great + account in a household where the bigger personality of his + wife swallows him like an Aaron's rod. Mr. Don's + deficiencies! She used to try very hard, or fairly hard, to + conceal them from Dick; but Dick knew. His mother was his + chum. All the lovely things which happened in that house in + the days when Dick was alive were between him and her; those + two shut the door softly on old Don, always anxious not to + hurt his feelings, and then ran into each other's arms. + </p> + <p> + In the better light Mr. Don is now able to read his paper if + he chooses. If he has forgotten the party at the table, they + have equally forgotten him. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'You have not gone away, have you? We must be + patient. Are you still there?' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'I think I felt a movement.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'Don't talk, please. Are you still there?' + </p> + <p> + The table moves. + </p> + <p> + 'Yes! It is your mother who is speaking; do you understand + that?' + </p> + <p> + The table moves. + </p> + <p> + 'Yes. What shall I ask him now?' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'We leave it to you, Mrs. Don.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'Have you any message you want to send us? Yes. Is + it important? Yes. Are we to spell it out in the usual way? + Yes. Is the first letter of the first word A? Is it B?' + </p> + <p> + She continues through the alphabet to L, when the table + responds. Similarly she finds that the second letter is O. + </p> + <p> + 'Is the word <i>Love</i>? Yes. But I don't understand that + movement. You are not displeased with us, are you? No. Does + the second word begin with A?—with B? Yes.' + </p> + <p> + The second word is spelt out <i>Bade</i> and the third + <i>Me</i>. + </p> + <p> + 'Love Bade Me——If it is a quotation, I believe I + know it! Is the fourth word <i>Welcome</i>? Yes.' + </p> + <p> + LAURA. 'Love Bade Me Welcome.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'That movement again! Don't you want me to go on?' + </p> + <p> + LAURA. 'Let us stop.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'Not unless he wishes it. Why are those words so + important? Does the message end there? Is any one working + against you? Some one antagonistic? Yes. Not one of ourselves + surely? No. Is it any one we know? Yes. Can I get the name in + the usual way? Yes. Is the first letter of this person's name + A?—B?——' + </p> + <p> + It proves to be F. One begins to notice a quaint peculiarity + of Mrs. Don's. She is so accustomed to homage that she + expects a prompt response even from the shades. + </p> + <p> + 'Is the second letter A?' + </p> + <p> + The table moves. + </p> + <p> + 'FA. Fa——?' + </p> + <p> + She is suddenly enlightened. + </p> + <p> + 'Is the word Father? Yes.' + </p> + <p> + They all turn and look for the first time at Mr. Don. He has + heard, and rises apologetically. + </p> + <p> + MR. DON, distressed, 'I had no intention—Should I go + away, Grace?' + </p> + <p> + She answers sweetly without a trace of the annoyance she must + surely feel. + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'Perhaps you had better, Robert.' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'I suppose it is because he is an unbeliever? He is + not openly antagonistic, is he?' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON, sadly enough, 'I am afraid he is.' They tend to + discuss the criminal as if he was not present. + </p> + <p> + MAJOR. 'But he must admit that we do get messages.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON, reluctantly, 'He says we think we do. He says they + would not want to communicate with us if they had such + trivial things to say.' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'But we are only on the threshold, Don. This is just + a beginning.' + </p> + <p> + LAURA. 'Didn't you hear, Mr. Don—"Love Bade Me + Welcome"?' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON. 'Does that strike you as important, Laura?' + </p> + <p> + LAURA. 'He said it was.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'It might be very important to him, though we don't + understand why.' + </p> + <p> + She speaks gently, but there is an obstinacy in him, despite + his meekness. + </p> + <p> + MR. DON. 'I didn't mean to be antagonistic, Grace. I thought. + I wasn't thinking of it at all.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'Not thinking of Dick, Robert? And it was only five + months ago!' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON, who is somehow, without meaning it, always in the + wrong, 'I'll go.' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'A boy wouldn't turn his father out. Ask him.' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON, forlornly, 'As to that—as to + that——' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'I will ask him if you wish me to, Robert.' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON. 'No, don't.' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'It can't worry you as you are a disbeliever.' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON. 'No, but—I shouldn't like you to think that he + sent me away.' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'He won't. Will he, Mrs. Don?' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON, knowing what her silence implies, 'You see, Dick and + I were not very—no quarrel or anything of that + sort—but I, I didn't much matter to Dick. I'm too old, + perhaps.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON, gently, 'I won't ask him, Robert, if you would + prefer me not to.' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON. 'I'll go.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'I'm afraid it is too late now.' She turns away + from earthly things. 'Do you want me to break off?' + </p> + <p> + The table moves. + </p> + <p> + 'Yes. Do you send me your love, Dick? Yes. And to Laura? + Yes.' She raises her eyes to Don, and hesitates. 'Shall I ask + him——?' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON. 'No, no, don't.' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'It would be all right, Don.' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON. 'I don't know.' + </p> + <p> + They leave the table. + </p> + <p> + LAURA, a little agitated, 'May I go to my room, Mrs. Don? I + feel I—should like to be alone.' + </p> + <p> + MRS. DON. 'Yes, yes, Laura dear. I shall come in and see + you.' + </p> + <p> + Laura bids them good-night and goes. She likes Mr. Don, she + strokes his hand when he holds it out to her, but she can't + help saying, 'Oh, Mr. Don, how could you?' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'I think we must all want to be alone after such an + evening. I shall say good-night, Mrs. Don.' + </p> + <p> + MAJOR. 'Same here. I go your way, Rogers, but you will find + me a silent companion. One doesn't want to talk ordinary + things to-night. Rather not. Thanks, awfully.' + </p> + <p> + ROGERS. 'Good-night, Don. It's a pity, you know; a bit hard + on your wife.' + </p> + <p> + MR. DON. 'Good-night, Rogers. Good-night, Major.' + </p> + <p> + The husband and wife, left together, have not much to say to + each other. He is depressed because he has spoilt things for + her. She is not angry. She knows that he can't help being as + he is, and that there are fine spaces in her mind where his + thoughts can never walk with her. But she would forgive him + seventy times seven because he is her husband. She is + standing looking at a case of fishing-rods against the wall. + There is a Jock Scott still sticking in one of them. Mr. Don + says, as if somehow they were evidence against him: + </p> + <p> + 'Dick's fishing-rods.' + </p> + <p> + She says forgivingly, 'I hope you don't mind my keeping them + in the studio, Robert. They are sacred things to <i>me</i>.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's all right, Grace.' + </p> + <p> + 'I think I shall go to Laura now.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes,' in his inexpressive way. + </p> + <p> + 'Poor child!' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm afraid I hurt her.' + </p> + <p> + 'Dick wouldn't have liked it—but Dick's gone.' She looks + a little wonderingly at him. After all these years, she can + sometimes wonder a little still. 'I suppose you will resume + your evening paper!' + </p> + <p> + He answers quietly, but with the noble doggedness which is + the reason why we write this chapter in his life. 'Why not, + Grace?' + </p> + <p> + She considers, for she is so sure that she must know the + answer better than he. 'I suppose it is just that a son is so + much more to a mother than to a father.' + </p> + <p> + 'I daresay.' + </p> + <p> + A little gust of passion shakes her. 'How you can read about + the war nowadays!' + </p> + <p> + He says firmly to her—he has had to say it a good many + times to himself, 'I'm not going to give in.' But he adds, 'I + am so sorry I was in the way, Grace. I wasn't scouting you, + or anything of that sort. It's just that I can't believe in + it.' + </p> + <p> + 'Ah, Robert, you would believe if Dick had been to you what + he was to me.' + </p> + <p> + 'I don't know.' + </p> + <p> + 'In a sense you may be glad that you don't miss him in the + way I do.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, perhaps.' + </p> + <p> + 'Good-night, Robert.' + </p> + <p> + 'Good-night, dear.' + </p> + <p> + He is alone now. He stands fingering the fishing-rods + tenderly, then wanders back into the ingle-nook. In the room + we could scarcely see him, for it has gone slowly dark there, + a grey darkness, as if the lamp, though still burning, was + becoming unable to shed light. Through the greyness we see + him very well beyond it in the glow of the fire. He sits on + the settle and tries to read his paper. He breaks down. He is + a pitiful lonely man. + </p> + <p> + In the silence something happens. A well-remembered voice + says, 'Father.' Mr. Don looks into the greyness from which + this voice comes, and he sees his son. We see no one, but we + are to understand that, to Mr. Don, Dick is standing there in + his habit as he lived. He goes to his boy. + </p> + <p> + 'Dick!' + </p> + <p> + 'I have come to sit with you for a bit, father.' + </p> + <p> + It is the gay, young, careless voice. + </p> + <p> + 'It's you, Dick; it's you!' + </p> + <p> + 'It's me all right, father. I say, don't be startled, or + anything of that kind. We don't like that.' + </p> + <p> + 'My boy!' + </p> + <p> + Evidently Dick is the taller, for Mr. Don has to look up to + him. He puts his hands on the boy's shoulders. + </p> + <p> + 'How am I looking, father?' + </p> + <p> + 'You haven't altered, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Rather not. It's jolly to see the old studio again!' In a + cajoling voice, 'I say, father, don't fuss. Let us be our + ordinary selves, won't you?' + </p> + <p> + 'I'll try, I'll try. You didn't say you had come to sit with + <i>me</i>, Dick? Not with <i>me</i>!' + </p> + <p> + 'Rather!' + </p> + <p> + 'But your mother——' + </p> + <p> + 'It's you I want.' + </p> + <p> + 'Me?' + </p> + <p> + 'We can only come to one, you see.' + </p> + <p> + 'Then why me?' + </p> + <p> + 'That's the reason.' He is evidently moving about, looking + curiously at old acquaintances. 'Hello, here's your old + jacket, greasier than ever!' + </p> + <p> + 'Me? But, Dick, it is as if you had forgotten. It was your + mother who was everything to you. It can't be you if you have + forgotten that. I used to feel so out of it; but, of course, + you didn't know.' + </p> + <p> + 'I didn't know it till lately, father; but heaps of things + that I didn't know once are clear to me now. I didn't know + that you were the one who would miss me most; but I know + now.' + </p> + <p> + Though the voice is as boyish as ever, there is a new note in + it of which his father is aware. Dick may not have grown much + wiser, but whatever he does know now he seems to know for certain. + </p> + <p> + '<i>Me</i> miss you most? Dick, I try to paint just as before. I + go to the club. Dick, I have been to a dinner-party. I said I + wouldn't give in.' + </p> + <p> + 'We like that.' + </p> + <p> + 'But, my boy——' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don's arms have gone out to him again. Dick evidently + wriggles away from them. He speaks coaxingly. + </p> + <p> + 'I say, father, let's get away from that sort of thing.' + </p> + <p> + 'That is so like you, Dick! I'll do anything you ask.' + </p> + <p> + 'Then keep a bright face.' + </p> + <p> + 'I've tried to.' + </p> + <p> + 'Good man! I say, put on your old greasy; you are looking so + beastly clean.' + </p> + <p> + The old greasy is the jacket, and Mr. Don obediently gets + into it. + </p> + <p> + 'Anything you like. No, that's the wrong sleeve. Thanks, + Dick.' + </p> + <p> + They are in the ingle-nook now, and the mischievous boy + catches his father by the shoulders. + </p> + <p> + 'Here, let me shove you into your old seat.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don is propelled on to the settle. + </p> + <p> + 'How's that, umpire!' + </p> + <p> + 'Dick,' smiling, 'that's just how you used to butt me into it + long ago!' + </p> + <p> + Dick is probably standing with his back to the fire, + chuckling. + </p> + <p> + 'When I was a kid.' + </p> + <p> + 'With the palette in my hand.' + </p> + <p> + 'Or sticking to your trousers.' + </p> + <p> + 'The mess we made of ourselves, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'I sneaked behind the settle and climbed up it.' + </p> + <p> + 'Till you fell off.' + </p> + <p> + 'On top of you and the palette.' + </p> + <p> + It is good fun for a father and son; and the crafty boy has + succeeded in making the father laugh. But soon, + </p> + <p> + 'Ah, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + The son frowns. He is not going to stand any nonsense. + </p> + <p> + 'Now then, behave! What did I say about that face?' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don smiles at once, obediently. + </p> + <p> + 'That's better. I'll sit here.' + </p> + <p> + We see from his father's face which is smiling with + difficulty that Dick has plopped into the big chair on the + other side of the ingle-nook. His legs are probably dangling + over one of its arms. + </p> + <p> + Rather sharply, 'Got your pipe?' + </p> + <p> + 'I don't—I don't seem to care to smoke nowadays, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Rot! Just because I am dead! You that pretend to be plucky! + I won't have it, you know. You get your pipe, and look slippy + about it.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, Dick,' the old man says obediently. He fills his pipe + from a jar on the mantelshelf. We may be sure that Dick is + watching closely to see that he lights it properly. + </p> + <p> + 'Now, then, burn your thumb with the match—you always + did, you know. That's the style. You've forgotten to cock + your head to the side. Not so bad. That's you. Like it?' + </p> + <p> + 'It's rather nice, Dick. Dick, you and me by the fire!' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, but sit still. How often we might have been like this, + father, and weren't.' + </p> + <p> + 'Ah!' + </p> + <p> + 'Face. How is Fido?' + </p> + <p> + 'Never a dog missed her master more.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh,' frowning. 'She doesn't want to go and sit on my grave, + or any of that tosh, does she? As if I were there!' + </p> + <p> + 'No, no,' hastily; 'she goes ratting, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Good old Fido!' + </p> + <p> + 'Dick, here's a good one. We oughtn't to keep a dog at all + because we are on rations now; but what do you think Fido ate + yesterday?' + </p> + <p> + 'Let me guess. The joint?' + </p> + <p> + 'Almost worse than that. She ate all the cook's meat + tickets.' + </p> + <p> + They laugh, together, but when Dick says light-heartedly, + 'That dog will be the death of me.' his father shivers. Dick + does not notice this; his eyes have drawn him to the + fishing-rods. + </p> + <p> + 'Hullo!' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, those are your old fishing-rods.' + </p> + <p> + 'Here's the little hickory! Do you remember, father, how I + got the seven-pounder on a burn-trout cast? No, you weren't + there. That was a day. It was really only six and + three-quarters. I put a stone in its mouth the second time we + weighed it!' + </p> + <p> + 'You loved fishing, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Didn't I? Why weren't you oftener with me? I'll tell you a + funny thing, When I went a soldiering I used to + pray—just standing up, you know—that I shouldn't + lose my right arm, because it would be so awkward for + casting.' He cogitates as he returns to the ingle-nook. + 'Somehow I never thought I should be killed. Lots of fellows + thought that about themselves, but I never did. It was quite + a surprise to me.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, Dick!' + </p> + <p> + 'What's the matter? Oh, I forgot. Face!' He is apparently + looking down at his father wonderingly. 'Haven't you got over + it yet, father? I got over it so long ago. I wish you people + would understand what a little thing it is.' + </p> + <p> + 'Tell me,' very humbly; 'tell me, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'All right.' He is in the chair again. + </p> + <p> + 'Mind, I can't tell you where I was killed; it's against the + regulations.' + </p> + <p> + 'I know where.' + </p> + <p> + Curiously, 'You got a wire, I suppose?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes.' + </p> + <p> + 'There's always a wire for officers, even for 2nd + Lieutenants. It's jolly decent of them.' + </p> + <p> + 'Tell me, Dick, about the—the veil. I mean the veil + that is drawn between the living and the——.' + </p> + <p> + 'The dead? Funny how you jib at that word.' + </p> + <p> + 'I suppose the veil is like a mist?' + </p> + <p> + 'The veil's a rummy thing, father. Yes, like a mist. But when + one has been at the Front for a bit, you can't think how thin + the veil seems to get; just one layer of it. I suppose it + seems thin to you out there because one step takes you + through it. We sometimes mix up those who have gone through + with those who haven't. I daresay if I were to go back to my + old battalion the living chaps would just nod to me.' + </p> + <p> + 'Dick!' + </p> + <p> + 'Where's that pipe? Death? Well, to me, before my day came, + it was like some part of the line I had heard a lot about but + never been in. I mean, never been in to stay, because, of + course, one often popped in and out.' + </p> + <p> + 'Dick, the day that you——' + </p> + <p> + 'My day? I don't remember being hit, you know. I don't + remember anything till the quietness came. When you have been + killed it suddenly becomes very quiet; quieter even than you + have ever known it at home. Sunday used to be a pretty quiet + day at my tutor's, when Trotter and I flattened out on the + first shady spot up the river; but it is quieter than that. I + am not boring you, am I?' + </p> + <p> + 'My boy!' + </p> + <p> + 'When I came to, the veil was so thin that I couldn't see it + at all; and my first thought was, Which side of it have I + come out on? The living ones lying on the ground were asking + that about themselves, too. There we were, all sitting up and + asking whether we were alive or dead; and some were one, and + some were the other. Sort of fluke, you know.' + </p> + <p> + 'I—I—oh, Dick!' + </p> + <p> + 'As soon as each had found out about himself he wondered how + it had gone with his chums, I halloo'd to Johnny Randall, and + he halloo'd back that he was dead, but that Trotter was + living. That's the way of it. A good deal of chaff, of + course. By that time the veil was there, and getting thicker, + and we lined up on our right sides. Then I could only see the + living ones in shadow and hear their voices from a distance. + They sang out to us for a while; but just at first, father, + it was rather lonely when we couldn't hear their tread any + longer. What are you fidgeting about? You needn't worry; that + didn't last long; we were heaps more interested in ourselves + than in them. You should have heard the gabbling! It was all + so frightfully novel, you see; and no one quite knew what to + do next, whether all to start off together, or wait for some + one to come for us. I say, what a lot I'm talking!' + </p> + <p> + 'What happened, Dick?' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh!' a proud ring coming into the voice, 'Ockley came for + us. He used to be alive, you know—the Ockley who was + keeper of the fives in my first half. I once pointed him out + to mother. I was jolly glad he was the one who came for us. + As soon as I saw it was Ockley I knew we should be all + right.' + </p> + <p> + 'Dick, I like that Ockley.' + </p> + <p> + 'Rather. I wish I could remember something funny to tell you + though. There are lots of jokes, but I am such a one for + forgetting them.' + </p> + <p> + He laughs boisterously. We may be sure that he flings back + his head. You remember how Dick used to fling back his head + when he laughed?—No, you didn't know him. + </p> + <p> + 'Father, do you remember little Wantage who was at my private + and came on to Ridley's house in my third half? His mother + was the one you called Emily.' + </p> + <p> + 'Emily Wantage's boy.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's the card. We used to call him Jemima, because he and + his mother were both caught crying when lock-up struck, and + she had to clear out.' + </p> + <p> + 'She was very fond of him, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, I expect no end. Tell her he's killed.' + </p> + <p> + 'She knows.' + </p> + <p> + 'She had got a wire. That isn't the joke, though. You see he + got into a hopeless muddle about which side of the veil he + had come out on; and he went off with the other ones, and + they wouldn't have him, and he got lost in the veil, running + up and down it, calling to us; and just for the lark we + didn't answer.' He chuckles, 'I expect he has become a + ghost!' With sudden consideration, 'Best not tell his mother + that.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don rises, wincing, and Dick also is at once on his feet, + full of compunction. + </p> + <p> + 'Was that shabby of me? Sorry, father. We are all pretty + young, you know, and we can't help having our fun still.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm glad you still have your fun,' the father says, once + more putting his hands on Dick's shoulders. 'Let me look at + you again, Dick. There is such a serenity about you now.' + </p> + <p> + 'Serenity, that's the word! None of us could remember what + the word was. It's a ripping good thing to have. I should be + awfully bucked if you would have it, too.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'll try.' + </p> + <p> + 'I say, how my tongue runs on! But, after all, it was my + show. Now, you tell me some things.' + </p> + <p> + 'What about, Dick? The war?' + </p> + <p> + 'No,' almost in a shout. 'We have a fine for speaking about + the war. And you know, those fellows we were fighting—I + forget who they were?' + </p> + <p> + 'The Germans.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh yes. Some of them were on the same side of the veil with + us, and they were rather decent; so we chummed up in the end + and Ockley took us all away together. They were jolly lucky + in getting Ockley. There I go again! Come on, it's your turn. + Has the bathroom tap been mended yet?' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm afraid it is—just tied up with that string still, + Dick. It works all right.' + </p> + <p> + 'It only needs two screw-nails, you know.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'll see to it.' + </p> + <p> + 'Do you know whether any one at my tutors got his fives + choice this half?' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm sorry, Dick, but——' + </p> + <p> + 'Or who is the captain of the boats?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, I——' + </p> + <p> + 'Whatever have you been doing?' He is moving about the room. + 'Hullo, here's mother's work-box! Is mother all right?' + </p> + <p> + 'Very sad about you, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, I say, that isn't fair. Why doesn't she cheer up?' + </p> + <p> + 'It isn't so easy, my boy.' + </p> + <p> + 'It's pretty hard lines on me, you know.' + </p> + <p> + 'How is that?' + </p> + <p> + 'If you are sad, I have to be sad. That's how we have got to + work it off. You can't think how we want to be bright.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'll always remember that, and I'll tell your mother. Ah, + but she won't believe me, Dick; you will have to tell her + yourself.' + </p> + <p> + 'I can't do that, father. I can only come to one.' + </p> + <p> + 'She should have been the one; she loved you best, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, I don't know. Do you ever,' with a slight hesitation, + 'see Laura now?' + </p> + <p> + 'She is staying with us at present.' + </p> + <p> + 'Is she? I think I should like to see her.' + </p> + <p> + 'If Laura were to see you——' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, she wouldn't see me. She is not dressed in black, is + she?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, in white.' + </p> + <p> + 'Good girl! I suppose mother is in black?' + </p> + <p> + 'Surely, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'It's too bad, you know.' + </p> + <p> + 'You weren't exactly—engaged to Laura, were you, Dick?' + A bold question from a father, but the circumstances were + unusual. Apologetically, 'I never rightly knew.' + </p> + <p> + 'No!' Dick has flung back his head again. Confidentially, + 'Father, I sometimes thought of it, but it rather scared me! + I expect that is about how it was with her, too.' + </p> + <p> + 'She is very broken about you now.' + </p> + <p> + Irritated, 'Oh, hang!' + </p> + <p> + 'Would you like her to forget you, Dick?' + </p> + <p> + 'Rather not. But she might help a fellow a bit. Hullo!' + </p> + <p> + What calls forth this exclamation, is the little table at + which the seance had taken place. The four chairs are still + standing round it, as if they were guarding something. + </p> + <p> + 'Here's something new, father; this table.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, It is usually in the drawing-room.' + </p> + <p> + 'Of course. I remember.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don sets his teeth. 'Does that table suggest anything to + you, Dick?' + </p> + <p> + 'To me? Let me think. Yes, I used to play backgammon on it. + What is it doing here?' + </p> + <p> + 'Your mother brought it in.' + </p> + <p> + 'To play games on? Mother!' + </p> + <p> + 'I don't—know that it was a game, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'But to play anything! I'm precious glad she can do that. Was + Laura playing with her?' + </p> + <p> + 'She was helping her.' + </p> + <p> + 'Good for Laura.' He is looking at some slips of paper on the + table. 'Are those pieces of paper used in the game? There is + writing on them: "The first letter is H—the second + letter is A—the third letter is R." What does it mean?' + </p> + <p> + 'Does it convey no meaning to you, Dick?' + </p> + <p> + 'To me? No; why should it?' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don is enjoying no triumph. 'Let us go back to the fire, + my boy.' + </p> + <p> + Dick follows him into the ingle-nook. 'But, why should it + convey a meaning to me? I was never much of a hand at indoor + games.' Brightly, 'I bet you Ockley would be good at it.' + After a joyous ramble, 'Ockley's nickname still sticks to + him!' + </p> + <p> + 'I don't think I know it.' + </p> + <p> + 'He was a frightful swell, you know. Keeper of the field, and + played against Harrow the same year. I suppose it did go just + a little to his head.' + </p> + <p> + They are back in their old seats, and Mr. Don leans forward + in gleeful anticipation. Probably Dick is leaning forward in + the same way, and this old father is merely copying him. + </p> + <p> + 'What did you nickname him, Dick?' + </p> + <p> + 'It was his fags that did it!' + </p> + <p> + 'I should like to know it. I say, do tell me, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'He is pretty touchy about it now, you know.' + </p> + <p> + 'I won't tell any one. Come on, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'His fags called him K.C.M.G.' + </p> + <p> + 'Meaning, meaning, Dick?' + </p> + <p> + 'Meaning "Kindly Call Me God!"' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don flings back his head; so we know what Dick is doing. + They are a hilarious pair, perhaps too noisy, for suddenly + Mr. Don looks at the door. + </p> + <p> + 'I think I heard some one, Dick!' + </p> + <p> + 'Perhaps it's mother!' + </p> + <p> + 'She may,' nervously, 'have heard the row.' + </p> + <p> + Dick's eyes must be twinkling. 'I say, father, you'll catch + it!' + </p> + <p> + 'I can't believe, Dick,' gazing wistfully into the chair, + 'that she won't see you.' + </p> + <p> + It is a sadder voice than his own for the moment that + answers, 'Only one may see me.' + </p> + <p> + 'You will speak to her, Dick. Let her hear your voice.' + </p> + <p> + 'Only one may hear me. I could make her the one; but it would + mean your losing me.' + </p> + <p> + 'I can't give you up, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Don comes in, as beautiful as ever, but a little + aggrieved. + </p> + <p> + 'I called to you, Robert.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, I thought—I was just going to——' + </p> + <p> + He has come from the ingle-nook to meet her. He looks from + her to Dick, whom he sees so clearly, standing now by the + fire. An awe falls upon Mr. Don. He says her name, meaning, + 'See, Grace, who is with us.' + </p> + <p> + Her eyes follow his, but she sees nothing, not even two arms + outstretched to her. 'What is it, Robert? What is the + matter?' + </p> + <p> + She does not hear a voice say, 'Mother!' + </p> + <p> + 'I heard you laughing, Robert; what on earth at?' + </p> + <p> + The father cannot speak. + </p> + <p> + 'Now you're in a hole, father!' says a mischievous, voice. + </p> + <p> + 'Can I not be told, Robert?' + </p> + <p> + 'Something in the paper,' the voice whispers. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don lifts the paper feebly, and his wife understands. + 'Oh, a newspaper joke! Please, I don't want to hear it.' + </p> + <p> + 'Was it my laughing that brought you back, Grace?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, that would only have made me shut my door. If Dick + thought you could laugh!' She goes to the little table. 'I + came back for these slips of paper.' She lifts them and + presses them to her breast. 'These precious slips of paper!' + </p> + <p> + Dick was always a curious boy, and forgetting that she cannot + hear him, he blurts out, 'How do you mean, mother? Why are + they precious?' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don forgets also and looks to her for an answer. + </p> + <p> + 'What is it, Robert?' + </p> + <p> + 'Didn't you—hear anything, Grace?' + </p> + <p> + 'No. Perhaps Laura was calling; I left her on the stair.' + </p> + <p> + 'I wish,' Mr. Don is fighting for Dick now, 'I wish Laura + would come back and say good-night to me.' + </p> + <p> + 'I daresay she will.' + </p> + <p> + 'And,' valiantly, 'if she could be—rather brighter, + Grace.' + </p> + <p> + 'Robert!' + </p> + <p> + 'I think Dick would like it.' + </p> + <p> + Her fine eyes reproach him mutely, but she says, ever + forgiving, 'Is that how you look at it, Robert? Very well, + laugh your fill—if you can. But if Dick were to appear + before me to-night——' + </p> + <p> + In his distress Mr. Don cries aloud to the figure by the + fire, 'Dick, if you can appear to your mother, do it.' + </p> + <p> + There is a pause in which anything may happen, but nothing + happens. Yes, something happened: Dick has stuck to his + father. + </p> + <p> + 'Really, Robert!' Mrs. Don says, and, without a word of + reproach, she goes away. Evidently Dick comes to his father, + who has sank into a chair, and puts a loving hand on him. Mr. + Don clasps it without looking up. + </p> + <p> + 'Father, that was top-hole of you! Poor mother, I should have + liked to hug her; but I can't.' + </p> + <p> + 'You should have gone to her, Dick; you shouldn't have minded + me.' + </p> + <p> + The wiser boy says, 'Mother's a darling, but she doesn't need + me as much as you do.' + </p> + <p> + 'I don't know.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's all right. I'm glad she's so keen about that game, + though.' + </p> + <p> + He has returned to the ingle-nook when Laura comes in, eager + to make amends to Dick's father if she hurt him when she went + out. + </p> + <p> + Softly, 'I have come to say good-night, Mr. Don.' + </p> + <p> + 'It's nice of you, Laura,' taking both her hands. + </p> + <p> + Dick speaks. 'I want her to come nearer to the fire; I can't + see her very well there.' + </p> + <p> + For a moment Mr. Don is caught out again; but Laura has heard + nothing. He becomes quite cunning in Dick's interests. + </p> + <p> + 'Your hands are cold, Laura; go over to the fire. I want to + look at you.' + </p> + <p> + She sits on the hearthstone by Dick's feet. + </p> + <p> + Shyly, 'Am I all right?' + </p> + <p> + It is Dick who answers. 'You're awfully pretty, Laura. You + are even prettier than I thought. I remember I used to think, + she can't be quite as pretty as I think her; and then when + you came you were just a little prettier.' + </p> + <p> + She has been warming her hands. 'Why don't you say anything?' + she asks Mr. Don. + </p> + <p> + 'I was thinking of you and Dick, Laura.' + </p> + <p> + 'What a pretty soul she has, father,' says the boy; 'I can + see right down into it now.' + </p> + <p> + 'If Dick had lived, Laura, do you think that you and + he—?' + </p> + <p> + With shining eyes, 'I think—if he had wanted it very + much.' + </p> + <p> + 'I expect he would, my dear.' + </p> + <p> + There is an odd candour about Dick's contribution. 'I think + so, too, but I never was quite sure.' They are a very young + pair. + </p> + <p> + Laura is trembling a little. 'Mr. Don—' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, Laura?' + </p> + <p> + 'I think there is something wicked about me. I sometimes feel + quite light-hearted—though Dick has gone.' + </p> + <p> + 'Perhaps, nowadays, the fruit trees have that sort of shame + when they blossom, Laura; but they can't help doing it. I + hope you are yet to be a happy woman, a happy wife.' + </p> + <p> + 'It seems so heartless to Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Not a bit; it's what I should like,' Dick says. + </p> + <p> + 'It's what he would like, Laura.' + </p> + <p> + 'Do you remember, Laura,' Dick goes on, 'I kissed you once. + It was under a lilac in the Loudon Woods. I knew at the time + that you were angry, and I should have apologised. I'm sorry, + Laura.' + </p> + <p> + His sweetheart has risen, tasting something bitter-sweet. + 'What is it, Laura?' Mr. Don asks. + </p> + <p> + 'Somehow—I don't know how—but, for a moment I + seemed to feel the smell of lilac. Dick was once—nice + to me under a lilac. Oh, Mr. Don—' She goes to him like + a child, and he soothes and pets her. + </p> + <p> + 'There, there! That will be all right, quite all right.' He + takes her to the door. 'Good-night, my dear.' + </p> + <p> + 'Good-night, Mr. Don.' + </p> + <p> + 'Good-bye, Laura,' says the third voice. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don is looking so glum that the moment they are alone + Dick has to cry warningly, 'Face!' He is probably looking + glum himself, for he says candidly, 'Pretty awful things, + these partings. Father, don't feel hurt though I dodge the + good-bye business when I leave you.' + </p> + <p> + 'That's so like you, Dick!' + </p> + <p> + 'I'll have to go soon.' + </p> + <p> + 'Oh, Dick! Can't you—' + </p> + <p> + 'There's something I want not to miss, you see.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm glad of that.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm not going yet; but I mean that when I do I'll just slip + away.' + </p> + <p> + 'What I am afraid of is that you won't come back.' + </p> + <p> + 'I will—honest Injun—if you keep bright.' + </p> + <p> + 'But, if I do that, Dick, you might think I wasn't missing + you so much.' + </p> + <p> + 'We know better than that. You see, if you're bright, I'll + get a good mark for it.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'll be bright.' + </p> + <p> + Dick pops him into the settle again. + </p> + <p> + 'Remember your pipe.' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Do you still go to that swimming-bath, and do your dumb-bell + exercises?' + </p> + <p> + 'No, I—' + </p> + <p> + 'You must.' + </p> + <p> + 'All right, Dick, I will.' + </p> + <p> + 'And I want you to be smarter next time. Your hair's awful.' + </p> + <p> + 'I'll get it cut, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Are you hard at work over your picture of those three + Graces?' + </p> + <p> + 'No. I put that away. I'm just doing little things nowadays. + I can't—' + </p> + <p> + 'Look here, sonny, you've got to go on with it. You don't + seem to know how interested I am in your future.' + </p> + <p> + 'Very well, Dick; I'll bring it out again.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don hesitates. + </p> + <p> + 'Dick, there is something I have wanted to ask you all the + time.' + </p> + <p> + Some fear seems to come into the boy's voice. 'Don't ask it, + father.' + </p> + <p> + 'I shall go on worrying about it if I don't—but just as + you like, Dick.' + </p> + <p> + 'Go ahead, father; ask me.' + </p> + <p> + 'It is this. Would you rather be—here—than + there?' + </p> + <p> + After a pause the boy says, 'Not always.' + </p> + <p> + 'What is the great difference, Dick?' + </p> + <p> + 'Well, down here one knows he has risks to run.' + </p> + <p> + 'And you miss that?' + </p> + <p> + 'It must be rather jolly.' + </p> + <p> + 'Did you know that was what I was to ask?' + </p> + <p> + 'Yes. But, remember, I'm young at it.' + </p> + <p> + 'And your gaiety, Dick; is it all real, or only put on to + help me?' + </p> + <p> + 'It's—it's half and half, father.' + </p> + <p> + 'Face!' he cries, next moment. Then cajolingly, 'Father, + K.C.M.G.!' + </p> + <p> + 'When will you come again, Dick?' + </p> + <p> + 'There's no saying. One can't always get through. They keep + changing the password.' His voice grows troubled. 'It's + awfully difficult to get the password.' + </p> + <p> + 'What was it to-night?' + </p> + <p> + 'Love Bade Me Welcome.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don rises; he stares at his son. + </p> + <p> + 'How did you get it, Dick?' + </p> + <p> + 'I'm not sure.' Dick seems to go closer to his father, as if + for protection. 'There are lots of things I don't understand + yet.' + </p> + <p> + 'There are things I don't understand either. Dick, did you + ever try to send messages—from there—-to us?' + </p> + <p> + 'Me? No.' + </p> + <p> + 'Or get messages from us?' + </p> + <p> + 'No. How could we?' + </p> + <p> + 'Is there anything in it?' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don is not speaking to his son. He goes to the little + table and looks long at it. Has it taken on a sinister + aspect? Those chairs, are they guarding a secret? + </p> + <p> + 'Dick, this table—your mother—how could + they——' + </p> + <p> + He turns, to find that Dick has gone. + </p> + <p> + 'Dick! My boy! Dick!' + </p> + <p> + The well-remembered voice leaves a message behind it. + </p> + <p> + 'Be bright, father.' + </p> + <p> + Mr. Don sits down by the fire to think it all out. + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + <p> + + </p> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Echoes of the War, by J. M. Barrie + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ECHOES OF THE WAR *** + +This file should be named wecho10h.htm or wecho10h.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, wecho11h.htm +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, wecho10ah.htm + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, David Garcia and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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