Part 15

Mr and Mrs Dare were noticeably quiet. She, because, in spite of herself, her heart was depressed at all this close approximation of the Juggernaut of War. It was impossible to close her mind to the fears that beat blindly at it. Con gone already--possibly gone for good. Ray going,--he might well never come back. Noel and Gregor longing to go,--they would jump at any chance that offered. They too might never come back, and she had fathomed Gregor’s feeling for Honor, from the shy anxious glances he cast at her whenever opportunity offered. About Noel and Vic she was not so sure; their manner towards one another puzzled her. But already she forecasted all the boys lying dead and all the girls left broken-hearted.

Mr Dare had his own reasons for withdrawing into his shell. Business, of course, for one thing. And for another,--Noel.

XXI

Noel, embryo warrior, was a very different personage from the Noel of six weeks ago looking forward without enthusiasm to the stool in St Mary Axe.

The sudden enlargement of his horizon to the boundless possibilities of military life and active warfare had, unconsciously, and perhaps unavoidably, wrought changes in him.

From being a boy, dependent on his father for both present and future, he had become suddenly a man, independent, and at times somewhat resentful of either control or advice.

His whole heart and mind were given with his active body to his new duties. He was soldier first, and anything else afterwards. To Honor it was quite understandable. He was jovially patronising to her and she held her own by chaffing him royally when chance offered. To his father and mother it was understandable also, but none the less somewhat of a trial at times.

Their boy was no longer wholly theirs. He had suddenly become a soldier and considered himself a man. They rejoiced in the better points of his manly development, but both felt keenly their deprivation in him; Mr Dare perhaps the most.

They saw very little of him. He was away early and home late. He was making many new acquaintances. Home and its associations counted for less with him. There was a general loosening of the old ties. They felt it, indeed, a beginning of the end that might find its consummation out there in the battle-smoke.

“We are losing him already,” said Mr Dare with a sigh, one night when a telegram had come from Noel saying that as he had to be on orderly duty early next morning he would sleep at the Soldiers’ Home opposite Head-Quarters. He had hinted at the possibility once or twice, but they had not taken it very seriously.

“We must not lose him,” said Mrs Dare quietly. “He is keeping all right, John, I feel sure. He said he might have to stop now and then, you know. He’s got to take his turn with the rest.”

“I know, I know,” said Mr Dare, a trifle irritably. “All the same I feel as if we were losing our hold on him.”

“I suppose it’s inevitable to some extent. We must do our best to hold on to the little that is left us.... If he ... if he comes through it safely, as we pray that he may, perhaps he will come all back to us.... Perhaps,” she said, following up a side thought, “it is nature’s way of softening the blow if he should not come back to us. The parting is beginning even now.”

“Hmph!” grunted Mr Dare resentfully. “He’s getting out of hand, that’s certain. I asked him to see to something the other day ... I really forget what it was,--some small thing that he’d have done in a moment two months ago,--and he simply let it slide,--never gave it another thought apparently----”

“Boys are very thoughtless when their minds are full of their own concerns. I expect he just forgot all about it.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier to bear.”

“I know. It only explains it perhaps.”

“And I’m beginning to doubt if he’ll ever settle down to ordinary work again. He has never been so keen on anything in his life before. I don’t understand it. Where does he get it from?”

“It’s partly boyish love of adventure, and partly, I don’t doubt, real feeling that every man is needed, and when so many are going he wouldn’t be one to stop behind. We will give him credit for that. But, indeed, it is the last thing in the world I would have desired for him.”

“Or I,” said Mr Dare, with a sigh.

The change in their relationship manifested itself in many little ways,--quite trifling some of them, but to Mr Dare’s already bruised and sensitive feelings none the less galling.

The frank confidences of boyhood, which kept back nothing, were gone. Beyond the bare statement that they had done a route march to Richmond or Hampstead, or had been mouching about Head-Quarters all day, or playing about in Hyde Park, even his mother’s interested attempts to draw him out came to little.

His manner at times seemed to hint that it would be waste of time on his part to enter into the details they would so have enjoyed hearing, since, being mere civilians, they could not possibly understand purely military matters.

When, occasionally, by some lucky chance, his Company was dismissed earlier than usual, if he did not stop in town to go to a theatre or music-hall with some of his fellows, he would rush in for a meal and off again almost before he had swallowed it, to call on this one or that one where he evidently found more congenial company than at home.

If they all happened to meet outside, at Oakdene or elsewhere, they would find him in the highest of spirits, reeling off merry yarns of their doings en route or at Head-Quarters, and they felt a little sore that all this brighter side of him should be kept for foreign consumption when the home market was pining for it.

“Have we failed in any way in our duty to him?” grumbled Mr Dare, after one such evening at Oakdene, as he and Mrs Dare went along together to their own house, which had never felt so lonely since they came to it.

“No, John, we haven’t,” said Mrs Dare. “It’s just that he’s very young still though he thinks he’s a man, and youth draws to youth. It’s always the way, I expect.”

“It wasn’t so with Con, or Lois.”

“They had the younger ones--and they were all younger together. Young birds must quit the nest, you know.”

“Youth is apt to run to selfishness, it seems to me. I think we’d better take a smaller house.”

“We might well do that, but I would be sorry to leave Willstead and all our friends.”

XXII

Ray went off in full rig first thing in the morning, taking his kit with him, in case, as he thought probable, he should be ordered to join his company at once.

Vic and Honor had business in town, so they went with him and Lois to the station, where they found Noel and Gregor marching impatiently about the platform for the train to come in.

“You can’t travel with us, you know,” said Noel. “We go third. Officers----”

“Thanks, my child! ‘Out of the mouths of babes----’”

“The girls will of course follow the uniform,” said Noel, while Gregor grinned hopefully.

“Of course,” said Honor, and they got in with Ray. He leaned out of the window for a last word with Lois, who was going up later to do some shopping; and then they were gone, and she stood watching the joggling end carriage till it was out of sight, and wondered forlornly if she would ever see him again.

She was still standing watching, with an odd little feeling in her heart that when she turned away it would be like cutting the last link with the happy past and turning to face the anxious future, which stood waiting peremptorily just behind her, when the down-train ran in. She turned with a sigh that was almost a sob, and went out into the road.

Her eyes were misty as she went. It was the beginning of partings, and if he went to the front, as he most assuredly would if the rest went, it might be the beginning of the end.

And life was just at its fullest with them, just opening its fairest white flowers. They were so very happy,--and would have been happier still, if this hideous war had not come.

But she must be brave. Ray was feeling it just as much as she was. But he had gone to his duty with high heart and quiet face, and she must do no less.

But it was hard, hard, hard, to part with him so soon. God help them both! They were in His hands, and she must cling to that with might and main.

“Lois!”--and she turned quickly and found Alma hurrying to come up with her.

But a much-altered Alma. The beautiful face, which used to be all agleam with the joy of life,--the gracious curving mouth, where quick smiles and ready laughter used to hover,--the eloquent eyes which caught your thought in advance of your words,--they were all there but frozen to the semblance of a marble saint. Lois caught her breath at the change in her.

“Am I too late? Has he gone?” panted Alma.

“Just gone. Oh, Alma! My dear! My dear!” and they embraced one another there in the road, oblivious of who might see them at it. For the tragic web of circumstance in which their hearts were caught lifted them above all care for such small mundane considerations.

“Vic wrote me a line last night about you two, and I knew Ray would have to be off at once, so I came as soon as I could possibly get away. I _would_ have liked to see the dear old boy once more. How is he feeling and looking?”

“Just as you would expect him to. He looks splendid. He is feeling--well, very much as we are, I suppose.”

“Yes, these are sad and sober times for us all, but chiefly for us women. I think it hits us harder than the men. They have all the glamour and the activities. There is not much glamour in it for us who sit at home and wait for things to happen and fear the worst all the time.”

“No ... Al, dear, I can’t tell you all I feel about you and Con. But, dear, I feel somehow that he will come back. I do not believe he is ... gone for good.”

“I don’t myself. But the waiting and hearing nothing is hard to bear.... I thank God a dozen times a day that I have my work and that it is hard and taxing. If I hadn’t I should break down. You must get some work to do, Lois. It is the only way to bear it.... But when Con and I parted, the evening of the day we were married--it was just outside the big gate at the hospital--I just knelt by my bed half the night. I could not think of sleeping. And I gave him up, there and then, to God and his country, and made up my mind that I might never see him again.”

“It was brave and strong of you, dear. I’m afraid I haven’t got up to that yet.”

“It is best so. We may never see again any of those who go. If we can bring ourselves to really understand that, and say good-bye to them in our hearts, I think the pain of the actual news will be lessened.”

“But we can always hope for them.”

“Of course. We can, and do, and will. And if the hope is realised, so much the better. But if not, the pain will be less.”

“It is all very terrible. Who would have thought it three months ago?”

“Ay, indeed!... I cannot help hoping that those who brought it about may suffer in themselves every bit of the suffering they are causing.”

Her unexpected visit was a pleasant surprise to the Colonel and Auntie Mitt. It reminded them of her sudden home-swoops of ante-war-days, but with the unforgettable difference. Auntie Mitt, indeed, kept stealing surreptitious glances at her, as though she were not absolutely certain in her own mind that this really was their own Alma. And the Colonel’s voice had a novel inflection in it when he spoke to her.

“No news, Uncle, or you would have let me know,” was her first word to him.

“Nothing yet, my dear. I shall hear the moment they have anything definite. But they all seem quite hopeful.”

But she had heard that so often that it had come to lose its savour for her.

“I am very sorry to have missed Ray. I got off as early as I could, but we are terribly busy. Have you any further idea as to my going out?”

“My dear, you could go out, I imagine, with any party that is going. But ... I really think your best place is here,--at your own work, I mean. If any news came, and you were away out there somewhere,--think how awkward it might be. We might want you at once and never be able to find you. Can’t you bring your mind to stopping at home?”

“I suppose I must if you put it so. But I feel as though I would like to go out and tackle harder work still,--the harder and grimmer and redder, the better.”

“I know,” said the Colonel understandingly. “And if I thought it best I would say so, and help you there. But I really think you are best at home--for a time at all events. Now I must run, my dear. I promised to be in town at eleven. Stop as long as you can. I’ll send you good news as soon as I learn any.”

She stayed till close on mid-day, ran in for a short chat with Mrs Dare, had an early lunch, and then Lois walked back to the station with her.

“You will keep me posted as to Ray’s doings, Lo,” she said, as they stood on the platform. “For your sake, dear, I could almost wish he might not have to go. But I know him, and you know him, and we both know that if the rest went and he was left behind, it would break his heart.”

Lois nodded. Her heart was very full. She wished Alma could stop at home. They could have helped one another. Life was all partings at present.

“Remember, dear,” said Alma, as the train came round the curve, “we are more than ever sisters now. We must help one another all we can. And--don’t forget!--throw yourself into some good work or other. It is the very best anodyne.”

And, the next minute, Lois was watching the joggling end of the train as it carried her away.

She went slowly home to discuss with her mother what work she should set her hand to. But before they had decided anything the matter was settled for them, for the time being, in quite a different way. A telegram was brought over to her from Oakdene, and it was from Ray at Watford.

“Have got rooms for you at Malden Hotel here. Come along.”

This meant a quick fly round if she was to do him no discredit. Within an hour she was in town and whirling in a taxi to Regent Street. Inside another hour she had chosen, tried on, and had properly fitted, a costume and hat equal to the occasion, and she reached the Malden at Watford just in time for tea.

Then she waited joyously for Ray to put in an appearance, her clouds for the time being lightened by the certainty of seeing him again, and of having at all events some small share in him for a few days longer.

She knew well enough that it was but a postponement of the evil day, a very temporary lifting of the war-clouds to let the sun of their happiness shine briefly through. But possibly, to one under sentence of death, a respite of even a week may seem a mighty gain,--seven long days and nights snatched from the shadow beyond. Possibly!--for to some it might seem better to have it over and done with rather than to live on in the inevitableness of the ever-approaching menace.

Yet most would be gratified for even the gift of days, and Lois was so. Like Alma, she felt that when the actual parting came it would be wisdom to look on it as possibly--probably final. And so these few unlooked-for extra days were jewels beyond compare, vouchsafed them by the goodness of God,--to be made the very most of, and afterwards to be treasured as long as memory lasted.

Ray came striding in on her just before dinner.

“Well!” he said, when he had kissed her to their hearts’ content, and then held her off at arm’s length to take her all in,--“We are smart!”

“To be upsides with you, sir.”

“However did you manage it? I was half afraid it would bother you to come, but the Colonel gave permission and it was too good a chance to miss.”

“I should think so, indeed. I am so glad you managed it.”

There was a joyous surface-light on his face though below it was set in firm restraint. Like herself,--but with larger knowledge of the actual facts and so a clearer estimate of the possibilities--he thought it more than likely they might never see one another again when they said their last good-bye. The slaughters out there were terrible. Officers especially were going under at a terrific rate. It seemed, from what they heard, that it was an essential part of the new low German fashion of fighting to make a dead set at every man in officer’s uniform.

But not for one moment did he regret what they had done. If the worst was to come, his last breath would be the happier for the knowledge that their lives had been one, and that Lois’s future was secure so far as Uncle Tony’s generous hands could make it.

His billet was not very far away, but the Colonel, who had known him for years and Uncle Tony still better, and who had heard all about their little romance, permitted him the privileges of the hotel so that he might spend as many of these last precious hours with his new-made wife as possible, and Ray saw to it that love trespassed not on duty by so much as one hair’s breadth.

He was up and away each day before she was properly awake, and he came in at night--when he came in at all--tired and hungry, but hungriest of all for another sight of her.

And Lois spent the days intercepting the Battalion on its route marches or exercising itself in cover-taking and trench-digging and manœuvering at Fortune’s Farm.

And always, when she managed to catch the long line on the march, the sight of the intent masterful faces under the cocked bonnets, and the rhythmic swing of the kilts and bare knees and hodden-gray stockings and blue flashes, to the spirited skirling of the pipes, brought her heart up into her throat, and, often as not, the tears into her eyes.

They looked so gallant and so gay, so eager to be at it, so gloriously young and full of life, so ready to do, and dare, and die,--and, inevitably, some of them, many of them maybe, would swing away into the war-cloud, just like that--gaily, gallantly, eagerly, and would never come out of it. The glorious young life would gasp itself out on the foreign soil,--those who loved them would know them no more save as happy memories,--and maybe that life that was dearer to her than her own would be among them.

It was a sweet, poignant, uplifting time, and she lived to its utmost every vital moment of it. As in one of those gorgeous death-banquets of old, the ever-pressing knowledge of the inevitable end heightened and deepened and quickened the vitality of the moments that were left. Life--in herself and in these others--had never seemed so wonderful and so desirable. For--for some of them--its hours were numbered.

XXIII

Lois was present, in a corner, at that last parade at Fortune’s Farm when the new rifles were given out. And, later on, with misty eyes and that troublesome choking in the throat, she was watching the long wavering gray line as it swung gallantly away with skirling pipes and eager faces--en route for the front.

Then she turned to go quietly home to her mother and Uncle Tony, and to wait God’s will in the matter.

She was to live at Oakdene as became Ray’s wife, but her time was to be spent between the old home and the new, and her energies devoted to cheering them both. For both were lonely now and clouded. Of all the merry company that had filled them with such joyousness of youth, she was the only one they could now count upon.

Victoria and Honor were out all day, slaving on Out-of-Work-Girls and Belgian Refugee Committees, organising crowds of willing but in many cases incompetent workers,--arranging accommodation and hostels,--procuring houses, funds, and furniture, and getting them into something like working order.

Noel was only in for supper, bed, and breakfast, and not always that. The Colonel was carrying on a recruiting campaign with a patriotic vehemence much in excess of his years and his bodily powers.

Miss Mitten meekly, and Mrs Dare boldly, did their utmost to keep his exertions within reasonable limits. But to all their expostulations and warnings his invariable reply was,--“We need every man we can get, and since I can’t go out, I must do all I can at home. Better to wear out than to rust out or go under to those damned barbarians.”

“But you’ll do no good by killing yourself,” Mrs Dare had remonstrated, one morning when he looked in as usual in passing, and punctuated his paragraphs with muffled sneezes.

“Oh--killing myself! It’s not got to that yet. (Att-i-cha!) I’m enjoying it, I assure you, Mrs Mother. We got twenty fine (Att-i-cha!)--boys at Greendale last night.”

“Well, do keep your hat on when you must speak outside, I beg of you. The nights are getting cold and you’re not as young as you were, you know.”

“It’s my one com--att-i-cha!--complaint. And it’s only the outer husk that feels it. I’m really wonderfully young inside, you know. I tell you, I was quite put out yesterday when a young fellow insisted on giving me his seat in the train.”

“It was very nice of him.”

“Hmph! Well, no doubt it was,--att-i-cha!--But, hang it all, I don’t look as decrepit as all that, do I? However, I got the better of him by giving it to an old lady--a really old lady--a minute or two later. By the way, Lois had a post-card from Ray this morning.”

“What does he say? Where have they got to?” she asked eagerly.

“Says nothing except that he’s well and very busy. No word as to where, of course.”

“And no postmark?”

“Nothing. They’re behind the war-screen now. We shall know nothing more,--unless through the despatches, maybe. Now we’ve got to live on--att-i-cha!--on faith and hope,” he said meaningly.

“And keep our hats on when we speak outside,” she retaliated.

“That’s all right,” he laughed. “I’ll begin taking you and Auntie Mitt with me, one on each side, to hold it down. I want to wave it all the time nowadays, at thought of having those infernal Huns on the run at last. More good news again to-day. Russia’s smashed Austria into little bits in Galicia. Whurr--att-i-cha!--oo!”

“They were retiring somewhere yesterday.”

“In East Prussia. Quick advance there was by way of diversion no doubt, and now they’ve done their work and are taking up safer positions.”

“When any part of our side retires it’s always a strategic retreat,” smiled Mrs Dare. “But when the Germans retire it’s always a rout.”

“Well--so ’tis,” he laughed, and shook hands and sneezed himself away.

“You’d be very much the better of a couple of days in your bed,” was her last piece of advice as he went down the path.

“When the war’s over. Did you ever manage to keep John in bed for a couple of days?”

“Yes--once,--for about two weeks--when he had pneumonia.”

“Well I’ll stop in bed when I get pneumonia,” and he waved his hand again and marched away.

At teatime, when Miss Mitten and Mrs Dare, and their respective body-belt and jersey, were keeping one another company in friendly silence in the Oakdene parlour, Lois having gone into town to complete her outfit, the Colonel came in looking no more than a washed-out rag of his usual cheerful self.

“I’ve decided to take your advice, Mrs Mother, and lie up for half a day,” he said depressedly. “I ought to be at Northcote to-night, but Penberthy has taken it on instead. He’s a good chap, Penberthy, but unfortunately he can’t speak worth a button. However----”

“The sooner you’re in your bed the better,” said Mrs Dare. “You can’t afford to neglect a cold such as that.”

“I always obey superior orders, don’t I, Auntie Mitt?”

“I’m sure you did, Sir Anthony,”--at which he chuckled, but less heartily than usual.

“Just one cup of tea to cheer me up, and then, if you will be so good, Auntie Mitt, a good big white-wine posset,--one of your very best, and you’ll send me up a bit of dinner later. Nothing like one of Auntie Mitt’s big white-wine possets for chasing a cold out of the system. Talk about grateful and comforting!”

“I know them. Take my advice and put your feet in mustard and water as well,” said Mrs Dare. “You’ve got a very bad cold on you.”