Part 7

“I don’t quite know how I did it, but somehow or other I got her away from the General’s house without Giles knowing. Giles junior was quite unhurt, and disposed to regard the entire thing as an entertainment got up especially for his benefit. And when she’d made sure of that, and kissed him passionately to his intense disgust, she slipped away with me in the car.

“‘You mustn’t be disappointed,’ I warned her as we drove along, ‘if you can’t see him alone. He may have been put into a ward with other men.’

“‘Then they must put some screens round him,’ she whispered. ‘I must kiss him before—before——.’ She didn’t complete the sentence; but it wasn’t necessary.

“We didn’t speak again until I turned in at the gates of the hospital. And then I asked her a question which had been on the tip of my tongue a dozen times.

“‘Who is he—really?’

“‘Jimmy Dallas is his name,’ she answered, quietly. ‘We were engaged. And then his father lost all his money. He thought that was why—why I was beastly to him—but oh! Dog-face, it wasn’t at all. I thought he was fond of another girl—and it was all a mistake. I found it out too late. And then Jimmy had disappeared—and I’d married Giles. Up at that cricket match was the first time I’d seen him since my wedding.’

“We drew up at the door, and I got out. It’s the little tragedies, the little misunderstandings, that are so pitiful, and in all conscience this was a case in point. A boy and a girl—each too proud to explain, or ask for an explanation; and now the big tragedy. God! it seemed so futile.

“I left her sitting in the car, and went in search of Purvis. I found him with Trevor—I still thought of him under that name—and he was conscious again. The doctor looked up as I tiptoed in, and shook his head at me warningly. So I waited, and after a while Purvis left the bed and drew me out into the passage.

“‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘He’s so infernally bruised and messed about. His left arm is broken in two places, and three ribs—and I’m afraid his back as well. He seems so numb. But I can’t be certain.’

“‘Mrs. Yeverley is here,’ I said. ‘The mother of one of the kids he saved. She wants to see him.’

“‘Out of the question,’ snapped Purvis. ‘I absolutely forbid it.’

“‘But you mustn’t forbid it, Doctor.’ We both swung round, to see the girl herself standing behind us. ‘I’ve got to see him. There are other reasons besides his having saved my baby’s life.’

“‘They must wait, Mrs. Yeverley,’ answered the Doctor. ‘In a case of this sort the only person I would allow to see him would be his wife.’

“‘If I hadn’t been a fool,’ she said deliberately, ‘I should have been his wife,’ and Purvis’s jaw dropped.

“Without another word she swept past him into the ward, and Purvis stood there gasping.

“‘Well, I’m damned!’ he muttered, and I couldn’t help smiling. It was rather a startling statement to come from a woman stopping with the G.O.C. about a sergeant in a cavalry regiment.

“And then, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, came the final turn in the wheel. I was strolling up and down outside with Purvis, who was a sahib as well as a Doctor and had asked no questions.

“‘If his back is broken it can’t hurt him,’ he had remarked, ‘and if it isn’t it will do him good.’

“At that we had left it, when suddenly, to my horror, I saw Giles himself going into the hospital.

“‘Good Lord, Doc!’ I cried, sprinting after him, ‘that’s her husband. And he doesn’t know she’s here.’

“But a lot can happen in a few seconds, and I was just a few seconds too late. As I got to the door I saw Giles in front of me—standing at the entrance to the ward as if he had been turned to stone. A big screen hid the bed from sight—but a screen is not sound proof. He looked at me as I came up, and involuntarily I stopped as I saw his face. And then quite clearly from the room beyond came his wife’s voice.

“‘My darling, darling boy!—it’s you and only you for ever and ever!’

“I don’t quite know how much Giles had guessed before. I think he knew about her previous engagement, but I’m quite sure he had never associated Trevor with it. A year or two later she told me that when she married him she had made no attempt to conceal the fact that she had loved another man—and loved him still. And Giles had taken her on those terms. But at the time I didn’t know that: I only knew that a very dear friend’s world had crashed about his head with stunning suddenness. It was Giles who pulled himself together first—Giles, with a face grey and lined, who said in a loud voice to me: ‘Well, Dog-face, where is the invalid?’

“And then he waited a moment or two before he went round the screen.

“‘Ah! my dear,’ he said, quite steadily, as he saw his wife, ‘you here?’

“He played his part for ten minutes, stiff-lipped and without a falter; then he went, and his wife went with him to continue the play in which they were billed for life. Trevor’s back was not broken—in a couple of months he was back at duty. And so it might have continued for the duration, but for Giles being drowned fishing in Ireland.”

The Soldier stared thoughtfully at the fire.

“He was a first-class fisherman and a wonderful swimmer, was Giles Yeverley, and sometimes—I wonder. They say he got caught in a bore—that perhaps he got cramp. But, as I say, sometimes—I wonder.

“I saw them—Jimmy Dallas, sometime Sergeant Trevor, and his wife—at the Ritz two nights ago. They seemed wonderfully in love, though they’d been married ten years, and I stopped by their table.

“‘Sit down, Dog-face,’ she ordered, ‘and have a liqueur.’

“So I sat down and had a liqueur. And it was just as I was going that she looked at me with her wonderful smile, and said, very softly: ‘Thank God! dear old Giles never knew; and now, if he does, he’ll understand.’”

The Soldier got up and stretched himself.

“A big result for a bit of yellow peel.”

_VI_ _The Writer’s Story, being The House at Appledore_

“I’M not certain, strictly speaking, that my story can be said to concern my trade,” began the Writer, after he had seen his guests were comfortable. “But it happened—this little adventure of mine—as the direct result of pursuing my trade, so I will interpret the rule accordingly.

“My starting-point is the Largest Pumpkin Ever Produced in Kent. It was the sort of pumpkin which gets a photograph all to itself in the illustrated papers—the type of atrocity which is utterly useless to any human being. And yet that large and unpleasant vegetable proved the starting-point of the most exciting episode in my somewhat prosaic life. In fact, but for very distinct luck, that pumpkin would have been responsible for my equally prosaic funeral.’ The Writer smiled reminiscently.

“It was years ago, in the days before a misguided public began to read my books and supply me with the necessary wherewithal to keep the wolf from the door. But I was young and full of hope, and Fleet Street seemed a very wonderful place. From which you can infer that I was a journalist, and candour compels me to admit—a jolly bad one. Not that I realised it at the time. I regarded my Editor’s complete lack of appreciation of my merits as being his misfortune, not my fault. However, I pottered around, doing odd jobs and having the felicity of seeing my carefully penned masterpieces completely obscured by blue pencil and reduced to two lines.

“Then one morning I was sent for to the inner sanctuary. Now, although I had the very lowest opinion of the Editor’s abilities, I knew sufficient of the office routine to realise that such a summons was unlikely to herald a rise of screw with parchment certificate of appreciation for services rendered. It was far more likely to herald the order of the boot—and the prospect was not very rosy. Even in those days Fleet Street was full of unemployed journalists who knew more than their editors.

“The news editor was in the office when I walked in, and he was a kindly man, was old Andrews. He looked at me from under his great bushy eyebrows for a few moments without speaking; then he pointed to a chair.

“‘Graham,’ he remarked in a deep bass voice, ‘are you aware that this paper has never yet possessed a man on its staff that writes such unutterable slush as you do?’

“I remained discreetly silent; to dissent seemed tactless, to agree, unnecessary.

“‘What do you propose to do about it?’ he continued after a while.

“I told him that I hadn’t realised I was as bad as all that, but that I would do my best to improve my style and give satisfaction in the future.

“‘It’s not so much your style,’ he conceded. ‘Years ago I knew a man whose style was worse. Only a little—but it was worse. But it’s your nose for news, my boy—that’s the worst thing that ever came into Fleet Street. Now, what were you doing yesterday?’

“‘I was reporting that wedding at the Brompton Oratory, sir,’ I told him.

“‘Just so,’ he answered. ‘And are you aware that in a back street not three hundred yards from the church a man died through eating a surfeit of winkles, as the result of a bet? Actually while you were there did that man die by the winkle-barrow—and you knew nothing about it. I’m not denying that your report on the wedding isn’t fair—but the public is entitled to know about the dangers of winkle-eating to excess. Not that the rights of the public matter in the least, but it’s the principle I want to impress on you—the necessity of keeping your eyes open for other things beside the actual job you’re on. That’s what makes the good journalist.’

“I assured him that I would do so in future, and he grunted non-committally. Then he began rummaging in a drawer, while I waited in trepidation.

“‘We’ll give you a bit longer, Graham,’ he announced at length, and I breathed freely again. ‘But if there is no improvement you’ll have to go. And in the meantime I’ve got a job for you this afternoon. Some public-spirited benefactor has inaugurated an agricultural fête in Kent, somewhere near Ashford. From what I can gather, he seems partially wanting in intelligence, but it takes people all ways. He is giving prizes for the heaviest potato and the largest egg—though I am unable to see what the hen’s activity has to do with her owner. And I want you to go down and write it up. Half a column. Get your details right. I believe there is a treatise on soils and manures in the office somewhere. And put in a paragraph about the paramount importance of the Englishman getting back to the land. Not that it will have any effect, but it might help to clear Fleet Street.’

“He was already engrossed in something else, and dismissed me with a wave of his hand. And it was just as I got to the door that he called after me to send Cresswill to him—Cresswill, the star of all the special men. His reception, I reflected a little bitterly as I went in search of him, would be somewhat different from mine. For he had got to the top of the tree, and was on a really big job at the time. He did all the criminal work—murder trials and so forth, and how we youngsters envied him! Perhaps, in time, one might reach those dazzling heights, I reflected, as I sat in my third-class carriage on the way to Ashford. Not for him mammoth tubers and double-yolkers—but the things that really counted.

“I got out at Ashford, where I had to change. My destination was Appledore, and the connection on was crowded with people obviously bound, like myself, for the agricultural fête. It was a part of Kent to which I had never been, and when I got out at Appledore station I found I was in the flat Romney Marsh country which stretches inland from Dungeness. Houses are few and far between, except in the actual villages themselves—the whole stretch of land, of course, must once have been below sea-level—and the actual fête was being held in a large field on the outskirts of Appledore. It was about a mile from the station, and I proceeded to walk.

“The day was warm, the road was dusty—and I, I am bound to admit, was bored. I felt I was destined for better things than reporting on bucolic flower shows, much though I loved flowers. But I like them in their proper place, growing—not arranged for show in a stuffy tent and surrounded by perspiring humanity. And so when I came to the gates of a biggish house and saw behind them a garden which was a perfect riot of colour, involuntarily I paused and looked over.

“The house itself stood back about a hundred yards from the road—a charming old place covered with creepers, and the garden was lovely. A little neglected, perhaps—I could see a respectable number of weeds in a bed of irises close to the drive—but then it was quite a large garden. Probably belonged to some family that could not afford a big staff, I reflected, and that moment I saw a man staring at me from between some shrubs a few yards away.

“There was no reason why he shouldn’t stare at me—he was inside the gate and presumably had more right to the garden than I had—but there was something about him that made me return the stare, in silence, for a few moments. Whether it was his silent approach over the grass and unexpected appearance, or whether it was that instinctively he struck me as an incongruous type of individual to find in such a sleepy locality, I can’t say. Or, perhaps, it was a sudden lightning impression of hostile suspicion on his part, as if he resented anyone daring to look over his gate.

“Then he came towards me, and I felt I had to say something. But even as I spoke the thought flashed across my mind that he would have appeared far more at home in a London bar than in a rambling Appledore garden.

“‘I was admiring your flowers,’ I said as he came up. ‘Your irises are wonderful.’

“He looked vaguely at some lupins, then his intent gaze came back to me.

“‘The garden is well known locally,’ he remarked. ‘Are you a member of these parts?’

“‘No,’ I answered, ‘I come from London,’ and it seemed to me his gaze grew more intent.

“‘I am only a bird of passage, too,’ he said easily. ‘Are you just down for the day?’

“I informed him that I had come down to write up the local fête; being young and foolish, I rather think I implied that only the earnest request of the organiser for me in particular had persuaded the editor to dispense with my invaluable services even for a few hours. And all the time his eyes, black and inscrutable, never left my face.

“‘The show is being held in a field about a quarter of a mile farther on,’ he said when I had finished. ‘Good morning.’

“He turned abruptly on his heels and walked slowly away towards the house, leaving me a little annoyed, and with a feeling that not only had I been snubbed, but, worse still, had been seen through. I felt that I had failed to convince him that editors tore their hair and bit their nails when they failed to secure my services; I felt, indeed, just that particular type of ass that one does feel when one has boasted vaingloriously, and been listened to with faintly amused boredom. I know that as I resumed my walk towards the agricultural fête I endeavoured to restore my self-respect by remembering that he was merely a glorified yokel, who probably knew no better.”

The Writer leant back in his chair with a faint smile.

“That awful show still lives in my memory,” he continued after a while. “There were swing boats, and one of those ghastly shows where horses go round and round with a seasick motion and ‘The Blue Bells of Scotland’ emerges without cessation from the bowels of the machine. There were coco-nut shies and people peering through horse-collars to have their photographs taken, and over everything an all-pervading aroma of humanity unsuitably clad in its Sunday best on a warm day. However, the job had to be done, so I bravely plunged into the marquees devoted to the competing vegetables. I listened to the experts talking around me with the idea of getting the correct local colour, but as most of their remarks were incomprehensible, I soon gave that up as a bad job and began looking about me.

“There were potatoes and carrots and a lot of things which I may have eaten, but completely failed to recognise in a raw state. And then suddenly, through a gap in the asparagus, I saw a vast yellowy-green object. It seemed about four times the size of an ordinary Rugby football, and a steady stream of people circled slowly round it and an ancient man, who periodically groomed it with a vast coloured handkerchief. So I steered a zigzag course between a watery-eyed duck on my right and a hand-holding couple on my left, and joined the stream. At close quarters it seemed even vaster than when viewed from the other side of the tent, and after I’d made the grand tour twice, I thought I’d engage the ancient man in conversation. Unfortunately, he was stone deaf, and his speech was a little indistinct owing to a regrettable absence of teeth, so we managed between us to rivet the fascinated attention of every human being in the tent. In return for the information that it was the largest pumpkin ever produced in Kent, I volunteered that I had come from London specially to write about it. He seemed a bit hazy about London, but when I told him it was larger than Appledore he appeared fairly satisfied that his pumpkin would obtain justice.

“He also launched into a voluble discourse, which was robbed of much of its usefulness by his habit of holding his false teeth in position with his thumb as he spoke. Luckily a local interpreter was at hand, and from him I gathered that the old man was eighty-five, and had never been farther afield than Ashford, forty-eight years ago. Also that he was still gardener at Cedarlime, a house which I must have passed on my way from the station. Standing well back it was: fine flower gardens—‘but not what they was. Not since the new gentleman come—a year ago. Didn’t take the same interest—not him. A scholard, they said ’e was; crates and crates of books had come to the house—things that ’eavy that they took three and four men to lift them.’

“He rambled on did that interpreter, while the ancient man polished the pumpkin in the time-honoured manner, and wheezed spasmodically. But I wasn’t paying much attention, because it had suddenly come back to me that Cedarlime was the name of the house where I had spoken to the inscrutable stranger. Subconsciously I had noticed it as I crossed the road; now it was brought back to my memory.

“‘Is the owner of Cedarlime a youngish, man?’ I asked my informant. ‘Dark hair; rather sallow face?’

“He shook his head. The owner of Cedarlime was a middle-aged man with grey hair, but he often had friends stopping with him who came from London, so he’d heard tell—friends who didn’t stop long—just for the week-end, maybe, or four or five days. Probably the man I meant was one of these friends.

“My informant passed on to inspect a red and hairy gooseberry, and I wandered slowly out of the stuffy tent. Probably a friend—in fact, undoubtedly a friend. But try as I would to concentrate on that confounded flower show, my thoughts kept harking back to Cedarlime. For some reason or other, that quiet house and the man who had come so silently out of the bushes had raised my curiosity. And at that moment I narrowly escaped death from a swing boat, which brought me back to the business in hand.

“I suppose it was about three hours later that I started to stroll back to the station. I was aiming at a five o’clock train, and intended to write my stuff on the way up to Town. But just as I was getting to the gates of the house that interested me, who should I see in front of me but the venerable pumpkin polisher. He turned as I got abreast of him and recognised me with a throaty chuckle. And he promptly started to talk. I gathered that he had many other priceless treasures in his garden—wonderful sweet-peas, more pumpkins of colossal dimensions. And after a while I further gathered that he was suggesting I should go in and examine them for myself.

“For a moment I hesitated. I looked at my watch—there was plenty of time. Then I looked over the gates and made up my mind. I would introduce this ancient being into my account of the fête; write up, in his own setting, this extraordinary old man who had never left Appledore for forty-eight years. And, in addition, I would have a closer look at the house—possibly even see the scholarly owner.

“I glanced curiously round as I followed him up the drive. We went about half-way to the house, then turned off along a path into the kitchen garden. And finally he came to rest in front of the pumpkins—he was obviously a pumpkin maniac. I should think he conducted a monologue for five minutes on the habits of pumpkins while I looked about me. Occasionally I said ‘Yes’; occasionally I nodded my head portentously; for the rest of the time I paid no attention.

“I could see half the front and one side of the house—but there seemed no trace of any occupants. And I was just going to ask the old man who lived there, when I saw a man in his shirt-sleeves standing at one of the windows. He was not the man who had spoken to me at the gate; he was not a grey-headed man either, so presumably not the owner. He appeared to be engrossed in something he was holding in his hands, and after a while he held it up to the light in the same way one holds up a photographic plate. It was then that he saw me.

“Now, I have never been an imaginative person, but there was something positively uncanny in the way that man disappeared. Literally in a flash he had gone and the window was empty. And my imagination began to stir. Why had that man vanished so instantaneously at the sight of a stranger in the kitchen garden?

“And then another thing began to strike me. Something which had been happening a moment or two before had abruptly stopped—a noise, faint and droning, but so steady that I hadn’t noticed it until it ceased. It had been the sort of noise which, if you heard it to-day, you would say was caused by an aeroplane a great way off—and quite suddenly it had stopped. A second or two after the man had seen me and vanished from the window, that faint droning noise had ceased. I was sure of it, and my imagination began to stir still more.

“However, by this time my venerable guide had exhausted pumpkins, and, muttering strange words, he began to lead me towards another part of the garden. It was sweet-peas this time, and I must say they were really magnificent. In fact, I had forgotten the disappearing gentleman at the window in my genuine admiration of the flowers, when I suddenly saw the old man straighten himself up, take a firm grip of his false teeth with his one hand and touch his cap with the other. He was looking over my shoulder, and I swung round.

“Three men were standing behind me on the path. One was the man I had spoken to that morning; one was the man I had seen at the window; the other was grey-haired, and, I assumed, the owner of the house. It was to him I addressed myself.

“‘I must apologise for trespassing,’ I began, ‘but I am reporting the agricultural fête down here, and your gardener asked me in to see your sweet-peas. They are really magnificent specimens.’

“The elderly man stared at me in silence.

“‘I don’t quite see what the sweet-peas in my garden have to do with the fête,’ he remarked coldly. ‘And it is not generally customary, when the owner is at home, to wander round his garden at the invitation of his gardener.’

“‘Then I can only apologise and withdraw at once,’ I answered stiffly. ‘I trust that I have not irreparably damaged your paths.’

“He frowned angrily and seemed on the point of saying something, when the man I had spoken to at the gate took his arm and whispered something in his ear. I don’t know what it was he said, but it had the effect of restoring the grey-haired man to a better temper at once.

“‘I must apologise,’ he said affably, ‘for my brusqueness. I am a recluse, Mr.—ah—Mr.——’

“‘Graham is my name,’ I answered, partially mollified.