Part 14

Twelve days again without a letter, and ah, dear God! the news from France! I kept my promise, and Ross knows, and though he wraps me round with love, it is as if I cannot taste or see or feel, but I can only listen for the post that does not come. It has been a wretched week, several of our friends are killed and many wounded, and to-day at lunch the S.P. brought a telegram, and my heart stopped beating.

'It's Foxhill,' Ross said huskily, looking across at me quickly, and my heart went on again, and then I prayed that I might be forgiven for being glad that it was Charlie and not Michael.

'Not killed,' said Ross, 'but blinded, and his right arm gone above the elbow. He's in London, and would like to see us. Shall we go this afternoon, there's just time to catch the train?'

'Oh, poor Charlie--and poor Monica!' I added and got up. I felt I hated God. Just then a car stopped, and the door bell rang, and presently the S.P. came and said,--

'The Hon. Miss Cunningham is in the drawing-room,' and even at that moment I noticed how she loved to say 'the Honourable,' it was so exclusive. I thought what a beast I was, and said,--

'Monica? oh, my poor Monica.'

She was standing by the window with a frozen look upon her face, very pitiful to see.

'Don't go, Ross,' she said, after he had shaken hands and was preparing to leave us together, 'You know Charlie best. Don't go, it's you I've come to see. You are his greatest friend. Perhaps you can tell me about this, perhaps you know why he has written this to me, who love him so,' and she held out a letter. It was very short, and typed, except the signature, which was very badly written.

'DEAR MONICA,--It was more than good of you to write to me, but I have thought things over very carefully since I received your letter, and have come to the conclusion that it is best for me to say at once that I feel now I cannot marry you. Please do not try to see me, and think of me as kindly as you can.

'CHARLIE.'

'Has he told you, Ross? Doesn't he love me any more?' she said, with quivering lips, pathetic In my proud Monica.

'Monica, dear,' said Ross, 'haven't you heard about his wounds?'

'I have heard nothing since I wrote to him till I got this.'

Then very gently Ross told her about the poor blinded eyes while I kneeled beside her and tried to rub a little warmth into her ice cold hands.

'And I expect,' Ross finished up, 'that he wrote like this because he was half mad with pain knowing that he must give you up.'

'Why should he give me up?' she asked.

'Why, Monica, surely you see that it's the only honourable thing he could do, now that he's so helpless; don't you see, dear, every other man would do the same?'

'Then men are cruel,' I burst out. 'They never think the same as women do. If Monica had married him, would he write like that?'

'Of course not,' said my brother, 'that would be different. She'd have taken him already then for better or for worse.'

'She doesn't wait to take him till she goes to church in orange blossom and satin, she does that when she first tells him she loves him, doesn't she?'

'Of course,' said Monica. 'Are you absolutely sure he loves me, Ross, and that there is no other woman?'

'I did once hear him say he'd rather have the Gidger.'

'Oh, Ross, the comfort of you!' said poor Monica, and laughed and cried together. 'I must go to him,' she added, and as she did this 'splendid thing' the last vestige of 'littleness' dropped away from her.

'And I will take you,' answered Ross, 'but first you must have food and coffee. Had any lunch?'

'No,' said Monica, 'and I can't eat till it's settled.'

'Get your hat on, Meg, and let me deal with this rebellious woman, I'm getting such a dab at it.'

She laughed and let him put her in a comfy chair, and ate the food he brought, while he sat beside her and told her all the things he could remember that Charlie had ever said about her, and her eyes were shining when I came down ready for the drive. Yes, the 'Hon. Miss Cunningham' looked a different woman; more exclusive, if you know how that looks.

'Oh, Meg,' she said, 'I feel heaps better,' and then shamelessly, 'If Charlie throws me over I shall marry Ross.'

'Done,' said my brother, 'that's a bargain, mind.'

Somehow I don't think the S.P. would approve, do you? Such remarks are not made in the best circles.

We were very silent in the car. Once Monica turned to Ross,--

'Oh, are you sure that it's only his eyes?'

And Ross said simply,--

'Quite sure, dear, don't doubt his love,' and took her hand and held it till the car stopped at the hospital. We saw the matron first.

'He's very brave,' she said, 'and very very patient, but I'm not happy about him, he's got something on his mind. He asked for a typist the day before yesterday and dictated a letter. He hasn't slept since. You can go up and see him at once if you like.'

So Ross and I went up, and the matron promised to bring Monica up in ten minutes. Charlie was lying propped up with pillows in a little room alone. I never saw a face with such a tortured look. It nearly broke my heart.

'Who is it?' he asked, turning his poor, bandaged face towards the door, and when I took his hand he said,--

'Why, it's Meg and Ross; how jolly of you, dear old things.'

'Charlie,' I said presently, 'why did you write that letter to Monica?' and as I spoke the door was pushed open a little way and Monica slipped in. He turned his face away.

'Meg, I can't discuss that, even with you.'

'But,' I persisted, 'don't you love her any more?'

'Love her. _My_ God, how can you ask me such a thing, how dare you torture me like that. There's some one in the room,' he added quickly, 'oh, who is it?'

And then as Monica put her arms around him, he sighed,--

'Ah, my dear love, why have you come to make it harder for me now I must let you go?' As she drew him closer, and he hid his sightless eyes in the warm comfort of her breast, we slipped away and left them.

After a little while a message came asking us to go up again. He was back on his pillows and Monica was sitting beside him very quietly. All the tortured look had gone from his face and a great peace was there instead, and a great thankfulness in hers.

'Meg,' he cried, with his old laugh, 'how brazen all you modern women are. You never have the vapours like your grandmothers, never faint when you are pressed to name the day, as any lady should. Instead, you come and beg a chap to marry you when he's already said he won't in writing, and bother his life out till he says he will, just to stop the creature chattering. This thing,' he said, groping for Monica's hand, 'says that three arms and two eyes are enough for any couple to start housekeeping on, so--oh, good gracious, _could_ I have a cigarette; being proposed to is so dashed exhausting.'

Then we said good-bye and Monica came down to see us off. Just as she and Ross went out of the room Charlie called me back, and as I leaned over him he said with his old absurdity,--

'Isn't it a merciful dispensation that I'm "amphidextrous," Meg? I shall, at least, be able to fish with my left hand,' and then, with a little wave of his old diffidence coming back, he added,--

'Wasn't it perfect of Him to give me back Monica?'

I couldn't think what he meant, so I said,--

'Who, Charlie?'

'Why, the only Person I can see now, Meg--my Lord.' And I choked as I went down the stairs, because from the rapture in his voice he seemed to think his Lord was worth his eyes.

In the train Ross said,--

'What angels women are!'

'Oh, no,' I said, 'it's just the contrast.'

When we got home another wire was in the hall addressed to me.

'Let me open it,' said Ross, picking it up.

'No,' and I snatched it from him and ran up to my room. The dreadful ice was all around my heart again. The horror of a great darkness came upon my mind. I couldn't pray. I tried to quieten all my jangled nerves by saying--Daddy says 'They're underneath, oh, always underneath, those everlasting arms,' and then I read the telegram and flung myself upon the floor beside my bed in an agony of tears.

Ross came in and gathered me all up into the shelter of his love.

'Oh, Meg, not Michael?'

'Yes.'

'Oh, Meg, not killed,' he said again and held me closer.

'Oh, no, not killed,' I sobbed. 'He's got the D.S.O. and is coming home in three days' time on leave. Oh, it is such a relief.'

'You ridiculous child,' said Ross, giving me a little shake, 'oh, you poor, funny little scrap, what an awful fright you gave me. Poor Michael, what a wife he's got who sobs and cries because he's coming home on leave, I'm really sorry for that chap.' And then he picked me up, a crumpled heap, from off the floor, and dumped me on my bed. 'You'll stay there till you've had your dinner, anyhow. Now, don't argue,' he exclaimed, flinging himself into the nearest chair, 'I must have a cigarette. How poor old Solomon got on with all his lot beats me, managing two women in one short afternoon's enough. It is, as Charles would say, "so dashed exhausting."'

*THREE WEEKS LATER*

*CHAPTER XXIV*

But of course I'm not. Why on earth should I be crying after three such perfect weeks. It's only just the smell of Harris tweed again. I caught the whiff of it as I came through the door into the hall alone, after the last sound of Michael's car had died away. I wish I had been allowed to go to London with him, it would have been another hour or so with my beloved. No, I don't really wish it if he didn't. I must be ill, I think, to be so meek.

After he went there was a ridiculous telegram from Ross saying that he was returning in time for dinner if it was convenient. Wasn't it absurd of him to take himself off like that the morning Michael came, and only come to dine and sleep twice in three whole weeks. He has had another Board, and the verdict is 'Three to four weeks and massage,' and Sam's M.O. said, 'Three to five weeks and massage.' So there you are! The usual arrangement!

But, oh, to think in a very few more weeks I shall have to say 'Good-bye' again to both of them. I can't accept God's will about it. My mind's divorced from His, my wishes in opposition. The constant struggle to feel differently fags me out, but perhaps I shall 'feel better in the morning,' as Mrs Williams used to say.

When Ross came in to say 'Good-night,' he said,--

'By the way, Meg, how's the novel? Got a plot yet?'

'No,' I sighed, and thought that Nannie was right that time. There is no plot in women's lives just now. They only say 'Good-bye,' as I have done to-day. For, oh, this book begun as a joke is now no longer a book at all. The written words are just a mirror which reflects some pictures from that thing I call my 'life.' Each chapter is the reflection of a day. You who can read between the lines will understand why some of them are grave and others gay, and how my fickle mood alters with each day's news, or varies with the irregularity of the posts from France. You will know, too, that though each day stands as a single, separate thing, unconnected, as Uncle Jasper would say, 'by a strong plot,' yet each _is_ linked to each by a great fear and an endeavour to be brave. For those who _go_ have all the 'plot.' Theirs is the splendid hazard, so to them goes all the high adventure and romance. And we who stay at home have just the giving and the waiting. Yet some one said, 'They also serve who only stand and wait.' Ah, you dear women folk! I know the splendour of _your_ waiting. I have told you a little of the rebellion that's in mine.

*CHAPTER XXV*

Here's two-thirds of the merry month of May slipped by! The posts are regular. We have had a glorious telegram to say that father's coming home. The Gidger flourishes like a green bay tree. Ross is better, and the house buzzes and overflows (as the old vicarage used to do) with the jolly men that he asks down to lunch, or to 'dine and sleep,' regardless of the servants. Bless you! they don't mind. They'll always slave for Ross, and 'Our Lady of Ventre' 'dotes upon the military,' so she'll always come and lend a hand. But, and there always is one, isn't there--the roof is not all it ought to be!

On Friday a regular S.W. gale got up with raging winds and driving rain, and in the middle of the night I heard a little sound in the powdering closet which leads out of my bedroom. 'That's a mouse,' I said to myself. The sound increased. 'That's a rat,' I thought. A horrid roar shook the room. 'That's a bomb!' I shrieked, thinking it was a raid. I heard Ross's welcome voice at the door, asking me what I had dropped. I hurriedly lighted the lamp and let him in, and we surveyed the wreckage. A big bit of the ceiling of the powdering closet had fallen in, and there was a small hole in the roof through which I could see the stars.

'Did you say your prayers, last night,' said Ross.

'Of course, I did,' I replied indignantly.

'Meg, you couldn't have said the litany of St Christopher. I always do. I never get night alarms, my ceiling _never_ comes down.'

'For goodness' sake say it now then, for there's a huge crack over my bed.'

So Ross lifted up his voice and chanted,--

'From gholies and ghosties, From long leggity beasties, From things that go bump in the night St Christopher deliver us.'

We spent an exhausting hour mopping up the water. Ross said he could now sympathise with the other occupants of the Ark when Noah would keep opening the window. After we'd got the place dry Ross said,--

'It's nearly one o'clock, Meg; come and have lunch in my room. I've got a thermos full of coffee and some perfectly adorable biscuits--the squashed fly sort.'

Ross really thought my ceiling might come down, so he rolled himself up on the nursery sofa, and I spent the rest of the night in his bed. I lay awake for some time groaning in spirit at the thought of the mess and muddle workmen always make, and wondering how much more of the roof was likely to descend on us. Presently I heard Ross whisper outside,--

'Meg, are you asleep?'

'No, I wish I was.'

'Your grammar seems as defective as your dwelling,' he said, poking his head round the door.

'What I came in to say, Meg, was that when the workmen strip that bit of roof you may find the date of the house.'

I sat up in bed suddenly. Life seemed rosy once more. 'You angel,' I exclaimed, 'how exciting.'

'What a ridiculous kid you are, little 'un, up one minute and down the next.'

'Well, it _is_ exciting. What did you wake me up for if you didn't think so?'

'I thought you said you weren't asleep!'

I pushed him out and shut the door. The thought of the date so consoled me that I went to sleep immediately, but I had one of my dreadful nightmares. I dreamed that the foundations of the house fell outwards with a crash, leaving the walls, which were made of squashed fly biscuits, standing on the date--B.C. .4!

'Uncle John' came in to survey the wreckage the next morning, but can't repair the roof till Monday. Then I showed him the crack in my ceiling.

'That ain't nothing, mum, surface, that is; I can put a bit of plaster on it now if you like, but it don't need it.'

So I decided to dispense with the plaster and to sleep in my own bedroom, but my keeper thought otherwise, so we had words about it.

'Ross, what _is_ the difference between the air coming in at the roof or coming in at the window?' But there is apparently a most enormous difference, and my brother said,--

'You're not going to sleep in that draught. There's a most beastly bug about just now. All the men at Canley barracks are down with it, kind of "'flu," I suppose; you get a frightful cold in your head, and then your tummy gets distended, and you can't button your trousers, and----'

'Is that the bug you suggest I'm going to get?' I interrupted icily.

And then he said I was abominable!

I am, however, allowed to sleep in my own room after all, because 'Uncle John' nobly suggested that the powdering closet should be boarded over till he could come and mend the roof, to which my keeper graciously agreed.

But half the night I could hear that bug walking up and down in the powdering closet, scratching the boarded door, trying to get in, until I said to it,--

'You needn't bother about me. I'm not afraid of you.' And then it started howling, and I discovered that it was Fitzbattleaxe up on that ledge in the chimney again, and he kept me awake for hours.

In the morning Ross said he must see if the ledge could not be bricked up somehow. We got a ladder and a light, and he rescued the kitten, who spat at him, and then he said,--

'Why, Meg, it's such a wide ledge, and at the back there's a small stone slab which seems to be loose. Shall I see if I can get it out? Give me something to poke it with.'

I gave him my best silver button-hook, and he jabbed about and broke it, but he eased out the stone and found behind a little hollow, and--yes--an old deed!--Such a nice one, though quite small.

It is an Indenture made the two and twentieth day of January, 1645, in the one and twentieth year of the reign of our sovereign lord Charles by the grace of God of England, Scotland, ffrance, and Ireland, King Defender of the Faith. But the part that intrigues me is that it seems to be a kind of marriage settlement for 'George Albury gives to his wife Mary'--Gidger's cottage--'in consideration of the love and affection he bore her.' So Michael has only been repeating history.

But why did Mary put her deed in my chimney? She must have got so grubby doing it. I'm sure her husband hated her to get so dirty, didn't like her little hands so soiled; but perhaps her George was up that winter with King Charles's army and she hid it there for safety, for the times were much disturbed and she was frightened. Women don't like war, I know just how she felt. I wonder what George and Mary Albury thought that other winter morning, four years later, when their sovereign lord, who by the grace of God was King of England, ffrance, and Ireland, was beheaded on the scaffold in Whitehall.

And every day now I say, 'Daddy's on his way home,' and Ross says, 'Won't it be rotten if I just miss him?'

Yesterday in church the vicar announced that there was an awful outbreak of that bug at the local Red Cross hospital, that all the men were down with it, and nearly all the nurses, and the few of them who had escaped were worked to death. He asked for volunteers to help, not with the nursing, but in the kitchen. I told Ross coming home that I should offer, but he wouldn't hear of it, because Toby once said years ago I ought not to go within a million miles of 'flu. But there are times when I don't take kindly to the snaffle, as Sam would say. However, Ross is going to London to-morrow, so I said no more at the moment, and the conversation wandered off to the education and upbringing of the young.

'The poor Gidger doesn't seem to get much bringing up,' said Ross.

'Well, you're her godfather,' I retorted, 'you're to blame; why don't you teach her whether her name is N or M?'

'Oh, she knows her name all right, it's her station in life she doesn't seem to be clear about, thinks she's the Queen of England, I think, same as her mother does.'

'Ross, darling, you don't really think that she's----'

'Oh, you silly little ass, Meg.'

'But I have views on the way a child should be trained.'

'Then for goodness' sake get rid of them at once.'

'But all the same,' I persisted, 'I do hate the way modern children are brought up. They've no manners, they are such little pigs at meals, and they're always served first.'

'Well, the Gidger isn't.'

'No, but that's not your fault, Ross.'

I remembered the first time she came down to lunch I told Sam to serve me first, and then Ross, and then the Poppet. He agreed, and said I was 'Quite right, miss.' So he served me first and then went to Ross, who said, 'You've forgotten the other lady, Sam,' and so, without a word to me, Sam upset all my carefully arranged plans for my daughter's edifying and upbringing, and went to the Gidger just because his master told him to. Ross and I had words about it afterwards, and he said I was a silly little ass, and kissed me for some extraordinary reason.

'Doesn't Michael think she is a disappointing kiddie?' said Ross, breaking in upon my reverie, but as I didn't answer the conversation changed to oysters.

So the Gidger came down to lunch to-day, and as he is better Brown waited, and in a fit of mental aberration he handed a dish of stewed apricots to her before he had been to me.

'No, thank you,' said the Poppet.

'It's apricots, miss,' said Brown. 'Miss' never having in all the years of her long life been known to refuse them.

'Apricots, miss,' said Sam again.

'No, thank you, muvver isn't served.'

So I was served, and then the lady who thinks she is the Queen of England condescended to allow her faithful henchman to give her apricots, and my brother, with his usual habit of talking backwards, said,--

'You see, Meg, how little you know about bringing them up. If you really had "views," such a thing couldn't have happened. You were always such a nice child yourself, so pretty when you were a baby, such a pity that you've altered so.'

Then in a tone of most awful consternation he added, 'Why, Gidger?' for my daughter was in tears.

'Uncle Woss' was beside her in a moment, kneeling humbly to the 'Queen of England,' 'Darling, what _is_ it?' he cried distractedly.

'You said muvver wasn't pwetty now.'

'Oh,' said Ross to me, 'could you go outside, woman, while I comfort this lady?'

So I went outside. After he had consoled the lady she went off with Sam, but she wasn't quite happy, so he kneeled down and took a turn at comforting.

'I assure you, miss, you've not the slightest occasion to worry. Your uncle always does say just the reverse of what he means--gentlemen do----'

'But are you sure he thinks muvver is pwetty now?' said the Poppet.

'Certainly, miss, not a doubt about it.'

'Do _you_ think she's pwetty, Bwown?'

'She's perfectly distracting at times, miss; that's why I forgot to serve her first.'

'Oh, you are my gweatest comfort, Bwown; have you known muvver long?'

'Can't remember the time when I didn't know her, miss.'

'Neither can I,' said the Poppet. 'I weally don't know what I should do without you, Bwown.'

'I'm sure I'm very much obliged, miss,' he said, and kissed her little hands, and then offered to make her another boat or a new doll's house if she'd rather.

How do I know that last bit? Why, a little bird told Nannie, and Nannie told me, besides I always know everything. Oh, you silly men, because you don't see the finger on the pulse you don't believe it's there. Why, I know every heartbeat in the house (including Brown's!) and so does every other woman!

*CHAPTER XXVI*

Ross departed to London last Monday with Sam. And I took the bit in my teeth and went up by the train after they did. I could see Ross and Sam hanging on to the red lights at the back of the last coach. They catch their trains like that (men always do). I, of course, like every other woman, invariably catch the train before.

I went to the Red Cross shop and bought a set of General Service uniform, and when I got home I found 'Uncle John' in a state of great excitement because he _had_ found the date in the roof, as Ross had said he might! I went up the ladder to look at it. It is carved roughly on a beam. The wood is in as good a state of preservation as the day it was put in, and some initials (of the man who built the house, I suppose) are carved over it so:--

J.H.T. 1570

Elizabethan, after all!

It is such a pity that Ross is away, as I have no one to gloat with me, but when he comes back and rows about the hospital, I shall say,--