shall all shake down to the new conditions. No fear of my being
sarcastic to you then, Roger. I'll have to be jolly respectful.'
'Shut up, father!'
'You've begun, you see. Don't worry, Roger. Any rawness I might feel
in having missed the chance of seeing whether I was a man--like Coxon,
confound him!--is swallowed up in the pride of giving the chance to
you. I'm in a shiver about you, but--It's all true, Roger, what your
mother said about 2nd Lieutenants. Till the other day we were so little
of a military nation that most of us didn't know there _were_ 2nd
Lieutenants. And now, in thousands of homes we feel that there is
nothing else. 2nd Lieutenant! It is like a new word to us--one, I
daresay, of many that the war will add to our language. We have taken
to it, Roger. If a son of mine were to tarnish it--'
'I'll try not to,' Roger growls.
'If you did, I should just know that there had been something wrong
about me.'
Gruffly, 'You're all right.'
'If I am, you are.' It is a winning face that Mr. Torrance turns on his
son. 'I suppose you have been asking yourself of late, what if you were
to turn out to be a funk!'
'Father, how did you know?'
'I know because you are me. Because ever since there was talk of this
commission I have been thinking and thinking what were you thinking--so
as to help you.'
This itself is a help. Roger's hand--but he withdraws it hurriedly.
'They all seem to be so frightfully brave, father,' he says wistfully.
'I expect, Roger, that the best of them had the same qualms as you
before their first engagement.'
'I--I kind of think, father, that I won't be a funk.'
'I kind of think so too, Roger.' Mr. Torrance forgets himself. 'Mind you
don't be rash, my boy; and for God's sake, keep your head down in the
trenches.'
Roger has caught him out. He points a gay finger at his anxious father.
'You know you laughed at mother for saying that!'
'Did I? Roger, your mother thinks that I have an unfortunate manner with
you.'
The magnanimous Roger says, 'Oh, I don't know. It's just the
father-and-son complication.'
'That is really all it is. But she thinks I should show my affection for
you more openly.'
Roger wriggles again. Earnestly, 'I wouldn't do that.' Nicely, 'Of
course for this once--but in a general way I wouldn't do that. _We_
know, you and I.'
'As long as we know, it's no one else's affair, is it?'
'That's the ticket, father.'
'Still--' It is to be feared that Mr. Torrance is now taking advantage
of his superior slyness. 'Still, before your mother--to please her--eh?'
Faltering, 'I suppose it would.'
'Well, what do you say?'
'I know she would like it.'
'Of course you and I know that display of that sort is all
bunkum--repellent even to our natures.'
'Lord, yes!'
'But to gratify her.'
'I should be so conscious.'
Mr. Torrance is here quite as sincere as his son. 'So should I.'
Roger considers it. 'How far would you go?'
'Oh, not far. Suppose I called you "Old Rogie"? There's not much in
that.'
'It all depends on the way one says these things.'
'I should be quite casual.'
'Hum. What would you like me to call you?'
Severely, 'It isn't what would _I_ like. But I daresay your mother
would beam if you called me "dear father"'
'I don't think so?'
'You know quite well that you think so, Roger.'
'It's so effeminate.'
'Not if you say it casually.'
With something very like a snort Roger asks, 'How does one say a thing
like that casually?'
'Well, for instance, you could whistle while you said it--or anything of
that sort.'
'Hum. Of course you--if we were to--be like that, you wouldn't do
anything.'
'How do you mean?'
'You wouldn't paw me?'
'Roger,' with some natural indignation, 'you forget yourself.' But
apparently it is for him to continue. 'That reminds me of a story I
heard the other day of a French general. He had asked for volunteers
from his airmen for some specially dangerous job--and they all stepped
forward. Pretty good that. Then three were chosen and got their orders
and saluted, and were starting off when he stopped them. "Since when,"
he said, "have brave boys departing to the post of danger omitted to
embrace their father?" They did it then. Good story?'
Roger lowers. 'They were French.'
'Yes, I said so. Don't you think it's good?'
'Why do you tell it to me?'
'Because it's a good story.'
'You are sure, father,' sternly, 'that there is no other reason?' Mr.
Torrance tries to brazen it out, but he looks guilty. 'You know, father,
that is barred.'
Just because he knows that he has been playing it low, Mr. Torrance
snaps angrily, 'What is barred?'
'You know,' says his monitor.
Mr. Torrance shouts.
'I know that you are a young ass.'
'Really, father--'
'Hold your tongue.'
Roger can shout also.
'I must say, father--'
'Be quiet, I tell you.'
It is in the middle of this competition that the lady who dotes on them
both chooses to come back, still without her spectacles.
'Oh dear! And I had hoped---Oh, John!'
Mr. Torrance would like to kick himself.
'My fault,' he says with a groan.
'But whatever is the matter?'
'Nothing, mater.' The war is already making Roger quite smart. 'Only
father wouldn't do as I told him.'
Mr. Torrance cannot keep pace with his son's growth. He raps out, 'Why
the dickens should I?'
Roger is imperturbable; this will be useful in France. 'You see, mater,
he said I was the head of the house.'
'You, Rogie!' She goes to her husband's side. 'What nonsense!'
Roger grins. 'Do you like my joke, father?'
The father smiles upon him and is at once uproariously happy. He digs
his boy boldly in the ribs.
'Roger, you scoundrel!'
'That's better,' says Mrs. Torrance at a venture.
Roger feels that things have perhaps gone far enough. 'I think I'll go
to my room now. You will come up, mater?'
'Yes, dear. I shan't be five minutes, John.'
'More like half an hour.'
She hesitates. 'There is nothing wrong, is there? I thought I noticed
a--a----'
'A certain liveliness, my dear. No, we were only having a good talk.'
'What about, John?' wistfully.
'About the war,' Roger breaks in hurriedly.
'About tactics and strategy, wasn't it, Roger?'
'Yes.'
'The fact is, Ellen, I have been helping Roger to take his first
trench.' With a big breath, 'And we took it too, together, didn't we,
Roger?'
'You bet,' says Roger valiantly.
'Though I suppose,' sighing, 'it is one of those trenches that the enemy
retake during the night.'
'Oh, I--I don't know, father.'
The lady asks, 'Whatever are you two talking about?'
'Aha,' says Mr. Torrance in high feather, patting her, but unable to
resist a slight boast, 'it is very private. _We_ don't tell you
everything, you know, Ellen.'
She beams, though she does not understand.
'Come on, mater, it's only his beastly sarcasm again. 'Night, father; I
won't see you in the morning.'
''Night,' says Mr. Torrance.
But Roger has not gone yet. He seems to be looking for something--a
book, perhaps. Then he begins to whistle--casually.
'Good-night, dear father.'
Mr. John Torrance is left alone, rubbing his hands.
BARBARA'S WEDDING
The Colonel is in the sitting-room of his country cottage, staring
through the open windows at his pretty garden. He is a very old man, and
is sometimes bewildered nowadays. He calls to Dering, the gardener, who
is on a ladder, pruning. Dering, who comes to him, is a rough, capable
young fellow with fingers that are already becoming stumpy because he so
often uses his hands instead of a spade. This is a sign that Dering will
never get on in the world. His mind is in the same condition as his
fingers, working back to clods. He will get a rise of one and sixpence
in a year or two, and marry on it and become duller and heavier; and, in
short, the clever ones could already write his epitaph.
* * * * *
'A beautiful morning, Dering.'
'Too much sun, sir. The roses be complaining, and, to make matters
worse, Miss Barbara has been watering of them--in the heat of the day.'
The Colonel is a very gentle knight nowadays. 'Has she? She means well.'
But that is not what is troubling him. He approaches the subject
diffidently. 'Dering, you heard it, didn't you?' He is longing to be
told that Dering heard it.
'What was that, sir?'
'The thunderstorm--early this morning.'
'There was no thunderstorm, sir.'
Dispirited, 'That is what they all say.' The Colonel is too courteous to
contradict any one, but he tries again; there is about him the
insistence of one who knows that he is right. 'It was at four o'clock. I
got up and looked out at the window. The evening primroses were very
beautiful.'
Dering is equally dogged. 'I don't hold much with evening primroses,
sir; but I was out and about at four; there was no thunderstorm.'
The Colonel still thinks that there was a thunderstorm, but he wants to
placate Dering. 'I suppose I just thought there was one. Perhaps it was
some thunderstorm of long ago that I heard. They do come back, you
know.'
Heavily, 'Do they, sir?'
'I am glad to see you moving about in the garden, Dering, with
everything just as usual.'
There is a cautious slyness about this, as if the Colonel was fishing
for information; but it is too clever for Dering, who is going with a
'Thank you, sir.'
'No, don't go.' The old man lowers his voice and makes a confession
reluctantly, 'I am--a little troubled, Dering.'
Dering knows that his master has a wandering mind, and he answers
nicely, 'Everything be all right, sir.'
'I'm glad of that,' the Colonel says with relief. 'It is pleasant to see
that you have come back, Dering. Why did you go away for such a long
time?'
'Me, sir?' Dering is a little aggrieved. 'I haven't had a day off since
Christmas.'
'Haven't you? I thought--'
The Colonel tries to speak casually, but there is a trembling eagerness
in his voice. 'Is everything just as usual, Dering?'
'Yes, sir. There never were a place less changed than this.'
'That's true.' The Colonel is appeased. 'Thank you, Dering, for saying
that.' But next moment he has lowered his voice again. 'Dering, there is
nothing wrong, is there? Is anything happening that I am not being told
about?'
'Not that I know of, sir.'
'That is what they all say, but--I don't know.' He stares at his old
sword which is hanging on the wall. 'Dering, I feel as if I was needed
somewhere. I don't know where it is. No one will tell me. Where is every
one?'
'They're all about, sir. There's a cricket match on at the village
green.'
'Is there?'
'If the wind had a bit of south in it you could hear their voices. You
were a bit of a nailer at cricket yourself, sir.'
The Colonel sees himself standing up to fast ones. He is gleeful over
his reminiscences.
'Ninety-nine against Mallowfield, and then bowled off my pads. Biggest
score I ever made. Mallowfield wanted to add one to make it the hundred,
but I wouldn't let them. I was pretty good at steering them through the
slips, Dering! Do you remember my late cut? It didn't matter where point
stood, I got past him. You used to stand at point, Dering.'
'That was my grandfather, sir. If he was to be believed, he used to snap
you regular at point.'
The Colonel is crestfallen, but he has a disarming smile. 'Did he? I
daresay he did. I can't play now, but I like to watch it still.' He
becomes troubled again. 'Dering, there is no cricket on the green
to-day. I have been down to look. I don't understand it, Dering. When I
got there the green was all dotted with them--it's the prettiest sight
and sound in England. But as I watched them they began to go away, one
and two at a time; they weren't given out, you know, they went as if
they had been called away. Some of the little shavers stayed on--and
then they went off, as if they had been called away too. The stumps were
left lying about. Why is it?'
'It's just fancy, sir,' Dering says soothingly, 'I saw Master Will
oiling his bat yesterday.'
'Did you?' avidly. 'I should have liked to see that. I have often oiled
their bats for them. Careless lads, they always forget. Was that nice
German boy with him?'
'Mr. Karl? Not far off, sir. He was sitting by the bank of the stream
playing on his flute; and Miss Barbara, she had climbed one of my
apple-trees,--she says they are your trees.' He lowers.
'They are, you know, Dering,' the Colonel says meekly.
'Yes, sir, in a sense,' brushing the spurious argument aside, 'but I
don't like any of you to meddle with them. And there she sat, pelting
the two of them with green apples.'
'How like her!' The Colonel shakes his head indulgently. 'I don't know
how we are to make a demure young lady of her.'
Dering smirks. 'They say in the village, sir, that Master Will would
like to try.'
To the Colonel this is wit of a high order.
'Ha! ha! he is just a colt himself.' But the laughter breaks off. He
seems to think that he will get the truth if Dering comes closer, 'Who
are all here now, Dering; in the house, I mean? I sometimes forget. They
grow old so quickly. They go out at one door in the bloom of youth, and
come back by another, tired and grey. Haven't you noticed it?'
'No, sir. The only visitors staying here are Miss Barbara and Mr. Karl.
There's just them and yourselves, sir, you and the mistress and Master
Will. That's all.'
'Yes, that's all,' his master says, still unconvinced. 'Who is the
soldier, Dering?'
'Soldier, sir? There is no soldier here except yourself.'
'Isn't there? There was a nurse with him. Who is ill?'
'No one, sir. There's no nurse.' Dering backs away from the old man.
'Would you like me to call the mistress, sir?'
'No, she has gone down to the village. She told me why, but I forget.
Miss Barbara is with her.'
'Miss Barbara is down by the stream, sir.'
'Is she? I think they said they were going to a wedding.' With an old
man's curiosity, 'Who is being married to-day, Dering?'
'I have heard of no wedding, sir. But here is Miss Barbara.'
It is perhaps the first time that Dering has been glad to see Miss
Barbara, who romps in, a merry hoyden, running over with animal spirits.
'Here's the tomboy!' the Colonel cries gaily.
Barbara looks suspiciously from one to the other.
'Dering, I believe you are complaining to the Colonel about my watering
the flowers at the wrong time of day.'
'Aha! Aha!' The Colonel thinks she is even wittier than Dering, who is
properly abashed.
'I did just mention it, miss.'
'You horrid!' Barbara shakes her mop of hair at the gardener. 'Dear,
don't mind him. And every time he says they are _his_ flowers and
_his_ apples, you tell me, and I shall say to his face that they
are _yours_.'
'The courage of those young things!' says the happy Colonel.
Dering's underlip becomes very pronounced, but he goes off into the
garden. Barbara attempts to attend to the Colonel's needs.
'Let me make you comfy--the way granny does it.'
She arranges his cushions clumsily.
'That is not quite the way she does it,' the Colonel says softly, 'Do
you call her granny, Barbara?'
'She asked me to--for practice.' Barbara is curious. 'Don't you remember
why?'
Of course the Colonel remembers.
'I know! Billy boy.'
'You _are_ quick to-day. Now, wait till I get your cane.'
'I don't need my cane while I'm sitting.'
'You look so beau'ful, sitting holding your cane.' She knocks over his
cushions. 'Oh dear! I am a clumsy.'
Politely, 'Not at all, but perhaps if I were to do it for myself.' He
makes himself comfortable. 'That's better. Thank you, Barbara, very
much.'
'_I_ didn't do it. I'm all thumbs. What a ghastly nurse I should
make.'
'Nurse?' The Colonel's troubles return to him. 'Who is she, Barbara?'
'Who is who, dear?'
'That nurse.'
'There's no nurse here.'
'Isn't there?'
Barbara feels that she is of less use than ever to-day. 'Where is
granny?'
'She has gone down to the village to a wedding.'
'There's no wedding. Who could be being married?'
'I think it's people I know, but I can't remember who they are. I
thought you went too, Barbara.'
'Not I. Catch me missing it if there had been a wedding!'
'You and the nurse.'
'Dear, you have just been imagining things again. Shall I play to you,
or sing?' She knocks over a chair, 'Oh dear, everything catches in me.
Would you like me to "Robin Adair," dear?'
The Colonel is polite, but firm, 'No, thank you, Barbara.' For a few
moments he forgets her; his mind has gone wandering again. 'Barbara, the
house seems so empty. Where are Billy and Karl?'
'Billy is where Karl is, you may be sure.'
'And where is Karl?'
'He is where Billy boy is, you may be sure.'
'And where are they both?'
'Not far from where Barbara is, you bet.' She flutters to the window and
waves her hand. 'Do you hear Karl's flute? They have been down all the
morning at the pool where the alder is, trying to catch that
bull-trout.'
'They didn't get him, I'll swear!'
'You can ask them.'
'I spent a lot of my youth trying to get that bull-trout. I tumbled in
there sixty years ago.'
'I tumbled in sixty minutes ago! It can't be the same trout, dear.'
'Same old rascal!'
Billy and Karl come in by the window, leaving a fishing-rod outside.
They are gay, careless, attractive youths.
BARBARA, with her nose in the air, 'You muddy things!'
COLONEL, gaily firing his dart, 'Did you get the bull-trout, Billy boy?'
BILLY. 'He's a brute that.'
COLONEL. 'He is, you know.'
BILLY. 'He came up several times and had a look at my fly. Didn't flick
it, or do anything as complimentary as that. Just yawned and went down.'
COLONEL. 'Yawned, did he? Used to wink in my time. Did you and Billy
fish at Heidelberg, Karl?'
KARL. 'We were more worthily employed, sir, but we did unbend at times.
Billy, do you remember--' He begins a gay dance.
BILLY. 'Not I.' Then he joins in.
BARBARA. 'Young gentlemen, how disgraceful!' She joins in.
COLONEL. 'Harum-scarums!'
KARL. 'Does he know about you two?'
BILLY. 'He often forgets, I'll tell him again. Grandfather, Barbara and
I have something to say to you. It's this.' He puts his arm round
Barbara.
COLONEL, smiling, 'I know--I know. There's nothing like it. I'm very
glad, Barbara.'
BARBARA. 'You see, dear, I've loved Billy boy since the days when he
tried to catch the bull-trout with a string and a bent pin, and I held
on to his pinafore to prevent his tumbling in. We used to play at school
at marrying and giving in marriage, and the girl who was my bridegroom
had always to take the name of Billy. "Do you, woman, take this man
Billy--" the clergyman in skirts began, and before I could answer
diffidently, some other girl was sure to shout, "I should rather think
she does."'
COLONEL, in high good humour, 'Don't forget the ring, Billy. You know,
when I was married I think I couldn't find the ring!'
KARL. 'Were you married here, sir?'
COLONEL. 'Yes, at the village church.'
BILLY. 'So were my father and mother.'
COLONEL, as his eyes wander to the garden, 'I remember walking back with
my wife and bringing her in here through the window. She kissed some of
the furniture.'
BILLY. 'I suppose you would like a grander affair, Barbara?'
BARBARA. 'No, just the same.'
BILLY. 'I hoped you would say that.'
BARBARA. 'But, Billy, I'm to have such a dream of a wedding gown.
Granny is going with me to London, to choose it'--laying her head on the
Colonel's shoulder--'if you can do without her for a day, dear.'
COLONEL, gallantly, 'I shall go with you, I couldn't trust you and
granny to choose the gown.'
KARL. 'You must often be pretty lonely, sir, when we are all out and
about enjoying ourselves.'
COLONEL. 'They all say that. But that is the time when I'm not lonely,
Karl. It's then I see things most clearly--the past, I suppose. It all
comes crowding back to me--India, the Crimea, India again--and it's so
real, especially the people. They come and talk to me. I seem to see
them; I don't know they haven't been here, Billy, till your granny tells
me afterwards.'
BILLY. 'Yes, I know, I wonder where granny is.'
BARBARA. 'It isn't often she leaves you for so long, dear.'
COLONEL. 'She told me she had to go out, but I forget where. Oh, yes,
she has gone down to the village to a wedding.'
BILLY. 'A wedding?'
BARBARA. 'It's curious how he harps on that.'
COLONEL. 'She said to me to listen and I would hear the wedding bells.'
BARBARA. 'Not to-day, dear.'
BILLY. 'Best not to worry him.'
BARBARA. 'But granny says we should try to make things clear to him.'
BILLY. 'Was any one with granny when she said she was going to a wedding?'
COLONEL, like one begging her to admit it, 'You were there, Barbara.'
BARBARA. 'No, dear. He said that to me before. And something about a
nurse.'
COLONEL, obstinately, 'She was there, too.'
BILLY. 'Any one else?'
COLONEL. 'There was that soldier.'
BARBARA. 'A soldier also!'
COLONEL. 'Just those three.'
BILLY. 'But that makes four. Granny and Barbara and a nurse and a
soldier.'
COLONEL. 'They were all there; but there were only three.'
BILLY. 'Odd.'
BARBARA, soothingly, 'Never mind, dear, Granny will make it all right.
She is the one for you.'
COLONEL. 'She is the one for me.'
KARL. 'If there had been a wedding, wouldn't she have taken the Colonel
with her?'
BARBARA. 'Of course she would.'
KARL. 'You are not too old to have a kind eye for a wedding, sir.'
COLONEL, wagging his head, 'Aha, aha! You know, if I had gone, very
likely I should have kissed the bride. Brides look so pretty on their
wedding day. They are often not pretty at other times, but they are all
pretty on their wedding day.'
KARL. 'You have an eye for a pretty girl still, sir!'
COLONEL. 'Yes, I have; yes, I have!'
BARBARA. 'I do believe I see it all. Granny has been talking to you
about Billy boy and me, and you haven't been able to wait; you have
hurried on the wedding!'
BILLY. 'Bravo, Barbara, you've got it.'
COLONEL, doubtfully, 'That may be it. Because I am sure you were to be
there, Barbara.'
BARBARA. 'Our wedding, Billy!'
KARL. 'It doesn't explain those other people, though.'
The Colonel moves about in agitation.
BARBARA. 'What is it, dear?'
COLONEL. 'I can't quite remember, but I think that is why she didn't
take me. It is your wedding, Barbara, but I don't think Billy boy is to
be there, my love.'
BARBARA. 'Not at my wedding!'
BILLY. 'Grandfather!'
COLONEL. 'There's something sad about it.'
BARBARA. 'There can't be anything sad about a wedding, dear. Granny
didn't say it was a sad wedding, did she?'
COLONEL. 'She was smiling.'
BARBARA. 'Of course she was.'
COLONEL. 'But I think that was only to please the nurse.'
BARBARA. 'That nurse again! Dear, don't think any more about it. There's
no wedding.'
COLONEL, gently, though he wonders why they can go on deceiving him, 'Is
there not?'
The village wedding bells begin to ring.
The Colonel is triumphant. 'I told you! There is a wedding!'
The bells ring on gaily. Billy and Barbara take a step nearer to each
other, but can go no closer. The bells ring on, and the three young
people fade from the scene.
When they are gone and he is alone, the Colonel still addresses them.
'It's Barbara's wedding. Billy boy, why are you not at Barbara's
wedding?'
Soon the bells stop. He knows that he is alone now, but he does not
understand it. The sun is shining brightly, but he sits very cold in his
chair. He shivers. He is very glad to see his wife coming to him
through the open window. She is a dear old lady, and is dressed
brightly, as becomes one who has been to a wedding. Her face beams to
match her gown. She is really quite a happy woman again, for it is
several years since any deep sorrow struck her; and that is a long time.
No one, you know, understands the Colonel as she does, no one can soothe
him and bring him out of his imaginings as she can. He hastens to her.
He is no longer cold. That is her great reward for all she does for him.
'I have come back, John,' she says, smiling tranquilly on him. 'It
hasn't seemed very long, has it?'
'No, not long, Ellen. Had you a nice walk?'
She continues to smile, but she is watching him closely. 'I haven't been
for a walk. Don't you remember where I told you I was going, John?'
'Yes, it was to a wedding.'
Rather tremulously, 'You haven't forgotten whose wedding, have you?'
'Tell me, Ellen.' He is no longer troubled. He knows that Ellen will
tell him.
'I have been seeing Barbara married, John.'
'Yes, it was Barbara's wedding. They wouldn't--Ellen, why wasn't I
there?'
Like one telling him amusing gossip, 'I thought you might be a little
troubled if you went, John. Sometimes your mind--not often, but
sometimes if you are agitated--and then you think you see--people who
aren't here any longer. Oh dear, oh dear, help me with these bonnet
strings.'
'Yes, I know. I'm all right when you are with me, Ellen. Funny, isn't
it?'