Part 14

There was three quarters of a column devoted to the doings of Miss Sarah Ann Munt; a sight which, with certain sinister recollections in his mind, went some way to assure Josiah that his worst fears were realized. But he had but to read a line or so to be convinced that there was no ground for pessimism. Miss Sarah Ann Munt, it seemed, had rendered such signal service to the Allied Cause that she had brought great honor upon herself, upon a name highly and justly esteemed in the city of Blackhampton, and even upon the country of her origin.

The _Tribune_ told the thrilling story of her deeds with pardonable gusto. On the outbreak of war she had volunteered for service with the Serbian Army. Owing to her great skill as a motor driver, for which in pre-war days she had been noted, she had been attached in that capacity to the Headquarters Staff. She had endured the perils and the hardships of the long retreat; and her coolness, her daring and her mother wit had enabled her to bring her car, containing the Serbian Commander and his Chief of Staff, in safety through the enemy lines at a moment when they had actually been cut off. "It is not too much to say," declared the _Tribune_ whose language was official, "that the story of Miss Munt's deeds in Serbia is one of the epics of the war. By her own personal initiative she did much to avert a disaster of the first magnitude. No single individual since the war began has rendered a more outstanding service to the Allied Cause. She has already been the recipient of more than one high decoration, and on page five will be found an official photograph of her receiving yet another last week in Paris from the hands of the Chief of the Republic."

Josiah felt a little dizzy as with carefully assumed coolness he turned to page five. There, sure enough, was Sally, looking rather fine drawn in her close-fitting khaki, but with that half-wicked down-looking smile upon her that he knew so well. With her leggings, and her square chin and her "bobbed" hair which hung upon her cheeks in side pieces and gave her a resemblance to Joan of Arc she was like an exceedingly handsome, but as they say in Blackhampton, a rather "gallus" boy. The hussy! He couldn't help laughing at the picture of her, it was so exactly how he best remembered her. The amused slightly defiant You-Be-Damned air was so extraordinarily like her.

"Blame my cats!" said the Mayor.

For several minutes it was his only remark.

XXXVII

The meeting of the Ways and Means Committee which had been called for a quarter past ten was of more than local importance. It was of national importance as the Mayor was careful to inform its members, among whom were the picked brains of the community, when he informally opened the business. But it was not until twenty minutes to eleven that he was able to do so. It was not that the Committee itself was unpunctual; it was simply that one and all had seen that morning's _Tribune_ and that the common task had perforce to yield for the nonce to their hearty congratulations.

For one thing, the Mayor had become decidedly popular; for another, one more glorious page had been written in history by the Blackhampton born. It was really surprising the number of absolutely eminent people who at one time or another had contrived to be born at Blackhampton. In no city in England did local patriotism run higher, in no city in England was there better warrant for it. The Ways and Means Committee was quite excited. It was almost childishly delighted at having, as their Chairman, the rather embarrassed parent of one who, as Sir Reuben Jope, senior alderman and thrice ex-mayor, said in a well turned phrase, "bade fair to become the most famous woman in the Empire."

Perhaps a certain piquancy was lent to an event that was already historical, by the knowledge in possession of those in the inner circle of municipal life that the Mayor had been hard hit by a former episode in the dashing career of Miss Sally. That episode belonged to the pre-war period when the stock of Mr. Josiah Munt did not stand nearly so high in the market as it did that morning. More than one of these seated round the council board with their eyes on the Chairman had relished the public chastening of the lord of Strathfieldsaye. He had been smitten in a tender place and they were not so sorry for him as they might have been. But other times other modes of thought. Since July, 1914, water had flowed under Sharrow Bridge. Nothing could have been more eloquent of the fact than the rather excited cordiality of the present gathering.

"I really think, gentlemen," said Sir Reuben Jope, "that the City should recognize Miss Munt's extremely gallant behavior. I presume, Mr. Town Clerk, it is competent to do so."

"Oh, quite, sir--oh, quite." In the expressive words in which the Mayor reconstructed the scene that evening for the benefit of the Mayoress, "that Aylett was grinning all over his lantern-jawed mug like a Barbary ape."

"Then I shall propose at the next meeting of the Council that a public presentation be made to Miss Munt."

"I shall be glad to second that, Sir Reuben," said Mr. Alderman Limpenny, "when the time comes to do so."

But the Mayor interposed with asperity: "No, no, no, gentlemen. We can't have anything of the kind. Very good of you, I'm sure, but we must get on with the business." His worship rapped smartly upon the municipal mahogany. "This is war time, remember. We've got to discuss that contract of Perkins and Baylis. Seems to me, as I said at the last meeting, that those jockeys are over-charging the city forty per cent. You know, gentlemen, we've got to stop this leakage of public money. Whatever they may do in Whitehall, we are not going to stand for it here. Signing blank checks and dropping them in Corporation Square is not our form. As long as I sit in this chair there is going to be strict control of the public purse. And there is not going to be graft in this city neither. This is not Westminster. We don't propose to allow a public department to make a little mistake in its accounts of a few odd millions sterling and then jog quietly on as if nothing had occurred."

"Hear! hear!" from the City Treasurer.

"This war is costing the British people more than seven millions a day at the present time and to my mind it's wonderful that they are able to do it at the price. However, gentlemen, that is by the way. Let us return to the contract of Perkins and Baylis."

Truth to tell the contract of Perkins and Baylis had less attraction for the Committee at that particular moment than the picture in the _Tribune_. Somehow, the picture had captured its imagination. Whether it was the leggings, the "bobbed" hair, the Joan of Arc profile, or the "gallus" smile of the undefeated Miss Sally, it was quite certain that the last had not been heard of her historic actions.

The Committee of Ways and Means was not alone in its response to the picture in the _Tribune_ and the great deeds it commemorated. It was the talk of the whole city. Josiah moved that day and for many days in a kind of reflected glory. Wherever he went congratulations were showered upon him. Three cheers were given him at the Club when he came in to lunch. There was a decided tendency to identify him personally with Sally's fame, which, if exceedingly gratifying, was in the peculiar circumstances not a little disconcerting.

For one thing, he was rather at a loss to know what line he should take in the matter. On the unhappy occasion of Sally's going to prison he had written her what he called "a very stiff letter." In pretty blunt language he had told her that as she had disgraced him in the sight of the world he should have no more to do with her and that he intended to disinherit her.

To this letter no reply had been received. It was the kind of letter which did not call for one. Since that time nothing had passed between Sally and himself on that subject or on any other. But for some months now Josiah had rather keenly regretted that his attitude had been so definite. The war seemed to soften the past and to sharpen the present. In some respects he was a changed man; one less overbearing in temper, one less harsh in judgment.

The times had altered. Life itself had altered. He was not a man to cry over spilt milk, or to deplore the bygone, but at this moment he had one sharp regret. Some weeks before Sally had burst into fame he had made up his mind to restore her to his will and meant to write and tell her so. But for a man of his sort the task was hard and he had weakly put it off from day to day. And now, alas, it was too late to do it with the grace of the original intention. It would seem like compulsion now. Josiah was keenly vexed with himself. Nothing could have been more eloquent of the rule which hitherto had controlled his life, "Do not put off until to-morrow, etc." In times like those a cardinal maxim.

XXXVIII

The Mayor was in a false position in regard to his youngest daughter and he had only himself to blame. But much of his strength lay in the fact that he was the kind of man whom experience teaches. Delays, it seemed, were highly dangerous. He must make up his mind to put his pride in his pocket.

It was not an easy or pleasant operation, but it had to be performed. Nevertheless, the town had been ringing a full ten days with the name of Sally before he could bring himself to turn out after dinner of a December evening and walk along the road as far as The Gables.

He was received in the library, as usual, by Lawyer Mossop. The city's leading solicitor had recently aged considerably. He looked thinner and grayer, his cheeks were hollow, there were more lines in his face. His only son, George, who in the natural course of events would have carried on a very old established business, had been killed in France, and news had lately come that his sister Edith's boy, whom he had helped to educate and who had already begun to make his way at the Bar, had been permanently disabled by the explosion of a hand grenade.

Long training in self-conquest, backed by generations of emotional restraint, enabled Lawyer Mossop still to play the man of the world. He rose with a charming smile and an air of ready courtesy to receive his distinguished client and neighbor. At a first glance there was nothing to tell that for the solicitor, life had lost its savor.

The two men had a long and intimate talk. Oddly unlike as they were in temperament, education, mental outlook, their minds had never marched so well together as this evening in all their years of intercourse. Somehow the rude vigor, the robust sense of the client appeared to stimulate the more civilized, the more finely developed lawyer. Moreover, he could not fail to perceive that it was a humaner, more liberal-minded Josiah Munt than he had ever known who had come to talk with him this evening. Success, popularity, response to the overwhelming public need had ripened a remarkable man, rubbed off some of the corners, softened and harmonized the curious dissonances that had jarred in what, after all, was a fine character. Rough diamond as Josiah Munt still was and must always remain in the eyes of the critical, he stood out this evening as a right-thinking, straight-seeing citizen, a real asset to the community.

"Mossop," he said a little shamefacedly, after their conversation had gone on some time, "I don't like having to own up to it, but I'm bound to say that I wish I'd had the sense to take that advice you gave me in the matter of Sally."

The lawyer could not help a furtive smile at the humility of the tone.

"You've got to put that gel back in my will." It was a pretty stiff dose now that it had to be swallowed and a fierce frown did not conceal its nature. "And I want you to believe, Mossop,"--there was an odd earnestness in the deep voice--"that I had made up my mind to do it long before this--this damnable Serbian business happened."

The lawyer assured Mr. Munt that he was convinced of that.

"Serves me right, though, for delaying. Mossop, I'm annoyed with myself. It has the look of a force-put now, but I as I say----"

The lawyer nodded a nice appreciation of the circumstances.

"And while I'm about it, I've made up my mind to put Melia, my eldest girl, back as well."

The lawyer gave a little sigh of satisfaction.

"My three gels are now going to share alike. But you must provide six thousand pounds for Gertrude Preston."

The lawyer penciled a brief note on his blotting pad.

"As you know, Mossop, I've made a goodish bit, one way and another, since this war began. Those girls ought to be very well off. And you know, of course, that we are takin' in the next house for my hospital along The Rise. It'll give us another twenty beds--making forty in all."

The lawyer said in his level voice that he understood that to be the Mayor's intention when he had negotiated the purchase with Mr. Harvey Mortimore.

"We bought that property very well, eh? Not going to get less in value."

The lawyer agreed.

"I'm now considering the question of making it over permanently to the Corporation. Wouldn't make a bad nest egg for the city, eh?"

"A very generous gift, Mr. Munt."

"Anyhow, I'm arranging with the Duke to come over on the twenty-sixth of January to open the new annex. And in the meantime we'll think about giving it to the city as an orphanage or a cottage hospital."

XXXIX

The next morning Josiah paid a visit to Love Lane. The business of Sally had taught him a lesson. Events moved so quickly in these crowded days that it might not be wise to postpone a reconciliation with Melia.

So busy had the Mayor been since his return from Bridlington at the end of August that he had not found time to visit his eldest daughter, nor had she been to Strathfieldsaye since her first somewhat uncomfortable appearance there. She was still inclined to be much on her dignity. Women who lead lonely lives in oppressive surroundings are not easily able to forget the past. The olive branch had been offered already; but it was by no means certain that Melia intended to accept her father's overtures.

This December morning, however, as the great man, proceeding majestically on foot from the Duke of Wellington, turned up the narrow street with its worn cobblestones and its double row of mean little houses, he fully intended as far as might be humanly possible "to right things with Melia once for all."

The Mayor entered the shop and found his eldest daughter serving a woman in a white apron and a black and white checked shawl over her head with two pennyworth of carrots and a stick of celery. The honest dame was so taken aback by the arrival of the Mayor of the city, who was personally known to every man, woman and child throughout the district as one of a great triumvirate, of whom the King and the Prime Minister were the other two, that she fled in hot haste without paying for the spoils she bore away in her apron.

Melia, however, true to the stock whence she sprang, had no false delicacy in the matter. Without taking the slightest notice of the august visitor, she was the other side the counter in a jiffy, out of the shop and calling after the fleeing customer, "You haven't paid your fivepence, Mrs. Odell."

The Mayor stood at the shop door, watching with a kind of grim enjoyment the process of the fivepence being extracted. He plainly approved it. Melia, with all her limitations, had the root of the matter in her. Upon her return, a little flushed and rather breathless, he refrained from paying her the compliment he felt she deserved but was content to ask if trade was brisk.

Trade was brisker, said Melia, than she had ever known it.

Josiah was glad of that. He then looked round to assure himself that they were alone in the shop and being convinced that such was the case, he stood a moment awkwardly silent, balancing himself like a stork first on one leg and then on the other.

"Gel," he took her hand suddenly, "you are back in my will. Sally's back too. You are both going to have an equal share with Ethel." He felt the roughened, toil-stained hand begin to quiver a little in his strong grasp. "Bygones have got to be bygones. Understand me." He drew her towards him and kissed her stoutly and firmly in the middle of the forehead.

He retained his hold while her hot tears dripped on to his hand. She stood tense and rigid, unable to speak or move. But she knew as she stood there that it was no use fighting him or fighting herself. His masterfulness, his simplicity, his courage had reawakened her earliest and deepest instinct, the love and admiration she had once had for him. Of a sudden she began to sob pitifully. With a queer look on his face he took out a large red handkerchief and put his arms round her and wiped her eyes slowly and with a gentleness hard to credit in him, just as he had done when as a very little girl she had fallen and hurt herself on the tiled yard of the Duke of Wellington.

Speech was not possible to father or daughter for several minutes as time is reckoned in Love Lane, although to both it seemed infinitely longer, and then said the Mayor, "We'll expect you up at Strathfieldsaye on Christmas Day. Lunch one-thirty sharp." Then he added in a tone that was almost peremptory, "If that man o' yours happens to get home on leave your mother would like him to come, too."

Her tear-dimmed eyes looked at him rather queerly. "Didn't you know, Dad?" The voice had something in it of the child he remembered but it was so faint that it was barely audible.

"Know what?" His own voice had more asperity than it was meant to have. But she was able to make allowances for it, as she always had done in the days when she really understood him.

"Bill's in hospital."

He drew in his breath quickly. The thought ran through his mind that it was well he had had the sense to learn by experience. "Where? What hospital?" He was just a trifle nervous, just a shade flurried. As near as a toucher he had put it off too long, as in the case of Sally.

"In France. At the Base."

"Wound?"

"Yes."

"Bad one?"

"He says it's only a cushy ... but ... but somehow I don't trust him."

"How do you mean you don't trust him?"

"I mean this, Dad." She was quite composed now; the tears and the shakings were under control; she spoke slowly and calmly. "No matter how bad he was, he's not one as would ever let on."

"Why shouldn't he?"

"He'd be afraid it might upset you. He's got like that lately." Suddenly the hard eyes filled again. "He grins and bears things now."

Josiah nodded rather grimly, but made no comment. He turned on his heel. "See you this day fortnight up at the house." Abruptly, in deep thought, he went away.

XL

Bill's wound, as it turned out, was a painful one, and it had an element of danger. His right leg was shattered, also poisoned badly; it would take a long time to heal and there was a fear that amputation might be necessary. Such a case demanded special treatment, and to Melia's joy at the beginning of Christmas week she received word from her father that her husband had been transferred from France to the Mayor of Blackhampton's hospital.

There is no saying how this providential arrangement came about. It may have been coincidence; on the other hand it may not. Josiah in his second year of office was certainly becoming a power, if not an actual puller of strings. Influence may or may not have been at work; anyhow the Corporal bore the long journey so well that Melia, as a special concession, was allowed to see him for a short time on Christmas Eve.

She found him wonderfully cheerful in spite of the fact that he had endured much pain; more cheerful perhaps than she had ever known him. A subtle change had taken place since she had seen him last. The look of utter weariness had yielded to something else. It was as if he had been spiritualized by suffering; indeed as he smiled at her gently from his bed she felt that he was not the kind of man she used to know.

The memory of those few exquisite days in the summer was still in their minds. It was from that point they now took up their lives. For both the world had changed. They saw each other with new eyes. This man of hers had been as good as his word, he had done his best to come back to her; and there, full of pain, he lay helpless as a baby, yet now inexpressibly dear as the only thing in life that had any meaning for her. As for himself, as he smiled up at her, the grace of his dreams was again upon her. This was she about whom the romance of his youth had been woven. He didn't see her as she was, a commonplace, worn, gray-haired woman, or if he did he remembered the sacrifices she had made for his sake; he remembered that she had once believed in him, and after long days she had come to believe in him again.

There was rare conflict in the clean and quiet room. The walls were hung with holly; everything about the place seemed to minister to a wonderful sense of home. He sighed a deep content as she took a chair by his bed and held a feverish hand in hers.

"Your father's hospital!" A deep sigh spoke of gratitude. "When you happen to see him tell him from me I'm glad to be in it."

She promised to do so.

"It's a good place." His eyes and his voice grew softer than their wont in speaking of his father-in-law. "A bit of luck to be here." He sighed luxuriously.

Said Melia, "You must take your time getting well, Bill."

Eyes of suffering looked into hers. "I expect I won't be right just yet." They were still together, passing the time with delightful fragments of talk and with fragments of silence equally delightful when a nurse came importantly into the room to say that the Mayor had arrived unexpectedly to look round the hospital and to wish a happy Christmas to his guests.

Melia rose rather nervously. "I think I'll be going, Bill."

"Not yet, my dear." The voice from the bed was calm and quiet. "We must let bygones be bygones. The times has changed."

She was glad to hear him say that. And she had not told him yet of her father's recent act of reparation. Should she tell him now? Was the moment favorable? Or had she better wait until----

The question, however, was already decided. Too late to tell him now. The door at the other end of the room was open and the Commandant had entered followed by his worship the Mayor.

"Only one bed in this room, sir," said the Commandant. "A special case. Corporal Hollis."

The Mayor looked calmly round. He didn't see Melia who was hidden by a screen between the bedstead and the door. "I notice, ma'am, you've got another door yonder." He pointed to the other end of the room. "Hope these new casements fit well."

The new casements fitted very well indeed.

"All the same,"--the deep voice was very much that of the man of affairs--"I expect you get a bit of draught here when the wind blows from the northeast."

The draught was nothing to speak of, he was assured.

"Any complaints? Heating apparatus all right? Ventilators working properly?"

There were no complaints to make of any kind.

"Thank you, ma'am," said the Mayor. "You can leave me here alone a few minutes with Corporal Hollis--if he's well enough to talk to me."

The Commandant retired, closing the door after her, and the Mayor slowly approached the bed.

"How are you, Bill?" It was a tone of simple, hearty kindness.

Before the occupant of the bed could answer the question, Josiah, coming round the corner of the screen, was taken aback by the sight of his eldest daughter. He was not prepared for her, yet he was quite equal to the situation. "Hulloa, Melia"--it was a father's cordiality. "How are you, gel? Happy Christmas to you. Happy Christmas to you both."