CHAPTER XIII

Lieutenant and Mrs. Langford went off to town, and by nine o'clock the following morning Katherine was at the bank, her wedding ring in hiding and attached to a thin gold chain that hung around her neck; I am sure she found a keener delight in the secrecy than she would have discovered in the most elaborate publicity. Young Langford's battalion left Southampton with three rumoured destinations--France, The Dardanelles, Mesopotamia--and all we could say of these was that at least two were surely inaccurate; the dear girl came to London Street that evening and in the back room, and on my shoulder had a long cry, and, this over, gave no signs of depression or tears. We had good news one Sunday night of an advance by British troops south of La Bassée, and a victory by the French in the Champagne district; to hear folk talking of this near the railway station you would have guessed that the war was almost at an end. A few days later the casualty lists of our officers came in, and we knew then some of the expense of the small victory, and could guess at the total. The newspapers were in disagreement concerning the proposed landing of troops at Salonica. A quotation from a Paris journal was headed, "Help Mother First." My customers, at times, brought me their definite and resolute views on the conduct of the war, and seemed disappointed that I was prepared to go no further than admit relief in the thought that I had not to take a share in the direction.

"Women," they argued, "couldn't make a bigger muddle of it than men are doing."

"Nothing ever happened yet," I said, "that might not possibly have been worse. Let's keep cheerful. Peace will come along some day."

"And then," grumbled a woman from Plumstead, "there won't be near so much money to be earnt as what there is now."

Certainly there was no lack of critics at that period. A blind man who sold matches and boot-laces said to me one evening that he would very much like to occupy Kitchener's position for twenty-four hours. Four-and-twenty hours; no more, no less. He refused to disclose his scheme to me in full, but hinted that it included the dropping of a bomb full tilt on the helmet of the German Emperor. "The Government hasn't got gumption," he complained. "What it wants is the help of us business men. We'd soon stop these Zepps!"

There came another and a serious air-raid, and hearing a certain town spoken of in this connection, I hurried there to ascertain whether some small houses belonging to me had been damaged. There was a considerable amount of destruction there, but my little property was safe, and I managed to get away from the excited tenants, and escape some of the vivid details of the attack. Intending to alight at New Cross station on the Brighton line, I, absorbed in the evening newspaper, found myself carried on towards London Bridge. I wanted to reach home swiftly, because the private inquiry folk, whose services I had engaged immediately after my officer nephew's urgent appeal, had hinted that they expected to be able to send me a communication by an early post. There seemed few grounds for hoping that this would be satisfactory, and bewailing my stupidity in missing New Cross, and regretting the delay, I changed thoughts from self-reproach by composing a letter which would convey my regrets at the failure of the inquiry, sarcasm at the want of intelligence exhibited. To be candid, it was only for the sake of Herbert that I wanted to gain news of Muriel Hillier. We were a comfortable group now at Gloucester Place, and the return there of an authoritative and selfish-minded girl was not an alluring prospect.

"How much is the excess fare?" I asked, at the barrier.

"One moment, madam. Stand aside, please, and let the other passengers go through."

For some reason, I had not before encountered girl ticket collectors, and the politeness of manner surprised me. Obeying the instructions, I waited in the shadow; the peak-capped young woman collected tickets, disregarded a florid gentleman's offer of a rose, gave brisk information concerning return trains. Then she turned to me, and the light of the lamp shewed her features.

"Miss Muriel!" I exclaimed.

"Excess from New Cross," she said, filling in a slip from a book. "Threepence." Taking the coin and the ticket from me, and handing over the change. "Ninepence, thank you." I went through the barrier, expecting her to follow, but she closed it and remained on the platform.

The inspector said he would certainly give me all the assistance in his power, so soon as he was free from the task of despatching a main line train. Ten minutes later, he and I searched the ticket collectors' office. Two of the uniformed girls were emptying tickets from pouches, and sorting them.

"That is the young lady I wish to speak to," I said, pointing.

She turned and faced me.

"You've made a bloomer," remarked the inspector, frankly. "You want a party with the cognomen so to speak of Hillier, I understand. This one is Miss Dumbrill."

"That is my name," she said, composedly.

"I don't care what she calls herself," I declared. "I know very well who she is." I appealed to her. "You recognise me, don't you, dear?"

"Oh, yes," she said.

"There!" to the inspector. "What did I tell you?"

"Remember you quite well," she went on, eyeing me steadily. "You had a ticket as far as New Cross, and I excessed it. You gave me a shilling, and I handed you the right change. What is your grievance?"

The other girl stood by, watching interestedly.

"I am Weston," I said. "Mary Weston."

"If that is the only complaint you have to make," she said, "it is not very serious."

"I was housekeeper for many years at your people's place at Chislehurst. I moved with them to Greenwich. Your brother John enlisted, with my nephew Herbert Millwood. Herbert is more anxious than anyone else to have news of you. He has a commission now."

"And the Victoria Cross?"

"No."

"Strange," she mentioned. "In romantic stories of this kind, they invariably gain the Victoria Cross." She spoke to the inspector. "Find out where this lady wishes to go, and put her on her way, will you? If she hasn't any money, I'll provide all that's needed."

"Miss Muriel, Miss Muriel!" I cried. "For Heaven's sake, don't go on playing this silly game. If you want to keep your independence, you can do it, without all this. You don't know how much worry your folk have gone through on your account!"

The inspector was called away by a porter. I left the collectors' room, and stood at the doorway, endeavouring to think of some plan.

"Shut the door, please," she said, attending once again to her work of sorting. She found that the order was not obeyed, and came forward.

"Miss Muriel," I whispered, urgently. "Your mother. She is seriously ill. Not expected to live. And wants to see you."

Her features became pale. With a nervous movement she tipped back her peaked cap, and she hesitated.

"Wait for me," she said in a low voice, "near the bookstall at the other station."

I did not mind any delay, and objected the less because I found at the stall my young friend Peter serving newspapers and magazines alertly; ready to chat with me, in the intervals, on what he called, with an air of enormous age, the good old times at Greenwich. He endeavoured, I am sure, to keep the suggestion of patronage out of his inquiries, but it seemed impossible for him to disguise the fear that Greenwich, since his departure, had been on the down grade, and that nothing could be done for it unless Providence thought fit to return him to the neighbourhood. Peter was still engaged with the Scouts: he had attained a notable position of authority, and was persuading all his younger colleagues to join. Peter said his firm had sent thousands of men to the war; if it lasted long enough he himself hoped to have a chance of taking a part in it. "I'd like to account for a few odd Germans," he said. "By-the-bye, how's that poor nephew of yours getting on? And his poor old father. And poor old Mr. Hillier? And poor old Mrs. Hillier?" In assuring Peter these were well, I recollected that trouble would be encountered later when an explanation had to be given of the statement used to persuade Muriel to accompany me. Always a difficult young lady, it was not easy to guess how much reason had been brought into her disposition by the change of surroundings and the new manner of life. She came up when I was considering the best moment for an admission.

"Is my mother really very ill, Weston?" she demanded.

"It's doubtful," I answered promptly, "whether she will ever be able to leave the house again."

We went up the slope to the platform; it happened that a train arrived immediately. The carriages were crowded, and as we both had to stand up, conversation--fortunately for me--was impossible. The great point was to get her to Gloucester Place, and meet her folk; I felt ready to take any amount of blame and criticism so long as this result was effected. As intervening passengers swayed to and fro, I observed, now and again, the alteration in her appearance. Muriel had lost the petulant, fractious air; in its place was a manner of determination, and self-reliance. A middle-aged man, after thinking the subject over so far as Deptford, rose and asked her to take his place; she answered that he was not to incommode himself. At Greenwich, and on the platform, she took my arm.

"Don't let us talk," she begged. "I want to get there as quickly as possible. She may be asking for me."

A small car was standing outside the door, and, recognising it, I thought perhaps the doctor had called to see the old couple on the ground floor. In the hall stood Captain Winterton and his wife: they were holding hands, and their features shewed acute anxiety. The house was very silent.

"At last," he whispered, relievedly. "She wants you, Miss Weston."

"Who?"

"That," said Muriel, "is surely an unnecessary question." She led the way briskly upstairs.

"We heard a bumping sound overhead," explained Mrs. Winterton to me. "We ran up at once, and found Mrs. Hillier in a faint on the floor. The Captain rushed at once for a medical man."

The doctor was on the landing as I ascended the staircase. He looked grave, but on that I put no great account: it is one of the tricks of some members of the profession to hint at acute difficulties and thus emphasise the credit for overcoming them. He said Mrs. Hillier had probably been attacked by sudden giddiness, and that the fall had stunned her; he was perturbed by the fact that she had not yet regained consciousness.

"She has had worries, doctor."

"Of course, of course," he said, impatiently. "Everyone has them in these days."

"Her's have been rather extra special. But the presence of her elder daughter will have a wonderful effect when she comes to."

"If she comes to," he corrected.

Katherine was home from the bank, but Mr. Hillier and Edward had not arrived. The doctor and the Wintertons had carried my mistress into the bedroom, and there I found the two girls watching their mother intently and apprehensively. I loosened a part of Mrs. Hillier's dress and took her hand; there came a slight twitch of the face, nothing more. The doctor was called from below. Returning, he said that he had been summoned to a case of a young wife in Croom's Hill; it was imperative he should attend, for no nurse was in attendance. He gave me instructions, promised to come back. I could not help agreeing that his services were more valuable in a case where an addition was being made to the world than in one, at the other end of life, where he could do little.

"By-the-bye," he said, at the front door, whilst his man was re-starting the car, "I know all about you, Miss Weston. A friend of mine, once a doctor of the neighbourhood, has a house, so well furnished that his wife is envied by the wives of all other medical men. He confided to me that the credit was really due to you. Now, I wonder whether you would mind, some day, looking in at my place, and just giving a word of advice--"

"My dear sir," I declared, "this is no time to be talking shop. At any rate, not my shop. All I can think of now is whether the dear soul upstairs is going to recover."

Edward came home full of a compliment that had been paid to his railway by a notable statesman; he hushed down at once, and begged I would give him tasks to perform. I could think of nothing else but the job of meeting his father at the station, and giving a hint of the news that waited in Gloucester Place. To the lad's satisfaction, this proved worth doing, for Mr. Hillier had intended to give up an evening to one more search in town for his elder daughter. Edward was able, from the platform, to beckon to him.

We all stood about in the rooms, talking quietly. No commotion was made over the return of Muriel, and few explanations were asked, but Edward declared himself puzzled and slightly aggrieved on hearing that his sister, for nearly all the time that we were looking for her, had been so close to the offices in which he himself was engaged.

"She's altered," he remarked. "Less disposed to make every one wait upon her, hand and foot."

I hurried from him to the side of the bed.

"Muriel," Mrs. Hillier was saying. "My Muriel!"

The girl, at a signal from me, came across, and kneeling down, took her mother's hand, placing it against her own cheek. The hand moved slowly upwards and smoothed the hair.

"Ah!" ejaculated the dear woman, contentedly. And her head drooped on the pillow. I adjusted the clothes and bent down to listen.

"Wonder how long the doctor will be," whispered Mr. Hillier anxiously, "before he comes back."

"There is nothing for him to do now, sir," I replied.

I sat up all that night--I could not tell you why--and the others rested. The two girls went off tearfully to Katherine's room; and I could hear them whispering confidences to each other until the early hours of the morning. Breakfast was ready when they all came into the sitting room; I might have spared myself the trouble of preparing anything but the coffee. The blinds remained down; the cheerful sounds of a waking day in the gardens had a jarring note.

"The funeral on Sunday," I suggested to Mr. Hillier. "Will that be convenient?" I tried to speak in business-like tones.

"Please take charge of it, Weston," he begged. "I feel rather--rather knocked over."

"You ought to stay away from the Arsenal for a week, sir."

"No, no! Work is the best thing for all of us. Especially just now." He went around the table and kissed the three, and hesitated after embracing Muriel. "My big girl," he said, nervously, "is not going to leave us again?"

"I meant to, father," she replied, quietly, "but this makes a difference. This brings us together."

"Wish John were at home," he said.

"We've been saying that," I remarked, in a brisk way, "ever since he was taken at La Bassée. We shall have to be patient until the war is over. No use expecting wonders to happen, just to oblige us."

I wrote that morning to my nephew Herbert.

* * * * *

Herbert's father was entitled, by his alertness, to put in a claim for a smart piece of work. He happened to be at a military hospital, Westminster way; an entertainment was being given to some of the wounded, and he had been asked to give one of his rousing, patriotic speeches. The commandant, in shewing him around, mentioned that some exchanged men had arrived that day.

Millwood said, "I want some fresh stuff to talk about. Let's have a glance at 'em, and a bit of a chat with 'em." The first one he spoke to was introduced as Corporal Hillier.