SOMEWHERE IN MAYFAIR
The speed of the train astounded him. Such tremendous things had
happened to him since he had last travelled in an express train. He
loved every English field as it passed, every hedge and tree.
He was at peace with the world. The only blemish was that the awful war
was still dragging on its awful course--still exacting its awful toll.
He was rushing Londonwards--towards his "people" and everything he
wanted. The pains had gone from his head, except for occasional
headaches. And, wonder of wonders, he could move his whole leg and arm!
Contentment stole over him. He was on perfectly good terms with himself
and the world in general. Life, after all, was delightful.
* * * * *
The voyage had been wonderful. Not for one moment of the forty-eight
hours that it took to reach Southampton did the wavelets upset the
equilibrium of the vessel. Only the faintest vibration showed him that
she was moving at all. The food had been good and plentiful, the
attendance matchless. All things seemed to be "working together for
good."
While engrossed in this reverie, he awoke to the fact that well-known
landscapes were rolling past his window.
Tidshot! There was the familiar landmark--the tree-crested hill and the
church. The station flashed by, and then the well-known training areas.
"Just as if I were going up to town for the week-end!" he told himself.
The familiar suburbs whizzed past. Clapham Junction, Vauxhall, the
grinding of brakes, and the train was gliding quietly along Waterloo
platform.
An Officer boarded the train, and, in spite of a great deal of
discussion and requests, succeeded in thrusting scraps of paper into
every one's hand.
"The Something Hospital, Chester Square," some one read.
"What? Oh, I thought you said 'The Empire Hospital, Leicester Square!'"
yelled half-a-dozen wits almost simultaneously.
He was carried out on his stretcher, slid into a St. John Ambulance, and
driven to the address on the piece of paper, which was "not a hundred
miles from Berkeley Square," as the Gossip writers put it.
The Ambulance Stretcher Bearers carried him into the hall of what was
evidently a private house "turned" into a hospital. A great many ladies
were standing about, all in Red Cross uniform. A man was there, too.
Curiously enough, he was wearing just the coat and hat that his father
would wear. Could it be possible? He turned round; lo and behold, it
_was_ his father!
"Hallo, Father!" he said.
The man came up.
Both of them seemed at a loss for words. It was neither emotion nor
sentimentality; it was just the lack of something to say. Taking
advantage of the pause, the crowd bore down upon him, and by reason of
their superior numbers drove him away, offering promises about "the day
after to-morrow."
They carried the Subaltern upstairs, and placed him in a room where two
other Officers who had arrived on the same boat were already
established.
The Hospital was "run" by the Hon. Mrs. Blank, who was placing her
entire house at the disposal of the War Office. She did everything
herself: the feeding, equipping, providing the staff. The expense must
have been huge. She worked night and day as general manageress of the
establishment. There ought to be some special honour and knighthood for
such women on this earth, and a special heaven in the next. The
Subaltern used to feel positively ashamed of himself when he thought of
the money, kindness and care that she was lavishing upon them.
The whole Hospital was a glorious, pulsating, human organisation. What
was wanted was done, not what was "laid down" in some schedule. Indeed,
their wishes were gratified before they had time to form in the mind. It
was a fairyland, and of course the fairies were the nurses. The
Subaltern and his two companions held a conference on their respective
merits.
"I like the little pale brown one; she's like a mouse."
"There's no comparison. Ours is the star turn."
"Which _is_ ours?"
"The one who dashes about?"
"The one who upset the dinner-trays?"
"Yes. Wasn't it funny? I thought I should have died!"
The Doctors, this time civilians, used to come to him twice a day. They
were quiet, reserved men, positively glowing with efficiency.
They dressed his wound, tested the reflex actions of his nerves, gazed
through holes in bright mirrors at his eyes, and made him watch
perpendicular pencils moving horizontally across his line of vision.
But life was racing back into his limbs. Hourly his strength was
returning. He no longer lay staring listlessly in the bottom of the bed.
He liked now to work himself up, to lose nothing of what was going on
around, to share in the talk, and, until the next headache came, to
_live_.
He wallowed in the joy of reaching harbour.
Such rapid progress did he make that they began, in a few days, to treat
him as a rational human being. They allowed him meat, and once, owing
to a mistake on the part of the young Hurrier, a whisky-and-soda. They
allowed him to smoke a restricted number of cigarettes, and to read as
often as he liked. But aspirin they barred.
He had not many friends in London, so during visiting hours he was left
in comparative peace.
One morning his mother came. As the door opened and she hurried into the
room with her quick, bird-like grace, he felt that she was a stranger to
him. Somehow their old intimacy seemed dissolved, and would have, piece
by piece, to be built up again. Her round, appealing eyes of palest
brown stirred him as no other eyes--even her own--had ever done before.
Her slim shoulders delighted him.
"Waddles!" he said; "you're priceless!"
He loved to call her "Waddles."
They asked the Doctor when he would be likely to be able to go home.
"As soon as the wound is covered over," he replied, "there is no reason
why he should not go home. Providing he could get massage and proper
treatment."
* * * * *
The gas darkly illuminated the sombre red of the walls and glimmered on
the polished mahogany. The fire, too, glowed red. Outside, the wind was
sighing softly in the pine-trees.
The bed seemed huge and its capacity for comfort enormous. The cool
sheets seemed to caress his legs. His whole nervous system was
delightfully wearied with the achievement of reaching home.
The local Doctor had promised that he could treat him perfectly well,
and he had been allowed to leave the Hospital.
He could hear the paws of his spaniel padding softly on the carpet in
the landing. He could hear the voices of his father and sister in the
hall....
Peace after the storm! The harbour reached at last.
"It seems to be impossible to believe it's true," he murmured to
himself.
"Are you quite ready?" asked his mother.
She was standing beneath the gas-bracket, one hand raised to the handle.
The light silhouetted her impertinent little nose and glimmered in her
dusky hair.
Then with a jerk she turned out the light.
THE END
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED
BRUNSWICK ST., STAMFORD ST., S.E., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
[Transcriber's Note: There are numerous typographical errors and
spelling inconsistencies in the original text which have not been
corrected, e.g., ètiez for étiez, Grand Marmier for Marnier,
Castelnau/Castlenau, Villiers-Cotterets/Villiers Cotterets, fourty
for forty, etc.]