Part 16

Sally didn't seem to mind, however. She was just as frank and unaffected as her father. Moreover, she had acquired a rich laugh and an authority of manner almost the equal of his own. She complimented him upon his speech and quizzically added that he ought to stand for Parliament. Josiah promptly rejoined that if he did he'd be as much use as some of those jackasses, no doubt.

The Mayor then carried a cup of tea to the Corporal and Aunt Gerty provided him with bread and butter and a plate to put it on; and then Sally moved across from the chimneypiece, sat down very simply on a hassock by his side and began at once to talk to him. Plain, direct talk it was, full of technical turns and queer out-of-the-way information which could have only come from the most intimate first-hand knowledge. But it was palpably unstudied, without the least wish to pose or impress, and presently with almost the same air of blunt modesty the Corporal began talking to her.

To Mrs. Doctor and even to Miss Preston it seemed rather odd that a real live graduate of Heaven-knew-where should sit tête-à-tête with poor Melia's husband and be completely absorbed by him and the crude halting syllables he emitted from time to time. Still to the Mayor himself, standing with his broad back to the fire and toying like a large but domesticated wolf with a buttered scone, it didn't seem so remarkable.

Josiah, at any rate, was able to perceive that his youngest daughter and his son-in-law were occupied with realities. They had been through the fire. Battle, murder, death in every unspeakable form had been their companions months on end. These two were full-fledged Initiates in an exclusive Order.

The Mayor, foursquare on the hearthrug, had never seemed more at home in the family circle, but, even his noble self-assurance abated a feather or two out of deference to Sally and the Corporal. They had been there. They knew. If Josiah had respect for anything it was for actual first-hand experience.

Mrs. Doctor, however, was not fettered by the vanities of hero worship. In spite of Sally and in spite of the Corporal she was able as usual to bring her light tea table artillery into play. At strategic intervals her high-pitched, authoritative voice took spasmodic charge of the proceedings. Now it was the Egg Fund and the incompetence of Lady Jope, now the latest dicta of Miss Heber-Knollys, now the widespread complaints of the Duke's inaudibility at the Floral Hall.

Miss Preston fully agreed. "So different from you, Josiah." She was well on the target as usual. "But he made up for it, didn't he, by the nice things he said of you when he opened the Annex?"

"Very flattering, wasn't he?" Mrs. Doctor took up the ball. "And wasn't it charming of him to come here to lunch. Such an unaffected man!"

Josiah broke his scone in half and held a piece in each hand. "Why shouldn't he come here?" The voice had the old huffiness, yet mitigated now by an undeniable twinkle of humor. "He got quite as good food here as he'd get at home, even if we don't run to gold plate and flunkeys."

"Quite, Josiah, quite," piped the undefeated Gerty. "And only too glad, I'm sure, to come and see the Mayor of Blackhampton."

The laugh of his worship verged upon the whimsical. "Gert, if you want my private opinion, he didn't come to see me at all."

"Pray, then, Father, who did he come to see?" fluted Mrs. Doctor.

Josiah jerked a humorous thumb in the direction of Sally, who was still tête-à-tête with the Corporal.

"Nonsense, Father."

"Well, it's my opinion."

It was hard for Mrs. Doctor to believe that her youngest sister could be the attraction. But her father was clear upon the point. And that being the case it made the pity all the greater that Sally had declined the invitation to be present. She had been urged to come to luncheon and meet the Duke who was anxious to meet her, but she had preferred to stay at Park Crescent and play with the children.

So like her!

XLV

"D'you mind if I smoke, Mother?"

The lady at the tea table looked mutely at her lord.

Josiah nodded graciously. "Do as you like, gel."

Sally produced a wisp of paper and a very masculine tobacco pouch and began rolling a cigarette in an extremely competent manner. Josiah proffered a box of Egyptian but Sally preferred her own and struck a match on the sole of her shoe in a fashion at once so accomplished and so boylike as to take away the breath of her mother and Aunt Gerty.

As she sat talking easily and yet gravely to the Corporal with her long straight legs and trim ankles freely displayed by a surprisingly short khaki skirt she looked more like a boy than ever. And such was the thought in the minds of the other three ladies, who agreed tacitly that the skirt and the cigarette and the astonishing freedom of pose were not quite maidenly. Still with those ribbons, and that clear deep voice and that wonderful eye she was fascinating. Even her father, who on principle declined to admire her Damnable Independence, was unable to resist the impact of a personality that was now world famous.

Gazing at her in stern astonishment he pointed to her abbreviated lower garment. "Excuse me, gel," he said, "but do you mind telling us what you've got underneath?"

Sally deigned no reply in words, but stuck the cigarette in the corner of her mouth with unconscious grace and dexterously lifted her skirt. A decidedly workmanlike pair of knickerbockers was disclosed.

Josiah gasped.

The unconcerned Sally continued to talk with the Corporal, while the Mayor, half scandalized, struggled against a guffaw. "Things seem to be changing a bit, as you might say. Don't you think so, Mother?"

Aunt Gerty took upon herself to answer, as she often did, for poor bewildered Maria. "I fully agree, Josiah." She lowered her discreet voice. "But almost a pity ... almost a pity ... don't you think?"

The Mayor pursed his lips. "Durned if I know what to think, Gert." He scratched a dubious head. "Seems to me the Empire is not going to be short o' man power for some little time to come, eh?"

"Still ... not ... quite ... maidenly ... Josiah."

"Daresay you're right." The Mayor fought down his feelings. "Next chicken on the roost'll be the hussy puttin' up for parliament."

"Bound to get in if she does," Gerty sounded rather rueful. "There isn't a constituency in England that wouldn't jump at the chance of electing her just now."

Josiah breathed hard while this obvious truth sank into his bones, but Mrs. Doctor assured Gerty that she was talking nonsense. Her father being frankly opposed to this pious opinion, Ethel appealed to her mother. Maria, alas, was in the position of a modest wether who has given birth to a superb young panther. She simply didn't know what to think, and by forlornly folding her hands on her lap gave mute expression to her feelings.

At the best, however, it was a futile discussion as Gerty was quick to realize. She turned the talk adroitly into other channels. "This morning," she said, "as I was walking along Queen's Road I had quite a shock. I met a blind man being led by an old woman. And who do you think it was?"

Mrs. Doctor had no idea who it could be.

"It was Harold Nixey the architect. Such a pitiful object! Did you know, Josiah, that he is now quite blind?"

Josiah was aware of the fact.

"How sad, how very sad!" said Ethel. "And he has done so well, so wonderfully well, in France."

Gerty considered it nothing less than a calamity--for an architect of all people. And for one who promised such great things.

Sally was apparently absorbed in talk with the Corporal, but she lifted her eyes quickly. "Blind, did you say? Harold Nixey?"

"Yes," said Gerty. "Such a grievous thing."

"Aye, it is that!" The voice of Josiah was heavy and somber.

Ethel hoped for his recovery.

Her father shook his head. "From what they tell me the sight is completely destroyed. I was with the lad yesterday." It was clear from Josiah's manner that he was moved by real feeling. "Wonderful pluck and cheerfulness. He knows he'll never draw another elevation, but he pretends to that old mother of his that he's going to get better--just to keep her going."

"And you say, Father"--it was the slow precise voice of Sally--"that he can't get better?"

"Not a dog's chance from what Minyard the eye doctor tells me. It's a gas those devils have been using." The Mayor sighed. "He's a good lad, is that. And he'd have gone far. Rose from nothing, as you might say, but in a year or two he'd have been at the top of the tree." Josiah, whose gospel was "getting on," again sighed heavily.

"I think I'll go and see him, Father, if you'll give me his address." Again the slow, precise voice of Sally.

"Do. It'll be a kindness. Number Fourteen, Torrington Avenue. The second turn on the right past the Brewery along Corfield Road. Pleased to have a visit from you, I'm sure. He talked about you a lot. His mother had read him the _Tribune's_ account of Thursday. He says he used to know you in London when he was studying at South Kensington."

Under Sally's deep tan the blood imperceptibly mounted. "Yes, I used to know him quite well." She didn't add that she had refused rather peremptorily to marry him.

"Well, go and see him, gel. A very good soldier they tell me--D.S.O. and M.C. with two bars."

"_Two_ bars, Josiah!" Gerty put up her glasses impressively.

"And earned 'em--they tell me. Come to think of it, it's wonderful what some of these young chaps have done."

"And some of the older ones, too, Josiah." Gerty looked across at the Corporal who was toying pensively with a cigarette that had been pressed upon him.

"Aye, and some of the old uns, too!" The Mayor followed the glance of his sister-in-law with the eye of perfect candor. "And not been brought up to it, mark you. They tell me our B.B. is second to none in the British Army."

The Corporal looked as if he would like to have confirmed the Mayor's statement had he not remembered that professional etiquette required so delicate a topic to be left exclusively to civilians.

Sally and Ethel went after awhile, and Josiah led the Corporal across the hall to what he called "his snuggery," wherein he considered his business affairs and the affairs of the City, and, although by no means a reading man, occasionally referred to the Encyclopedia Britannica and kindred works. He was at pains to dispose the Corporal in comfort near the fire and then gave him an excellent cigar and insisted on his smoking it.

At first little passed between them in the way of words. They smoked in silence, but the Corporal could not help thinking, as he delicately savored the best cigar he had ever held between his fingers, how much prosperity had improved "the Mester." He was so much mellower, so much more generous than of yore. His outlook on the world was bigger altogether; the Corporal's own outlook was larger also; somehow, he had not the heart to resist the peace overtures of his father-in-law.

Said Josiah at last, pointing to the Corporal's leg: "A longish job, I expect."

The doctors seemed to think it might be. Still it had got the turn now. It was beginning to mend.

"I've been wondering," said the Mayor, "whether it mightn't be possible to get you transferred to munitions. Johnson and Hartley are short o' foremen. Pound a day to begin with. What do you say, my boy?"

The Corporal gazed into the fire without saying anything.

Said the Mayor, half apologetically, "You're not so young as you were, you see. Forty-three, they tell me, is a bit long in the tooth for the trenches. And you've done your bit. Why not give some o' the younger ones a chance?"

In silence the Corporal went on gazing into the fire.

"Anyhow it might be worth thinking over."

The Corporal removed the cigar from his mouth and appeared laconically to agree that it might be worth thinking over. But the suggestion didn't seem to fire him.

A deeper silence followed and then said the Mayor with a certain gruff abruptness which was a partial return to the old manner, "I'm thinking it'll be a good thing for Melia to quit Love Lane. She's not done so bad with the business lately, but it might be wise to sell it now. And she'll be none the worse for a rest in country air. Happen I told you that back in the spring I bought that cottage up at Dibley that that artist chap--I forget his name for the moment--used to come and paint in. Rare situation--sandstone foundation--highest point in the county--see for miles from his studio at the end o' the garden. Don't quite know why I bought it except that it was going cheap. An old property--nobody seemed to fancy it--but the freehold is not going to get less in value if I'm a judge o' such matters and the place is in pretty good condition. Suppose, my boy, you and Melia moved in there? Save me a caretaker, and some o' the finest air in Europe comes down the valley of the Sharrow."

The heart of the Corporal leaped at these amazing words, but his eyes were still fixed upon the fire.

"What was the name o' that artist chap? A local man, but quite well up, they tell me."

"Stanning, R.A." Something hard and queer rose in the Corporal's throat.

"That's the jockey--Stanning, R.A. Now I remember ... a rare dust there was in the Council some years ago when the Art Committee bought one of his pictures for...." The Mayor drew heavily at his cigar ... "for ... dram it! I'm losing my memory...."

"A thousand guineas," the Corporal whispered.

"Something like that. Something extortionate. I remember there was a proper dust when the Council got to know of it. All very well to encourage local talent, I remember saying, but a thousand guineas was money. Maxon the curator resigned."

The Corporal kept his eyes on the fire.

With a rich chuckle the Mayor turned over the cigar in his mouth at the memory of old battles in the Council Chamber. "The fur flew for a bit, I can tell you. He wasn't an R.A. at that time and the poor chap's gone now so happen he'll begin to rank as an old master. They tell me fabulous sums are paid for these old masters, so one o' these days Stanning, R.A., may grow into money and the City'll have a bargain after all. But I don't pretend to understand such things myself. A brave man, anyway. Joined up with the B.B. at the beginning and was killed out yonder."

The Corporal nodded but said nothing. The Mayor went on with his cigar. "I'm trying to remember the name of another artist chap who used to live in that cottage when I was a boy. We used to jang from school on fine afternoons in the summer and go bathing in Corfield Weir. And painting by the river was an old chap with a long beard like Tennyson--you've seen the picture of Tennyson"--Josiah pointed to a lithograph of the bard on the wall behind the Corporal--"but not quite so fierce looking. Wonderful blue eyes had that old feller ... lord love me, what _did_ they call him!... I remember we used to throw stones at his easel. We got one right through it once, when he had nearly finished his picture and he had to begin all over again. What _was_ the name of the old feller?" The Mayor fingered his cigar lovingly and looked into the fire. "Soft Billy ... that was it.... Soft Billy." Josiah sighed gently. "Poor, harmless old boy. I can see those blue eyes now."

The Mayor drew gently at his cigar while the Corporal kept his eyes on the fire. "That reminds me.... I've got one of the old chap's pictures, somewhere." The Mayor laughed softly to himself. "Took it for a bad debt ... quite a small thing ... wonder what's become of it?" He grew pensive. "Must be up in the box room." Suddenly he rose from his chair. "I'll go and see if I can find it."

The man of action went out of the room, leaving the Corporal in silent enjoyment of warmth, the tobacco and many reflections.

In a few minutes Josiah returned in triumph with a small piece of unframed canvas in his hand. He rang the bell for a duster, of which it was much in need, and when the duster had been duly applied he held the picture up to the light. "It wants a frame." The tone was indulgent but casual. "Looks like Dibley Chase to me." He handed the landscape to the Corporal who gazed at it with wistful eagerness.

"Dibley Chase was always a favorite pitch for these artist chaps. See the Sharrow gleaming between the trees?" Josiah traced with his finger the line of the river. "I like that bit o' sun creeping down the valley. Good work in it, I daresay ... but I don't pretend to be up in such matters. Very small but it may be worth a frame. Been up in the attic at Waterloo Villa for years ... aye, long before Waterloo Villa...." Josiah took a loving puff of his cigar. "I must have had that picture when I first went to the Duke o' Wellington in March, '79. How time gets on! Had it of that lame chap who used to keep the Corfield Arms who went up the spout finally. Used to supply him with beer. Gave me this for a barrel he couldn't pay for." The Mayor laughed richly and put on his spectacles. "Can you see the name o' the artist? What was the name o' that old Soft Billy ... ha, there it is." The Mayor brought his thumb to bear on the right-hand corner. "'J. Torrington, 1854' ... a long time ago. John Torrington, that was his name ... some of his work grew in value, I've heard say. A harmless old man!"

The Mayor sighed a little and gave himself up to old memories while the Corporal held the picture in his hand. "Soft Jack ... aye, that was his name.... I can see him now with his white beard and long hair ... I'm speakin' of fifty years ago. Soft Jack, yes ... had been a good painter so they said ... but an old man, then. Used to sit by the Weir painting the sun on the water. I've pitched many a stone at his easel ... in the summertime after bathing."

The Corporal was too absorbed in the picture to heed the Mayor's reminiscences. Josiah laughed softly at his thoughts and chose a second cigar. "Too small to be worth much," he said. "But Melia might like it. She was always a one for pictures. We'll pop a bit o' the _Tribune_ round it and she can stick it in the front parlor up at Dibley where the old boy lived and died."

XLVI

The next morning, Monday, towards eleven o'clock, Sally dropped expertly off the municipal tram, without waiting for it to stop, at the second turn on the right past the Brewery, along the suburban end of the Corfield Road, and entered a street that she had never seen before.

Torrington Avenue was one of those thoroughfares on the edge of large cities that seem to spring into being in a day and a night. In spite of the obvious haste with which its small houses had been flung together it was not unpleasing. But when Sally was last in her native city, a year before the war, this area had been a market garden.

Number Fourteen was a well kept little dwelling in the middle of a neat row. Just as Sally reached it, an old woman with a wicker shopping basket came out of the iron gate.

"Mrs. Nixey?"

The visitor had recognized the old lady but the converse did not hold true.

"You don't remember me, Mrs. Nixey. I'm Sally Munt."

The old lady gave vent to surprise, pleasure, incredulity. But even then she was not able to identify one who but a few years ago had been almost as familiar to her as her own son until Sally had lifted her cap and rolled back the fur collar of her immense khaki overcoat.

"Well, I never!" The old woman's voice was shrill and excited. "It _is_ Miss Munt. I _am_ pleased to see you, my dear." The distinguished visitor suddenly received a peck on a firm brown cheek. "He knows all about you. I read him the account of the doings at the Floral Hall. He wanted to be there, but the Doctor thought it wouldn't be good for him. It _is_ kind of you to come and see him.... It'll please him so."

Sally cut the old lady short with a brief, pointed question or two. He was very well in health except that he couldn't see, but he was always telling his mother that he was quite sure he would be able to see presently, although Dr. Minyard had told her privately that he couldn't promise anything.

The old lady led the way along the short path and applied a latchkey to the front door. As it opened, Sally caught the delicately played notes of a piano floating softly across the tiny hall.

"He plays for hours and hours and hours," said the old lady. "Your dear father has just given him a beautiful new piano. He's been such a friend to Harold. Wonderful the interest he's taken in him."

She opened the door of a small sitting room, whence the music came, but the player wholly absorbed did not hear them enter.

"Harold, who do you think has come to see you!"

As the piano stopped and the musician swung round slowly on his stool, Sally shivered at the pallor of the face and the closed eyes. She saw that tears were trickling from them.

"Miss Munt has come to see you." There was excitement in the voice of the old lady. "You remember Miss Sally of Waterloo Villa. And to think what we've been reading about her in the _Tribune_!"

The musician sprang up with a boy's impulsiveness. "You don't say, Mother--you don't say!" The eager voice had a music of its own. "Where are you, Miss Sally?" He held out his hand. "Put your hand there and then I shall believe it."

Sally did as she was asked.

"Well, well, it's really the great and famous you." He seemed to caress that strong and competent paw with his delicate fingers.

She couldn't find the courage to say anything.

But he did not allow the silence to become awkward. "Better go and look after your coupons, Mother, while Miss Sally and I talk shop."

Upon that plain hint the old lady went away, closing the front door after her, and then the blind man helped the visitor to take off her heavy coat and put her into a chair. He found his way back to the music stool without difficulty, but in sitting down he brushed the keys of the piano with his coat sleeve.

"Your dear, good father gave me this. A wonderful improvement on the one we've scrapped. Did you hear me murdering Beethoven as you came in? One's only chance now to score off the poor blighters!" His cheerfulness, his whimsical courage, were amazing to Sally. "Since last we met things have happened, haven't they? South Kensington Tube Station, December, 1913. Æons ago." He sighed like a child. "By the way, tell me, did you get a letter I sent to you when you did your 'go' of time?"

Sally had received the letter. Soft the admission and also blushing, although he could not see that.

"Wasn't meant as an impertinence, though perhaps it was one. Always doing the wrong things at that time, wasn't I? And I'm saying 'em now. Born under bad stars." He laughed a little and paused. "Jove! what wonderful things you've done, though."

"I've had luck." Her voice was firm at last.

"Not more than you deserve. Hell of a time in Serbia ... must have had. Don't know how you managed to come through it."

"Just the stars." Sally laughed a little now. But never in her life had she felt so little like laughing. She remembered that she used to think him a bounder; she remembered how much his proposal had annoyed her. Yet he was just the same now--the same Harold Nixey--only raised to a higher power. Once she had despised his habit of thinking aloud, yet now it almost enchanted her....

But she was not very forthcoming. He seemed to have to do the talking for both. "Fritz beginning to get cold feet, do you think?"

She didn't think so.

"What are you doing now?" It was the dry tone of the professional soldier.

"I'm detailed for special duty in France." The tone of Sally was professional also.

He sighed a gentle, "When?"

"Off to-morrow."

He sighed again.

"It was not until last evening,"--her voice changed oddly--"that I heard you were at home."