Part 8

Moreover they parted at the carriage door as if they meant something to each other now. It was a public place but he kissed her solemnly and she said, "You'll write me a bit oftener, Bill, won't you?" in the manner of the long ago. Then the train began to move, he waved a hand and she waved hers; and each trundled back alone to a hard life with its many duties, yet somehow, in a subtle way, the stronger and the happier for that brief interregnum.

Life had altered for them both in that short time. They saw each other with new eyes or perhaps with old eyes reawakened. Sixteen years had rubbed so much of the bloom off their romance that it was a miracle almost that they were able to renew it. Yet the delicate process was only just beginning. It was very odd, but the trite and difficult business of existence was colored now continually with new thoughts about each other. Neither had ever been a great hand at writing letters, but Bill suddenly burgeoned forth into four closely written pages weekly, and Melia, flattered but not to be outdone, burst out in equal volume.

His letters were really very interesting indeed and so were hers, although of course in an entirely different way. She was kept abreast of the military situation and the latest Service gossip, with spicy yarns of the Toffs with whom he rubbed shoulders as an equal in the B.B., not omitting the details of an ever-ripening friendship with Private Stanning, who, however, was soon to acquire the rank of a full corporal. Melia, of course, had not the advantage of this range of information or contiguity to high affairs, nor did her letters sparkle with soldierly flashes of wit and audacity, but week by week they gave a conscientious account of the state of the business, of sales and purchases, of current prices and money outstanding, all in the manner of a careful bookkeeper, who, now she had been put on her mettle, was able and willing to show that the root of the matter was in her.

Bill, in consequence, had to own that the business in all its luckless history had never been so flourishing. They didn't like admitting it, but in their hearts they knew that this new prosperity was directly due to "the damned interference" (military phrase) of the august proprietor of the Duke of Wellington. Some men are hoo-doos, they are born under the wrong set of planets; whatever they do or refrain from doing turns out equally unwise. W. Hollis Fruiterer had always been one of that kind. If he bought a barrel of Ribstone Pippins they went bad before he could sell them, if he bought William pears they refused to ripen, if he bought peas or runner beans he would have done better with gooseberries or tomatoes; anything he stocked in profitable quantities was bound to be left on his hands. But the lord of Strathfieldsaye was another kind of man altogether. He simply couldn't do wrong when it came to a question of barter. Up to a point a matter of judgment, no doubt, but "judgment" does not altogether explain it. There is a subtle something, over and beyond all mundane wisdom, that confers upon some men the Midas touch. Everything they handle turns to gold. Josiah Munt was notoriously one of that kind.

Certainly from the day he touched the moribund business of W. Hollis Fruiterer with his magic wand, it took a remarkable turn for the better. Mr. Munt's own explanation of the phenomenon was that for the first time in its history it was run on sound business lines. That had something to do with the mystery of course; not only was Josiah a man of method and foresight, he was also a man of capital. Money makes money all the world over; and of that fact Josiah's ever-growing store was a shining proof.

Not until the middle of the summer did Bill get leave again. And then there was a special reason for it. The Battalion had been ordered to France. That was an epic Saturday evening in July when he came home with full kit, brown as a bean, hard as a nail, in rare fighting trim. Time was his own until the Thursday following, when he had to go to Southampton to join the Chaps.

Martial his bearing at Christmas, but it was nothing to what it was now. There seemed to be a consciousness of power about him. For one thing he was wearing the stripe of a lance corporal. Then, too, he was a small man, and, as biologists know, small men always have a knack of looking bigger than they are really. Physically speaking, great men are generally on the small side, perhaps for the reason that they have more vitality. Certainly Corporal Hollis, on the eve of his Odyssey, looked more important than the neighbors ever thought possible. Poor Melia began to wonder if she would be able to live up to him.

Melia had never been to London and when Bill proposed that she should accompany him to the metropolis and see him off from Waterloo the suggestion came as quite a shock to a conservative nature. It meant almost as much as a journey to the middle of Africa or the wilds of the Caucasus to more traveled people. She was not easily fluttered; hers was a mind of the slow-moving sort, but it was only after a night and a day, fraught with grave questionings, that she finally consented to do so.

For one thing the shop would have to close for twenty-four hours, at least; besides, and a more vital matter, even her best dress was nothing like fashionable enough for London, the capital city of the empire. Both these objections were promptly overruled. An obliging neighbor--during the last few months the neighbors had proved wonderfully obliging--consented to take charge of the shop in Melia's absence; while at the psychological moment a paragraph appeared in the _Evening Star_ saying that as the Best people were making a point of wearing old clothes, any attempt at fashion in war time was bad taste. This interesting fact left so little for further discussion that at a quarter past nine on the morning of an ever-memorable Wednesday they steamed out of Blackhampton Central Station, London bound.

It was the beginning of a day such as Melia had never known. Looking back upon it afterwards, and she was to look back upon it many times in the days to follow, she felt it would have been impossible to surpass it in sheer human interest. Even the journey to such a place as London was thrilling to one whose travels by train had been confined to half a dozen visits to Duckingfield, two to Matlock Bath and one to Blackpool at the age of seven, nice places yet relatively unimportant in comparison with the capital city of the British Empire.

As the train did not leave for Southampton until well on in the evening they had about eight hours in which to see the sights. And so much happened in those eight hours that they made a landmark in their lives. Indeed they began with so signal an event that the muse of history peremptorily demands a past chapter in which to relate it.

XXIII

As soon as he arrived in the metropolis, Corporal Hollis with Melia rather nervously gripping his arm stepped boldly into the Euston Road to have a look at London. Almost the first thing he saw was a Canteen, a token that at once reminded him that his rifle and kit were heavy, that the wife and he had breakfasted rather early and rather hurriedly and that nothing at that moment could hope to compare with a couple of ham sandwiches and a cup of coffee.

When the question was put to Melia she was inclined to think so too, although far too bewildered by the mighty flux around her to give any special thought to the matter. However very wisely, nay providentially, as it turned out, after a moment's hesitation they decided to cross the road and follow the promptings of nature. As they passed through the inviting doors of the Canteen there was nothing to tell them that anything particular was going to happen, yet perhaps they ought to have remembered that this was London where the Particular is always happening.

They had not to fight their way through a crowd in order to get in or anything of that sort. Nor were people walking on one another's heads when they did get in. There was plenty of room for all. Full privates were in the majority, but the non-commissioned ranks were also represented, among whom was a Scotsman who had risen to be a sergeant. But Corporal Hollis appeared to be the only warrior who had brought his lawful wedded missus. It was a breach of the rules for one thing, but there was any amount of room, and he managed to stow her away in a quiet corner where they could have a table to themselves; and then he moved across to a cubbyhole where a nice fatherly old sportsman with side whiskers and brown spats relieved him of his rifle and kit and gave him a card with a number in exchange. Then the gallant Corporal, a composite of well-bred diffidence and martial mien, sauntered up to the counter at the end of the room where a Real Smart Piece in a mob cap and jumper gave him the smile interrogative. After a moment's survey of the good things around him, he magnificently went the limit. The limit was ninepence: to wit, two fried eggs, a rasher of bacon, bread and butter and a cup of tea; in this case ditto repeato, once for himself, once for Melia.

The Corporal was by no means sure that the R.S.P. would stand for a Twicer but she was one of the noble breed that prefers to use common sense rather than raise obstacles. After one arch glance in the direction of Melia she booked the order without demur.

In the process of time the order was executed and they set to upon this second breakfast with a breadth of style which almost raised it to the dignity of luncheon. By the time they were through it was half-past midday already, and they were discussing this fact and its bearing on the general program when the great Event began to happen.

It came about unobtrusively, in quite a casual way. Neither the Corporal nor his lady paid much attention at first, but of a sudden the nice fatherly old sportsman who had relieved the former of his rifle and kit came out of his cubbyhole and a dashing trio of R.S.P.'s emerged from a mysterious region at the back of beyond, proving thereby that the counter had no monopoly of these luxuries, and the Scotch sergeant moved a pace or two nearer the door, where the London daylight seemed a bit better in quality, and then Bill's R.S.P., who was absolutely the pick of the bunch, although such comparisons are invariably as idle as they are to be deplored, was heard to use a word that appeared to rhyme with Mother.

Of course it could not have been Bother or any word like it. And whatever it may have been, was not, at that moment, as far as the Corporal and his lady were concerned, of the slightest importance. To them it meant nothing. It meant less than nothing. For a startling rumor was afoot....

The Queen was coming.

William was a military man and fully determined to bear himself with the coolness of one on parade, but his air of stoicism was but a poor cloak to his feelings. As for Melia, if not exactly _flustered_, she was excited more than a little. Still in this epic moment it was a strengthening thought that she had had that yard and a half of new ribbon put on her hat.

That was an instance of subconscious but prophetic foresight. There was nothing to tell her that the first lady in the land would nip across from Buckingham Palace as soon as she heard that Bill was in London. It was hardly to have been expected. In the first place it was truly remarkable that she should so soon have heard of his arrival. And of course it was by no means certain that this casual and informal visit of hers was inspired by William. In fact if you came to think of it----

But there was really no time to weigh the pros and the cons of what after all was a superfluous inquiry, for a commotion had arisen already beyond the farther door. And even at this late moment, and in spite of a general stiffening of the phalanx of R.S.P.'s and other details, and the stately advance of the nice old warrior through the swing doors into the Euston Road, even then Corporal Hollis, with true military skepticism, was not sure that it was not an Oaks.

However the question was soon settled. The commotion increased, the throng of important looking people surprisingly grew, and in the midst of it appeared a lady whom William and Melia would have known anywhere. She was remarkably like her portraits except that the reality surpassed them. There was a great deal of bowing and walking backwards and the serried rows of R.S.P.'s made curtsys, and then all ranks stood up and removed their hats. William and Melia stood up too, but only William doffed his helmet.

It was the Scotsman who claimed the first share of the august visitor's notice. Her eye lit at once on this son of Caledonia, who unconsciously, by sheer force of climate, began to tower above all the rest, returning answer for question with inimitable coolness and mastery. All the Saxons present were lost in envy, but they were fain to acquiesce in the stern truth that nature has made it impossible to keep back a Scotsman. In spite of top hats and swallow-tails it was clear at a glance that he was the best man there.

All the same the august visitor, helped by a simple and friendly lady who accompanied her, contrived to distribute her favors impartially. The son of Caledonia was so compelling that it would have been a pleasure to talk to him for an hour, but duty and justice forbade, and she found a smile and a word for humbler mortals. Among these, and last of all in her tour of the large room were Bill and Melia.

Corporal Hollis could not be expected to display the entrain of a sergeant of the Black Watch. Besides he had yet to cross the water whereas Caledonia's son was a hero of Mons and the Marne. But the gallant corporal did his regiment no discredit in that great moment, likewise his wife Melia, nor famed Blackhampton, his fair natal city.

XXIV

When about twenty minutes later William and Melia, haloed with history, emerged from the precincts of the Canteen, and as they did so treading, in a manner of speaking, the circumambient air, they were at once confronted by the spectacle of Bus 49 next the adjacent curb. And Bus 49, according to its own account of the matter, was going amongst other places to Piccadilly Circus.

It was the first visit of the Corporal to the metropolis, but in his mind was lurking the sure knowledge that Piccadilly Circus was the exact and indubitable center thereof; and by an association of ideas, he also seemed to remember that Piccadilly Circus was where the King lived. Such being the case, the apparition at that moment of Bus 49 was about as providential as anything could have been.

It was the work of an instant to get aboard the gracious engine, so swift the workings of the human mind in those dynamic moments when Fate itself appears, as the sailors say, to stand by to go about. Moreover the conductor had politely informed the Corporal that there was room for two on the top.

That was a golden journey, a kind of voyage to silken Samarcand and cedared Lebanon, allowing of course for reduction according to scale. So miraculously were their hearts attuned to venturing, that for one rapt hour they drank deep of poetry and romance this glorious midday of July.

Bus 49 knew its business thoroughly, no bus better. Instead of turning pretty sharp to the left into that complacent purlieu Portland Place, as a bus of less experience might have done in order to follow the line of flight of some mythical crow or other, it chose to go on and on, past Madame Tussaud's, the Hotel Great Central, and then by a series of minor but hardly less historic landmarks along Edgware Road to the Marble Arch, thence via Park Lane to Hyde Park Corner.

No doubt Bus 49 had ideas. The ordinary machine of commerce would have got from Euston to Piccadilly Circus in two shakes of a duck's tail. Not so this accomplished metropolitan, this gorgeous midday of July. From Hyde Park Corner it proceeded to Victoria, thence via the Army and Navy Stores to the Houses of Parliament, down Whitehall, past the lions and Horatio, Viscount Nelson, past the Crédit Lyonnais, up the Haymarket and so at last to Swan and Edgar's corner, where William and Melia dismounted, thrilled as never before in all their lives.

Piccadilly Circus, all the same, was a shade disappointing. It was not quite so grand as they expected. The Criterion was just opposite, but they looked in vain for the King's residence. There did not appear to be a sign of that. Bill, however, noticed a policeman, and decided to make inquiries.

"I want Buckingham Palace, please," said the wearer of the King's uniform.

Constable X 20, an intelligent officer, told the gallant corporal to walk along Piccadilly, to which famous thoroughfare he pointed with professional majesty, to turn down the street of Saint James, to keep right on until he got to the bottom and then to ask again.

The constable was thanked for his lucidity and William and Melia proceeded according to instructions. Along Piccadilly itself their progress was a triumph. For, as Melia was quick to observe, all the best people saluted Bill. Of course they could tell by the stripe on his sleeve that he had been made a corporal, but such open, public and official recognition of his merit was intensely gratifying. Brass-hatted, beribboned, extraordinarily distinguished looking warriors were as punctilious as could be in saluting Bill. Those placed less highly, the rank and file, the common herd, paid him less attention, but what were these in the scale of an infinitely larger and nobler tribute? By the time William and Melia turned down Saint James's street, had an observant visitor from Mars had the privilege of walking behind them he would have been bound to conclude that the most important man in the Empire was Corporal Hollis.

He would not have been alone in that feeling for Melia was in a position to share it with him. In fact by the time they had traversed the historic thoroughfare and had reached Pall Mall the feeling dominated her mind. On every hand the great ones of the earth mustered thicker and thicker, but they kept on saluting Bill. Such a reception was hardly to have been expected at the center of all things, yet in those thrilling moments so proud was Melia of her man that it did not seem very surprising after all.

They crossed the road to the fine and ancient building with the clock on it, and after making quite sure that the King didn't live there--a pardonable delusion under which for a moment they had labored--they proceeded past it, leaving Marlborough House on the port bow, and then suddenly, as they came into the Mall, they caught a first glimpse of that which they were out for to see.

Converging slowly upon the King's residence Melia's courage began to fail.

It was a very warm day for one thing. And the sentry in his box, not to mention his brethren marching up and down in front of the railings, may have daunted her. Moreover, the Palace itself was an exceeding stately pile. Besides, she had seen the Queen already. And Bill had passed the time of day with her. Thus it was, gazing in silent awe through those stern railings across that noble courtyard, Melia suddenly made up her mind.

"No, Bill, I don't think I'll see the King to-day--not in this dress."

Corporal Hollis looked solemnly at the dress in question and then at its wearer. "It's as _you_ like, you know, Mother," he said.

XXV

After that they walked about for a while, but the day was terribly hot, and all too soon the process of seeing London on foot amid the dust of a torrid July began to lose its charm for Melia. Besides, had they not seen the best of London already? Piccadilly Circus, it was true, was a washout; but they had seen Buckingham Palace, the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Trafalgar Square, and the outside of Madame Tussaud's. Even in such a place as London what else was there to compare with these glories?

Such skepticism, however, was not according to the book, and the Special Providence which had been detailed to look after them on this entrancing day was soon able to bring that fact to their notice. For when they had come to the quadriga at the southwestern extremity of the Green Park, an equestrian piece which in the opinion of Corporal Hollis would have done no discredit to the recognized masterpieces in Blackhampton's famous gallery, and they had sincerely admired it and the Corporal had placed his judgment on record, lo! beyond the arch, a short stone's throw away, a certain Bus, 26 by name, the exact replica of Bus 49, that immortal machine, was miraculously awaiting them.

Bus 26 was going to the Zoölogical Gardens. And the highly efficient Special Providence who had the arrangements in hand had contrived to book two places on the top. That is to say its conductor informed the Corporal with an indulgent smile that there was just room outside for one and a little one. Whether the conductor would have extended the same accommodating politeness to a mere civilian belongs to the region of conjecture, but room was undoubtedly found for the Corporal's lady, and by taking upon his knee a future Wellington--under the shadow of whose effigy the pleasing incident occurred--in the person of a Boy Scout in full panoply of war, the gallant Corporal contrived to make room for himself also.

At the Zoölogical Gardens they admired George, although rather glad to find that he was only a distant relation. They pitied the polar bears, they shuddered at the pythons, the parrots charmed them, the larger carnivora impressed them deeply! and then the Corporal looked at his watch, found it was a quarter to four and promptly ordered an ample repast for two persons.

The Genie in attendance made no bones at all about finding a small private table for them, beneath the shade of a friendly deodar which gave a touch of the Orient to the northwestern postal district and there they sat for one sweet and memorable hour. Perhaps it was the sweetest, most memorable hour that life so far had given them. She admired this man of hers in a way she had long ceased expecting to admire him; she was proud of him, she was grateful to him for the great sacrifice he was making. And when the inner Corporal had been comforted, a crude fellow who has to be humored even in moments of feeling, and he had lit a Blackhampton Straight Cut, a famous sedative known from Bond Street to Bagdad, he took the hand of the honest woman opposite.

Somehow he was glad to think that she belonged to him. The rather pale face, the careworn eyes, the tired smile were all he had to nerve him for the task ahead. These his only talisman in this grim hour. Yet, a true knight, he asked no more. She was his, a homely thing but a good and faithful one, who had once believed in him, who had come to believe in him again. He was able to recall the sacrifices she had made for him, for her faith in him, for her vision of him. As he looked across at her he felt content to bear the gauge of this honest, doggedly courageous woman who had helped to buckle on his armor. He must see that he didn't disgrace her.

There was not much to say to one another. At the best of times they were seldom articulate. But she was able to tell him that she would be very lonely without him. And she made him promise solemnly to do his best to come back to her safely.

"You mean it?" He knew she meant it, but he allowed himself the luxury of embarrassing her. There was a subtle pleasure in it, even if it was not quite fair.

"You know I do, Bill. I'll be that lonely."