PART THIRTY-ONE

OUT OF IT

§ 1

Beatrice Cochrane stayed on at Sunflowers while the formalities of her marriage were being arranged. Patricia found her very difficult to understand. She combined, bewilderingly, idealism and common-sense, a feeling for poetry with unfailing judgment of practical values. Educationally, the Englishwoman found herself quite overmastered: the comprehensiveness of Beatrice’s college-training made British standards seem entirely out of date. And yet, in a way, Beatrice was old-fashioned; she lacked, Patricia thought, adaptability; inclined to let “ought to be” dominate “is.” Sometimes, this lack of adaptability irritated Patricia.

Beatrice, on her part, was equally puzzled. She had, as yet, no key to the English mentality. England, regarded from the Sunflowers viewpoint, appeared to her a country of postponement and acceptance. Rightly or wrongly, a thing _was_ thus and so. If right, why seek to improve. If wrong—extraordinary, she thought, how easily the English admitted a thing could be wrong—put up with it. Sometimes, this putting-up-with-things made Beatrice perfectly furious!

But in spite of these fundamental Anglo-American differences Patricia loved Beatrice, and Beatrice—frankly—adored Patricia. At the end of three days, not only “Mrs. Jameson,” but “Mr. Jameson” and “Mr. Gordon” disappeared from the American girl’s vocabulary: and on the evening of April the fifth—when the last remnants of Peter’s wine-cellar celebrated America’s entry into the lists—it was Beatrice who proposed: “Pat! Because, just for once, she forgot to behave like an Englishwoman.”

At which reference to forbidden topics, Peter’s wife blushed perfectly scarlet, and looked appealingly to Francis for protection. But Francis Gordon only laughed, “It’s the least you deserve for interfering.”

“And I think,” went on Beatrice, “that while drinking Pat’s health we ought not to forget another person whose name also begins with P. . . .”

“Meaning me?” interrupted Peter.

“No, sir,”—her eyes twinkled with fun—“meaning my future”—she laughed outright—“butler. Prout!”

“Lord,” said Francis Gordon. “This is what comes of getting engaged to a Democrat.”

“Republican,” corrected Beatrice. “And I don’t believe you know the difference yet.”

Her fiancé subsided into adoring silence. . . . For already even the unobservant Peter saw quite clearly who would rule the roost at Glen Cottage!

And apparently this tender “bossing” was just the one thing needful to Francis Gordon’s temperament. He expanded under it; became positively human. His very physique seemed to improve: the hopeless shuffle became a mere limp; he carried his head erect, his shoulders unbowed. She forbade him to use the word “cripple”; and for two pins she would have taken away his stick. “But it makes me so interesting,” he protested laughingly. “My dear man”—Beatrice drawled the words in imitation—“there’s only one thing really interesting about anybody.” “And that?” he queried. “Is the work they mean to do in the world.”

On this question of work, the girl brooked no doubting. She believed in his work; and for her sake if for nobody else’s—(“there is nobody else,” he remonstrated: “there’s everybody else in the world,” she told him)—he must succeed. “You’ve got to count,” she said. “You’ve got to be _somebody_.” She did not desire money for him—she had so much money that Francis, when he first heard of it, almost wanted to cry off the marriage; but she did desire success. Until he won that “success,” neither he nor she would move from Glen Cottage. . . .

But as this is only indirectly the tale of Francis and Beatrice, we must not analyse them too deeply. It suffices that they are utterly happy in each other; that Love, which is finer than reason, does not blind but rather gives them clear vision. They know, as they tolerate, each other’s faults: and though Fame has not yet quite come to Glen Cottage, they feel they can already hear the beating of his wings. . . . And if they are a trifle “cranky” on the subject of “Anglo-Saxondom,” if they set the unity of the English-speaking races above the pipe-dreams of the internationalists,—that blame, if blame it be, their very love-story excuses. . . .

§ 2

All through his cousin’s wedding in the little church at Arlsfield, Peter—who gave away the bride—felt conscious of a reasonless but ever-growing depression. It seemed to him as though—Francis married—his last man-friend would vanish. Almost he grudged the veiled girl her obvious happiness. . . .

And this feeling of depression did not wear off as the easy April days slipped by. Rather, it increased. All the man in Peter resented ill-health; resented the lack of male companionship; resented idleness. And idleness, Heron Baynet assured him, was imperative: two hours of manual labour in the garden and one trip to London about finance, proved the correctness of Heron Baynet’s contention.

He began to worry about the future. His pension, thirty shillings a week subject to revision, barely paid a third of his assurance premiums—the children must be sent to school—the expenses of Sunflowers rose hourly with the tide of war-extravagance which had swept over England. “Things can’t go on like this,” exactly represents Peter’s attitude.

He decided to go back into the tobacco-business—and reversed decision as soon as reached. The mere thought of London nauseated him. Somehow, he could no longer imagine himself at a desk. . . . Patricia, consulted on this point, agreed so strenuously that Peter became suspicious. “Why shouldn’t I go back?” he remonstrated. “It’s the only trade I know. The Imperial would give me a job tomorrow.” . . . Nevertheless, he discarded the idea.

The tobacco-business, like the Army, lay behind him. He was out of the one as he was out of the other. But memories of both still haunted his mind. Of the two lives he had lived, he missed the military one most. Maurice Beresford, Elkins, Schornstein and the Bramsons seemed petty figures compared with the Weasel and General Blacklock, Conway and Sandiland and Charlie Henry. But letters from the Brigade dwindled and dwindled, soon ceased altogether; till only an occasional poem by Purves, who continued his conquering campaign in the Press, and Alice Stark’s gossipy letters to Patricia, reminded of khaki.

For the world, war went on; but for Peter it had stopped dead. He saw it from afar: spectator and not participant. His lack of interest in it amazed him almost as much as the glorious credulity of the civilians with whom he occasionally discussed its official versions—perversions. Finally, in a fit of ungovernable annoyance over a picture of “cheery wounded” after the battle of Messines, he barred the topic altogether. Patricia made no objection; but the children demurred furiously.

“If Daddy isn’t going to tell us about killing Germans,” threatened Primula one evening, “I shall refuse to go to sleep.”

“You bloodthirsty little wretch,” began Peter; and till their mother intervened, “bloodthirsty” became _the_ school-room adjective.

However, Evelyn and Primula’s passion for the word “bloodthirsty” paled into insignificance at the coming of Peter’s brother Arthur. Arthur had “got a job” at the Godstone flying-school; and you never knew, as you sat at lessons or romped in the garden, what particular moment might not bring the drone of Arthur’s engine, high up in the air, like an enormous bee. He used to come swooping across country, from behind the trees at the back of the paddock; and you could always tell if it were Uncle Arthur because _his_ engine made a funny noise—buzz, stop, buzz, stop, buzz—when he meant to land in Tebbits’ pasture. Once, too, Uncle Arthur stunted, really “stunted,” for nearly twenty minutes, miles up, right over the roof. . . . But Arthur never repeated that blissful performance; his “falling leaf” proving too much for Peter’s nerves.

“You neurasthenic old idiot,” growled the flying man, “there’s no danger at all. One just shuts off the engine. . . .”

“I know all about that,” said Peter, “but to see you turning over and over sideways frightens me out of my wits. Besides, if anything happened, you’d be court-martialled.”

“By the Archangel Gabriel, I suppose,” grinned Arthur; and soared off into the blue.

“Now that,” thought Peter, “is a man’s life. Whereas mine.” . . . And again depression gripped him.

§ 3

May come gloriously. Hawthorn hedges donned their ruddiest coral; orchard foamed below the gravel terrace; wild cherry spangled blossom against the greenery of new-leaved beech woods beyond the paddock. Peter didn’t care. Frankly, he was bored to tears. He wanted something to do. He missed his horses. If you couldn’t hunt in May, at least you could ride. What _did_ one do with oneself in the country during that rotten month, May? Fish perhaps? He dallied a day with his trout-rod, unearthed some rather dingy flies; hired a push-bike in Arlsfield (Peter detested Arlsfield); and cycled to Henley. The may-fly was on the water; not a fish would bite. Fish on the lower Thames rarely _do_ bite. Still, that day re-introduced him to the river.

Next time, he left the trout-rod and took Patricia. Tebbits lent them his trap for the day; and they enjoyed themselves. He sculled her up to Wargrave; she paddled him home down the backwater.

“Good pals, you and I, aren’t we, Pat,” he said to her as they drove back through the twilight.

“Yes, dear.” She had abandoned her love-dreams. Love, as she saw love in the eyes of Francis and Beatrice, was not for her. She must satisfy herself with palship, be content among the ranks and files of matrimony.

“I have been a fool,” she thought, “a sentimental fool. Love is not for me. I am just an average woman, an average middle-class woman. And like all women, I have expected too much of life. Life has been very kind to me; I mustn’t grumble. Life has given him back to me. Isn’t that enough?”

She looked at the man by her side. He drove steadily, wrist giving to horse’s mouth. A loose dust-coat hid the lines of his figure: under it, legs, feet and ankles showed white in boating-attire. Soft hat, brim down-turned, shadowed the thin face, the serious eyes.

Again she thought, “I have been a fool. Life holds nothing better than this: to be one’s husband’s friend. Love is only for the very young. We are old married people. We have been married over ten years. I will be reasonable. I will content myself with the much that is mine. He has always been good to me. He has always been faithful to me. I have the children.”

The mare trotted on, steadily, soberly, resigned to loose bit, to ungalling collar and easy load. Even so, Patricia resigned herself to matrimony. . . .

Peter set down his wife at Sunflowers, drove on to Tebbits’ alone. “Back in half-an-hour,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll just help the old man unharness Kitty.” But old man Tebbits would never unharness the brown mare again! He had died an hour back; painlessly; asleep in the vast wooden chair Charlie had made for him.

“He always slept his few minutes after his dish of tea,” explained Miss Tebbits. “And when I tried to wake him, I found I couldn’t.”

There was no uproar at the farm, no confusion; but none of the labourers had gone home. “He was a good father to us all,” said Harry, unbuckling the traces with firm fingers. “I’m making no complaint about him.” Sid Dyson, the carter—a heavy-footed shaggy man with grizzled beard—led the mare to her stable. William, a big bent fellow who lived with his mother at Little Arlsfield, came wheeling his mud-encrusted bike from the cowhouse. “Good-night, Mr. Harry,” called William. “Good-night to you.” The “boy”—(“never keep more than one boy—two _talks_,” had been one of old man Tebbits’ aphorisms)—stood about, now on one leg, now on the other, uncertain of his duty.

“You’d better be off,” ordered Harry. The blond giant turned to Peter. “Would you care to see him, sir? . . .”

They had carried the old man as far as the kitchen sofa; spread a patchwork quilt over his limbs. In the scullery, Miss Tebbits was washing up: Peter could hear the trickle of water, the clink of crockery, as he stood gazing down on the gnarled happy face. “Thus, men should die,” thought Peter “not. . . .” Old pictures came crowding on his mind; he saw other faces, dreadful faces, faces of young men who should have been alive. . . .

Charlie Tebbits, summoned from Arlsfield, stalked hatless into the room. “He was a good father,” said Charlie, “I’ve no complaint to make about him.”

Peter wanted to get away, to leave these two alone with their dead. He held out his hand to Charlie. “I’m sorry.” The man gripped it. “He always liked you, sir.” Harry followed him out of the kitchen. They walked slowly down the flag-path to the gate.

Peter held out his hand again. “See you tomorrow Harry.” The giant fidgeted for a moment; his blue eyes under the golden brows gazed straight into Peter’s.

“Father said,” began Harry, “that if anything happened to him we was to tell you about that lease.”

“What about it?” asked Peter wonderingly.

“Father didn’t like signing that lease,” went on Harry. “He didn’t ought to have signed it neither. That Henley solicitor fellow, he was altogether too sharp. And father got angry with him.”

It took half-an-hour before Peter got to the bottom of matters. Apparently, the trouble lay not in the house itself, but in the paddock. House and orchard stood on a little patch of freehold ground—Tebbits’ property: but the paddock, like most of Tebbits’ land, was leasehold—and Tebbits’ lease (an old-fashioned contract) expired with old man Tebbits.

“Well, I don’t see it matters,” said Peter finally. “You’ll keep the farm on, I suppose.”

“If we can,” said Harry, pulling at his great moustache. “If we can, sir.” He clumped heavily back to the house.