CHAPTER XIV

John was allowed by the hospital authorities to come to Greenwich for the ceremony, and his return to Gloucester Place--which we had often decided, in conversation, was to be a great incident, with flags out at the balcony, and, indoors, food and much rejoicing--found itself tempered by the circumstances. We reckoned to find him changed; it never occurred to us that his wounds and his hard experiences would have aged and altered him so much. But for his voice--and that, too, was not quite the same that one remembered--it might have been difficult for those who knew him but casually to identify him. We came back from the cemetery at Lewisham, leaving there the two simple wreaths (one from her Ever loving Husband and Children, and the other from Mary Weston, with Respectful Sympathy) to find Colonel Edgington waiting outside the house in Gloucester Place, and swelling with annoyance because he had been unable to obtain an answer to his summons with the knocker, or his appeal with the bell. The Wintertons, desirous of not intruding upon us, were out for the day, and their maid had gone to see the boys performing their exercises on the corvette that rests on a calm sea of asphalt near the Royal Hospital School; she was doubtless giving a special interest to a scholar in Boreman's Foundation, who chanced to be her brother. Although the blinds were down, and we, with the exception of John Hillier, wore black, the Colonel did not make a guess at the loss which had taken place; he explained that he had written out a telegram to Mr. Hillier on the previous evening announcing that he intended to call and provide an afternoon's enjoyment but, by oversight, had given no orders for this to be taken to the Post Office. He seemed to reckon this a trifling omission on his part, and was sketching out the programme when I took him aside.

"Bless my soul!" he ejaculated. "Good gracious me! Heart failure, you say, Weston? I never heard the poor lady suffered in that way. Why wasn't I told? People," he fumed, "seem to take a positive delight in keeping me ignorant."

"Perhaps because it's so difficult to make you understand."

"Not at all," he declared, heatedly. "Always most willing to listen. Exceedingly eager to gain information! I ought not to be treated in this fashion. Dam shame, Weston, dam shame. And I can't help thinking that you are responsible."

"We'll say that it's my fault, sir."

"No, no," he protested. "Not so much your fault as your misfortune. You ought to get married." He pulled at his uniform and, having delivered the reprimand, went across to Mr. Hillier. "My dear old friend," he said, with genuine sympathy. "What can I say to you excepting that I'm awfully sorry. Command me, please, if you want help. I'm not much use in that way, but all that I can do--" To my surprise, he broke down. At the grave-side Muriel had been the only one to give way.

Colonel Edgington, always at his best in the presence of disaster, recovered, and followed us upstairs, sat with us at the meal, and contrived to induce John to talk of his experiences. A war map had been pinned on the wall, as in most households, and John, once started, gave an animated description of the fighting at La Bassée, described the journey, taken whilst he was in a seriously wounded condition, to Lille, furnished an account of his various transfers from lager to lager, the treatment he received, the folk he encountered. We listened attentively, rather glad to have our thoughts switched away from immediate trouble, and John sent off all of his detached manner, becoming really eloquent towards the end. At the finish his young brother started the applause, and the rest of us joined in.

"But I say," cried Edward enthusiastically, "all that, you know, is absolutely ripping."

"You'll write some articles in one of the magazines, John," suggested his father.

"Any of the daily papers," remarked Katherine, "would be jolly glad to have the stuff."

"Much more dignified," said Colonel Edgington, "to put it in a book. A big book. A large book. A well-bound book."

"What about a lecturing tour?" I asked.

It appeared that none of them had acquaintance with this procedure, and all I knew had been gained from my brother-in-law, Millwood. I told them of his successes, and the fees he occasionally made; John admitted that, so soon as he found himself discharged from the hospital, nothing would suit him better than to travel about the country, and speak to audiences; he said it was likely to distract his mind, and prevent it from brooding over the misfortunes that had happened to him; by talking of them, he reckoned it possible that he might consider them less acutely. I promised to make inquiries regarding the agency of which Millwood had spoken: mentioned that, according to him, the business arrangements were taken over, and all the lecturer had to do was to make a note of the places and the dates. Ten per cent. deducted for commission.

"Occurs to me," interposed Colonel Edgington, "that there'll be a large number of returned men willing to take on a job of this nature."

"Willing, perhaps," I said, "but not qualified. Master John," I declared, "will get ten or twelve guineas for each lecture."

"I have said my say," remarked the Colonel brusquely.

"If Aunt Weston is determined John is to go on a tour," mentioned Katherine, "nothing that any of us argues, Colonel Edgington, will have the slightest value."

"Obstinacy in a woman," he announced, "is a quality that--that--"

"A quality," she said, "that in men is called firm resolution. John, you ought to have some pictures."

Here Muriel proved helpful. She remembered that her friend, once of Chislehurst, now in one of His Majesty's prisons, had given her a set of photographs that illustrated towns in Germany, and some concerned the places where John had been detained; she had also in her trunk, which was now on the way from Camberwell, German illustrated magazines which would furnish, by their war pictures, useful material. We sat around the table, discussing the matter eagerly, and presently Colonel Edgington took part in the debate, and made a very good recommendation to the effect that the agency should be persuaded to take a hall in the West End for John's first appearance; the Colonel promised to secure for chairman some one high up, either in the military or the political world. "Great thing is," he barked, "no delay. Let us be the first in the field. Every moment is of value. Prompt action absolutely necessary." I pointed out that the hospital authorities would most likely insist upon supervising John's health for two or three weeks. "During which period," ordered the Colonel, "he can prepare the lecture, and you, Weston, can complete the arrangements."

I offered to run around to London Street, and obtain from Millwood a letter of introduction to the agent. Colonel Edgington approved of this, followed me to the landing.

"This is a great idea," he declared, rubbing his hands. "Gives the chap something to do."

"Quite a brain wave, sir, on your part."

"That is so!" he admitted.

On my return with the note, I found that Mr. Hillier was walking inside the railings, hands behind back, head bent; my memory flew to the time when I saw him, in a like attitude on the occasion of his financial reverse. I entered the gate, and asked whether he required his hat. He said I was not to give myself so much trouble, but begged for my company, and in going up and down the gravelled path, confessed he had escaped from the others because their absorption in the new plan had slightly hurt him. "We have but just placed the dear woman in her grave," he contended, "and we ought to let no one else occupy our minds." I argued that there was something to be said for our methods. No advantage ever came from grieving and sorrowing over those who had gone. The world did not stop, because one person, however beloved, went away. The wise deportment in the circumstances was to select the happiest memories and preserve them. "I am doing that," he said. "There is an interval at Chislehurst, and just after Chislehurst which is already a blank. Earlier than that, and later, I have no recollections of her that are not good and sweet." We took another turn the length of the square.

"She had a great affection for you, Weston," he remarked.

"Mrs. Hillier showed it, now and then. Neither of us was the kind that liked to gush."

"I want you to have something of her's, as a memento of all the years you were together. And that reminds me. She made her will years ago. We might try to find it."

The document was in Mrs. Hillier's writing desk, together with letters from the children, written when they were at boarding school (they were all chattering now in the next room, Colonel Edgington's voice intervening, and it seemed queer to connect them with the round text hand notes that had been kept so affectionately). There was a well-bound diary, too, that started, as diaries will, in a profuse literary style, as though for publication, and dwindled to short notes, and brief figures, reviving when Muriel disappeared and the news came of John's disaster. One line caught my eye as I turned the leaves. "I have never thanked M.W. sufficiently, and I never shall be able to do so."

The will itself had been drawn up in the days of prosperity, and there were legacies that could not now be paid to one or two charitable affairs, bequests to servants who had long since gone their different ways. No mention of my name; the document had probably been filled in at a time when, for some reason or other, I happened to be out of favour; the remark in the diary fully compensated for the omission.

"You might have a piece of her jewellery," said Mr. Hillier.

"It all had to go, with the exception of her wedding ring."

"Wasn't aware of that."

"I told her you wouldn't notice, and she wanted to get rid of it, when money was short."

"Can you suggest anything?"

"Yes," I answered. "Let me stay on upstairs on my floor, and manage the family just as I've always done. I couldn't help overhearing you telling the young ladies that there was now no excuse for taking advantage of my services. As a matter of fact, you will all need me more than ever. It's true I shan't be wanted as a companion to her, but the rest have got to be looked after. And," with a burst of frankness, "I don't particularly wish to see anyone else doing it."

"You'll work yourself to death, Weston, if you are not careful."

"There are many less interesting ways of reaching there," I said. "You know that as well as I do."

"I shall be glad," he admitted, "to find myself back in the Arsenal again. Taking a day off makes me feel that I'm neglecting my share in the war." He returned the papers to the desk, and locked it. "The scoundrels," he exclaimed, with sudden anger, "killed her. They killed her, just as they have killed other innocent people." He raised his arms. "May God never forgive them!" he cried.

John Hillier's first delivery of his lecture was a great evening for us. I think it can be said, although I took some part in the arranging, that it was well managed. On my suggestion, the profits were set aside for the Red Cross Society, and any entertainment, at the period, which had an air of benevolence was supported by generous folk; John's name was known only in connection with his songs, but the newspapers were kind in giving preliminary paragraphs; Colonel Edgington secured, as chairman, one of the members of the Government whose popularity had not been chipped and damaged by the conduct of the war. When, on placards outside the hall at the upper end of Regent Street, the notice was fixed "All Tickets Sold," then the demand at the box office became urgent and appealing. Folk who had relatives detained in Germany urged that their special interests justified presence at the lecture; they were referred to coming dates and to places near London where Mr. John Hillier could shortly be heard. John had been given his discharge from the army. He worked hard at the preparation of the lecture whilst he was in the hospital, forwarding to me the sheets, a dozen at a time, and I had these type-written at an office in Greenwich Road. Edward and I went through them carefully of an evening, and found, to our satisfaction, that John had contrived to treat the subject, not too seriously, not too aggrievedly. When the last instalment came, Edward, at a raised table, delivered the lecture, in platform style to all of us, and timing by the watch I discovered it lasted for near upon two hours. From Millwood came the valuable hint that this was far too long. An hour and ten minutes, said Millwood, yes; an hour and twenty minutes, perhaps, but two hours, no. Most decidedly, no. "What you want to do," argued my brother-in-law, "is to go off, and leave the audience wishing to goodness you'd gone on cackling for another quarter of a hower. That's the 'ole secret of it." So John's task, once free of the hospital, was to cut down the lecture, and although we bewailed the loss of precious words, it was obvious the address became improved by the operation.

"Do you feel nervous?" I asked.

"I think the rest cure at Darmstadt got rid of my nerves," he said. "But there's no use in disguising the fact, Aunt Weston, that I am anxious."

"We shall all be there."

"My own people are the critics I fear."

We arrived at the hall in good time, and our party was amongst the earliest to go in. I do not know how the others felt, but the place--with folk whispering to each other, and stewards on tip-toe escorting new comers to seats--the place struck me as having a singular resemblance to a place of worship; the coughing that went from stalls to balcony, and balcony to gallery increased the impression of solemnity. Moreover, the hall was slow in filling up; there were huge gaps on the ground floor; a woman behind us was complaining to her husband of his mad carelessness in purchasing tickets when the money could have been better laid out on a musical comedy at the Lyric. It came to ten minutes to the hour, and some one near said, in an undertone, that society people often bought tickets for entertainments connected with a charity, and destroyed them. The stewards made a group near the doors, chatting to each other. I thought of John's dismay when he came on the platform, and saw the vacant rows of seats.

"Why on earth don't the people come in?" cried Muriel, agitatedly.

As though reminded of duties by this question, they arrived in crowds at every doorway, brandishing tickets, and insisting upon being shewn at once to their places: the stewards performed their duties at a rush: the empty places filled; the noise of spring seats being pulled down went like pistol shots; animation began to shew itself, everyone talked in natural tones. The chairs on the platform at either side of the white screen no longer had the aspect of desolation. Captain Winterton and his wife went along a gangway, arm in arm; their old-fashioned appearance caused a titter, and we forgave this in consideration of the circumstances. Colonel Edgington bustled on to the platform, and examined the height of the reading desk, slightly altered the position of the high-backed chair.

"I expect," said young Edward, across to me, "he's jolly glad you aren't down there to interfere."

The Cabinet Minister came, accompanied by John, who was able to walk now, for short distances, with the aid of a stout stick; the audience stood up and applauded, and Colonel Edgington bowed profoundly. I think he would have remained on the platform, but the chairman, with a jerk of the head, intimated that his presence was no longer necessary, and the Colonel withdrew reluctantly to engage at the side upon a brief altercation with a strong-minded lady who declined to comply with his order to remove her hat, on the grounds that she was not, as it happened, wearing one. People called out "Order, order!" and the Colonel disappeared.

The chairman introduced John in a dozen words, thereby confuting the apprehensions we had expressed in the train, coming up; we had felt bound to agree with Mr. Hillier's suggestion that political folk when they faced an audience, rarely knew where to stop. The chairman said he proposed to keep any remarks he had to offer until the end.

The hall was defensive in its attitude at the start, and John had a little trouble in getting his voice to the right pitch. He remedied this, and there was no more coughing, no signs of inattention. He gave accounts of small incidents connected with the engagement, with imitations of some of his comrades and their wonderful light heartedness; he told one or two anecdotes that went well, and suddenly, ere people had finished their laugh, switched off to a dramatic and exciting description of the struggle. Master John had got them well in hand by this time. When the lights were lowered, and it was seen that his pictures were not of the type called 'moving,' there came a slight ejaculation of surprise; a moment's thought and folk seemed to realise that British prisoners of war were not, perhaps, furnished with a cinematograph machine. John was particularly fair to the enemy. He had a good word for the German doctors, a severe one for a commandant who had not apparently set out to achieve popularity. He re-constituted the lager, and took us through a day there; it was not prejudice on my side in favour of a young man whom I had known and liked for years that made me feel that this was more vivid and more illustrative than the printed word. John finished with a couple of sentences full of hope and enthusiasm, and declaring that all who had suffered for their country enjoyed a pride they were not disposed to change or to forget.

Our party, flushed and warm with content, had the idea that the afternoon might well end here: the rest of the audience evidently wanted a speech from the chairman. A speech he gave, and it was interesting for us to compare the two styles; John's endeavour to use only the indispensable words, and the Cabinet Minister's large and luxurious manner of the practised orator. The hall, I admit, liked the great man's method. The hall indicated its approval of the chairman's compliments to the lecturer: it became uproarious with excitement when he quoted the Crispian speech from _Henry the Fifth_. Edward assured me the quotation was not really correct (and proved later, by production of his Shakespeare, that his criticism was right), but the people, I think, liked the recital all the better for the touch of undesigned originality, and when he closed by asking us to sing "God save the King" and we all stood up, and sang our best, and ladies in the front rows of the stalls took the bunches of flowers they wore and flung them on the platform, and Colonel Edgington--the fusser!--came on to guide the chairman, and our John, to the exit, as though the perfectly obvious way had to be made through a scarcely penetrable forest--why then we knew, and everyone knew, that Mr. John Hillier had received what is called a good send-off.

"Who," asked Katherine as we reached the vestibule, "who, pray, is the eccentric but seemingly perfectly happy gentleman dancing all by himself in a corner over there?"

"He," I was able to answer, "is the lecture agent!"