back to you, John. I was thinking of you all the time--even more than
of Billy boy.'
The Colonel is very gay. 'Tell me all about it, Ellen. Did Billy boy
lose the ring? We always said he would lose the ring.'
She looks straight into his eyes. 'You have forgotten again, John.
Barbara isn't married to Billy boy.'
He draws himself up. 'Not marry Billy! I'll see about that.'
She presses him into his chair. 'Sit down, dear, and I'll tell you
something again. It is nothing to trouble you, because your soldiering
is done, John; and greatly done. My dear, there is war again, and our
old land is in it. Such a war as my soldier never knew.'
He rises. He is a stern old man. 'A war! That's it, is it? So now I
know! Why wasn't I told? Why haven't I my marching orders? I'm not too
old yet.'
'Yes, John, you are too old, and all you can do now is to sit here
and--and take care of me. You knew all about it quite clearly this
morning. We stood together upstairs by the window listening to the
aircraft guns.'
'I remember! I thought it was a thunderstorm, Dering told me he heard
nothing.'
'Dering?'
'Our gardener, you know.' His voice becomes husky. 'Haven't I been
talking with him, Ellen?'
'It is a long time since we had a gardener, John.'
'Is it? So it is! A war! That is why there is no more cricket on the
green.'
'They have all gone to the war, John.'
'That's it; even the little shavers.' He whispers, 'Why isn't Billy boy
fighting, Ellen?'
'Oh, John!'
'Is Billy boy dead?' She nods. 'Was he killed in action? Tell me, tell
me!' She nods again. 'Good for Billy boy. I knew Billy boy was all
right. Don't cry, Ellen. I'll take care of you. All's well with Billy
boy.'
'Yes, I know, John.'
He hesitates before speaking again. 'Ellen, who is the soldier? He comes
here. He is a captain.'
'He is a very gallant man, John. It is he who was married to Barbara
to-day.'
Bitterly, 'She has soon forgotten.'
His wife shakes her brave head. 'She hasn't forgotten, dear. And it's
nearly three years now since Billy died.'
'So long! We have a medal he got, haven't we?'
'No, John; he died before he could win any medals.'
The Colonel moves about, 'Karl will be sorry. They were very fond of
each other, those two boys, Ellen.'
'Karl fought against us, John. He died in the same engagement. They may
even have killed each other.'
'They hadn't known, Ellen.'
She with, thin lips, 'I daresay they knew.'
'Billy boy and Karl!'
She tells him some more gossip. 'John, I had Barbara married from here
because she has no people of her own. I think Billy would have liked
it.'
'That was the thing to do, Ellen. Nice of you. I remember everything
now. It's Dering she has married. He was once my gardener!'
'The world is all being re-made, dear. He is worthy of her.'
He lets this pass. He has remembered something almost as surprising,
'Ellen, is Barbara a nurse?'
'Yes, John, and one of the staidest and most serene. Who would have
thought it of the merry madcap of other days! They are coming here,
John, to say good-bye to you. They have only a few days' leave. She is
in France, too, you know. She was married in her nurse's uniform.'
'Was she? She told me to-day that--no, it couldn't have been to-day.'
'You have been fancying you saw them, I suppose.' She grows tremulous
again. 'You will be nice to them, John, won't you, and wish them luck?
They have their trials before them.'
He says eagerly, 'Tell me what to do, Ellen.'
'Don't say anything about Billy boy, John.'
'No, no, let's pretend.'
'And I wouldn't talk about the garden, John; just in case he is a little
touchy about that.'
The Colonel is beginning to fancy himself as a tactician. 'Not a word!'
She knows what is the way to put him on his mettle. 'You see, I'm sure
I would make a mess of it, so I'm trusting to you, John.'
He is very pleased, 'Leave it all to me, Ellen. I'll be frightfully sly.
You just watch me.'
She goes to the window and calls to the married couple. Captain Dering,
in khaki, is a fine soldierly figure. Barbara, in her Red Gross uniform,
is quiet and resourceful. An artful old boy greets them.
'Congratulations, Barbara. No, no, none of your handshaking; you don't
get past an old soldier in that way. Excuse me, young man.' He kisses
Barbara and looks at his wife to make sure that she is admiring him,
'And to you, Captain Dering--you have won a prize.'
A gallant gentleman answers, 'I know it; I'll try to show I know it.'
The Colonel is perturbed. 'I haven't given Barbara a wedding present,
Ellen, I should like----'
Barbara breaks in, 'Indeed you have, dear, and a lovely one. You haven't
forgotten?'
Granny signs to the Colonel and he immediately says, with remarkable
cunning, 'Oh--that! I was just quizzing you, Barbara. I hope you will be
as happy, dear, staid Barbara, as if you had married----' He sees that
he has nearly given away the situation. He looks triumphantly at granny
as much as to say, 'Observe me; I'm not going to say a word about him.'
Granny comes to his aid. 'Perhaps Captain Dering has some little things
to do: and you, too, Barbara. They are leaving in an hour, John.'
For a moment the Colonel is again in danger. 'If you would like to take
Barbara into the garden, Captain Dering----' He recovers himself
instantly. 'No, not the garden, you wouldn't know your way about in the
garden.'
'Wouldn't I, Colonel?' the Captain says, smiling.
The answer is quite decisive. 'No, certainly not. I'll show it you some
day.'
He makes gleeful signs to granny. 'But there is a nice meadow just
beyond the shrubbery. Barbara knows the way; she often went there
with--' He checks himself. Granny signs to them to go, and Barbara,
kisses both the Colonel's hands. 'The Captain will be jealous, you
know,' he says, twinkling.
'Let me, dear,' says Barbara, arranging his cushions professionally.
Granny nods. 'She is much better at it than I am now, John.'
The Colonel has one last piece of advice to give. 'I wouldn't go
down by the stream, Barbara--not to the pool where the alder is.
There's--there's not a good view there, sir; and a boy--a boy I knew,
he often--nobody in particular--just a boy who used to come about the
house--he is not here now--he is on duty. I don't think you should go
to the alder pool, Barbara.'
'We won't go there, dear.' She and her husband go out, and the Colonel
scarcely misses them, he is so eager to hear what his wife thinks of
him.
'Did I do all right, Ellen?'
'Splendidly. I was proud of you.'
He exults. 'I put them completely off the scent! They haven't a notion!
I can be very sly, you know, at times. Ellen, I think I should like to
have that alder tree cut down. There is no boy now, you see.'
'I would leave it alone, John. There will be boys again. Shall I read to
you; you like that, don't you?'
'Yes, read to me--something funny, if you please. About Sam Weller! No,
I expect Sam has gone to the wars. Read about Mr. Pickwick. He is very
amusing. I feel sure that if he had tried to catch the bull-trout he
would have fallen in. Just as Barbara did this morning.'
'Barbara?'
'She is down at the alder pool. Billy is there with that nice German
boy. The noise they make, shouting and laughing!'
She gets from its shelf the best book for war-time. 'Which bit shall I
read?'
'About Mr. Pickwick going into the lady's bedroom by mistake.'
'Yes, dear, though you almost know it by heart. You see, you have begun
to laugh already.'
'You are laughing too, Ellen. I can't help it!'
She begins to read; they are both chuckling.
A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE
Out of the darkness comes the voice of a woman speaking to her dead son.
'But that was against your wish, was it not? Was that against your wish?
Would you prefer me not to ask that question?'
The room is so dark that we cannot see her. All we know is that she is
one of four shapes gathered round a small table. Beyond the darkness is
a great ingle-nook, in which is seated on a settle a man of fifty. Him
we can discern fitfully by the light of the fire. It is not sufficiently
bright to enable him to read, but an evening paper lies on his knee. He
seems wistful and meek. He is paying no attention to the party round the
table. When he hears their voices it is only as empty sounds.
The mother continues. 'Perhaps I am putting the question in the wrong
way. Are you not able to tell us any more?'
A man's voice breaks in. 'There was a distinct movement that time, but
it is so irregular.'
'I thought so, but please don't talk. Do you want to tell us more? Is it
that you can't hear me distinctly? He seems to want to tell us more, but
something prevents him.'
'In any case, Mrs. Don, it is extraordinary. This is the first seance I
have ever taken part in, but I must believe now.'
'Of course, Major, these are the simplest manifestations. They are only
the first step. But if we are to go on, the less we talk the better.
Shall we go on? It is not agitating you too much, Laura?'
A girl answers, 'There was a moment when I--but I wish I was braver. I
think it is partly the darkness. I suppose we can't have a little
light?'
'Certainly we can, dear. Darkness is quite unnecessary, but I think it
helps one to concentrate.'
The Major lights a lamp, and though it casts shadows we see now that the
room is an artist's studio. The silent figure in the ingle-nook is the
artist. Mrs. Don is his wife, the two men are Major Armitage and an
older friend, Mr. Rogers. The girl is Laura Bell. These four are sitting
round the table, their hands touching: they are endeavouring to commune
with one who has 'crossed the gulf.'
The Major and Mr. Rogers are but passing shadows in the play, and even
nice Laura is only to flit across its few pages for a moment on her way
to happier things. We scarcely notice them in the presence of Mrs. Don,
the gracious, the beautiful, the sympathetic, whose magnetic force and
charm are such that we wish to sit at her feet at once. She is
intellectual, but with a disarming smile, religious, but so charitable,
masterful, and yet loved of all. None is perfect, and there must be a
flaw in her somewhere, but to find it would necessitate such a rummage
among her many adornments as there is now no time for. Perhaps we may
come upon it accidentally in the course of the play.
She is younger than Mr. Don, who, despite her efforts for many years to
cover his deficiencies, is a man of no great account in a household
where the bigger personality of his wife swallows him like an Aaron's
rod. Mr. Don's deficiencies! She used to try very hard, or fairly hard,
to conceal them from Dick; but Dick knew. His mother was his chum. All
the lovely things which happened in that house in the days when Dick was
alive were between him and her; those two shut the door softly on old
Don, always anxious not to hurt his feelings, and then ran into each
other's arms.
In the better light Mr. Don is now able to read his paper if he chooses.
If he has forgotten the party at the table, they have equally forgotten
him.
MRS. DON. 'You have not gone away, have you? We must be patient. Are you
still there?'
ROGERS. 'I think I felt a movement.'
MRS. DON. 'Don't talk, please. Are you still there?'
The table moves.
'Yes! It is your mother who is speaking; do you understand that?'
The table moves.
'Yes. What shall I ask him now?'
ROGERS. 'We leave it to you, Mrs. Don.'
MRS. DON. 'Have you any message you want to send us? Yes. Is it
important? Yes. Are we to spell it out in the usual way? Yes. Is the
first letter of the first word A? Is it B?'
She continues through the alphabet to L, when the table responds.
Similarly she finds that the second letter is O.
'Is the word _Love_? Yes. But I don't understand that movement. You
are not displeased with us, are you? No. Does the second word begin with
A?--with B? Yes.'
The second word is spelt out _Bade_ and the third _Me_.
'Love Bade Me----If it is a quotation, I believe I know it! Is the
fourth word _Welcome_? Yes.'
LAURA. 'Love Bade Me Welcome.'
MRS. DON. 'That movement again! Don't you want me to go on?'
LAURA. 'Let us stop.'
MRS. DON. 'Not unless he wishes it. Why are those words so important?
Does the message end there? Is any one working against you? Some one
antagonistic? Yes. Not one of ourselves surely? No. Is it any one we
know? Yes. Can I get the name in the usual way? Yes. Is the first letter
of this person's name A?--B?----'
It proves to be F. One begins to notice a quaint peculiarity of Mrs.
Don's. She is so accustomed to homage that she expects a prompt response
even from the shades.
'Is the second letter A?'
The table moves.
'FA. Fa----?'
She is suddenly enlightened.
'Is the word Father? Yes.'
They all turn and look for the first time at Mr. Don. He has heard, and
rises apologetically.
MR. DON, distressed, 'I had no intention--Should I go away, Grace?'
She answers sweetly without a trace of the annoyance she must surely
feel.
MRS. DON. 'Perhaps you had better, Robert.'
ROGERS. 'I suppose it is because he is an unbeliever? He is not openly
antagonistic, is he?'
MRS. DON, sadly enough, 'I am afraid he is.' They tend to discuss the
criminal as if he was not present.
MAJOR. 'But he must admit that we do get messages.'
MRS. DON, reluctantly, 'He says we think we do. He says they would not
want to communicate with us if they had such trivial things to say.'
ROGERS. 'But we are only on the threshold, Don. This is just a
beginning.'
LAURA. 'Didn't you hear, Mr. Don--"Love Bade Me Welcome"?'
MR. DON. 'Does that strike you as important, Laura?'
LAURA. 'He said it was.'
MRS. DON. 'It might be very important to him, though we don't understand
why.'
She speaks gently, but there is an obstinacy in him, despite his
meekness.
MR. DON. 'I didn't mean to be antagonistic, Grace. I thought. I wasn't
thinking of it at all.'
MRS. DON. 'Not thinking of Dick, Robert? And it was only five months
ago!'
MR. DON, who is somehow, without meaning it, always in the wrong,
'I'll go.'
ROGERS. 'A boy wouldn't turn his father out. Ask him.'
MR. DON, forlornly, 'As to that--as to that----'
MRS. DON. 'I will ask him if you wish me to, Robert.'
MR. DON. 'No, don't.'
ROGERS. 'It can't worry you as you are a disbeliever.'
MR. DON. 'No, but--I shouldn't like you to think that he sent me away.'
ROGERS. 'He won't. Will he, Mrs. Don?'
MR. DON, knowing what her silence implies, 'You see, Dick and I were not
very--no quarrel or anything of that sort--but I, I didn't much matter
to Dick. I'm too old, perhaps.'
MRS. DON, gently, 'I won't ask him, Robert, if you would prefer me
not to.'
MR. DON. 'I'll go.'
MRS. DON. 'I'm afraid it is too late now.' She turns away from earthly
things. 'Do you want me to break off?'
The table moves.
'Yes. Do you send me your love, Dick? Yes. And to Laura? Yes.' She
raises her eyes to Don, and hesitates. 'Shall I ask him----?'
MR. DON. 'No, no, don't.'
ROGERS. 'It would be all right, Don.'
MR. DON. 'I don't know.'
They leave the table.
LAURA, a little agitated, 'May I go to my room, Mrs. Don? I feel
I--should like to be alone.'
MRS. DON. 'Yes, yes, Laura dear. I shall come in and see you.'
Laura bids them good-night and goes. She likes Mr. Don, she strokes his
hand when he holds it out to her, but she can't help saying, 'Oh, Mr.
Don, how could you?'
ROGERS. 'I think we must all want to be alone after such an evening.
I shall say good-night, Mrs. Don.'
MAJOR. 'Same here. I go your way, Rogers, but you will find me a silent
companion. One doesn't want to talk ordinary things to-night. Rather
not. Thanks, awfully.'
ROGERS. 'Good-night, Don. It's a pity, you know; a bit hard on your
wife.'
MR. DON. 'Good-night, Rogers. Good-night, Major.'
The husband and wife, left together, have not much to say to each other.
He is depressed because he has spoilt things for her. She is not angry.
She knows that he can't help being as he is, and that there are fine
spaces in her mind where his thoughts can never walk with her. But she
would forgive him seventy times seven because he is her husband. She is
standing looking at a case of fishing-rods against the wall. There is
a Jock Scott still sticking in one of them. Mr. Don says, as if somehow
they were evidence against him:
'Dick's fishing-rods.'
She says forgivingly, 'I hope you don't mind my keeping them in the
studio, Robert. They are sacred things to _me_.'
'That's all right, Grace.'
'I think I shall go to Laura now.'
'Yes,' in his inexpressive way.
'Poor child!'
'I'm afraid I hurt her.'
'Dick wouldn't have liked it--but Dick's gone.' She looks a little
wonderingly at him. After all these years, she can sometimes wonder
a little still. 'I suppose you will resume your evening paper!'
He answers quietly, but with the noble doggedness which is the reason
why we write this chapter in his life. 'Why not, Grace?'
She considers, for she is so sure that she must know the answer better
than he. 'I suppose it is just that a son is so much more to a mother
than to a father.'
'I daresay.'
A little gust of passion shakes her. 'How you can read about the war
nowadays!'
He says firmly to her--he has had to say it a good many times to
himself, 'I'm not going to give in.' But he adds, 'I am so sorry I was
in the way, Grace. I wasn't scouting you, or anything of that sort. It's
just that I can't believe in it.'
'Ah, Robert, you would believe if Dick had been to you what he was
to me.'
'I don't know.'
'In a sense you may be glad that you don't miss him in the way I do.'
'Yes, perhaps.'
'Good-night, Robert.'
'Good-night, dear.'
He is alone now. He stands fingering the fishing-rods tenderly, then
wanders back into the ingle-nook. In the room we could scarcely see him,
for it has gone slowly dark there, a grey darkness, as if the lamp,
though still burning, was becoming unable to shed light. Through the
greyness we see him very well beyond it in the glow of the fire. He sits
on the settle and tries to read his paper. He breaks down. He is a
pitiful lonely man.
In the silence something happens. A well-remembered voice says,
'Father.' Mr. Don looks into the greyness from which this voice comes,
and he sees his son. We see no one, but we are to understand that, to
Mr. Don, Dick is standing there in his habit as he lived. He goes to his
boy.
'Dick!'
'I have come to sit with you for a bit, father.'
It is the gay, young, careless voice.
'It's you, Dick; it's you!'
'It's me all right, father. I say, don't be startled, or anything of that
kind. We don't like that.'
'My boy!'
Evidently Dick is the taller, for Mr. Don has to look up to him. He puts
his hands on the boy's shoulders.
'How am I looking, father?'
'You haven't altered, Dick.'
'Rather not. It's jolly to see the old studio again!' In a cajoling
voice, 'I say, father, don't fuss. Let us be our ordinary selves, won't
you?'
'I'll try, I'll try. You didn't say you had come to sit with _me_,
Dick? Not with _me_!'
'Rather!'
'But your mother----'
'It's you I want.'
'Me?'
'We can only come to one, you see.'
'Then why me?'
'That's the reason.' He is evidently moving about, looking curiously at
old acquaintances. 'Hello, here's your old jacket, greasier than ever!'
'Me? But, Dick, it is as if you had forgotten. It was your mother who
was everything to you. It can't be you if you have forgotten that.
I used to feel so out of it; but, of course, you didn't know.'
'I didn't know it till lately, father; but heaps of things that I didn't
know once are clear to me now. I didn't know that you were the one who
would miss me most; but I know now.'
Though the voice is as boyish as ever, there is a new note in it of
which his father is aware. Dick may not have grown much wiser, but
whatever he does know now he seems to know for certain.
'_Me_ miss you most? Dick, I try to paint just as before. I go to the
club. Dick, I have been to a dinner-party. I said I wouldn't give in.'
'We like that.'
'But, my boy----'
Mr. Don's arms have gone out to him again. Dick evidently wriggles away
from them. He speaks coaxingly.
'I say, father, let's get away from that sort of thing.'
'That is so like you, Dick! I'll do anything you ask.'
'Then keep a bright face.'
'I've tried to.'
'Good man! I say, put on your old greasy; you are looking so beastly
clean.'
The old greasy is the jacket, and Mr. Don obediently gets into it.
'Anything you like. No, that's the wrong sleeve. Thanks, Dick.'
They are in the ingle-nook now, and the mischievous boy catches his
father by the shoulders.
'Here, let me shove you into your old seat.'
Mr. Don is propelled on to the settle.
'How's that, umpire!'
'Dick,' smiling, 'that's just how you used to butt me into it long ago!'
Dick is probably standing with his back to the fire, chuckling.
'When I was a kid.'
'With the palette in my hand.'
'Or sticking to your trousers.'
'The mess we made of ourselves, Dick.'
'I sneaked behind the settle and climbed up it.'
'Till you fell off.'
'On top of you and the palette.'
It is good fun for a father and son; and the crafty boy has succeeded
in making the father laugh. But soon,
'Ah, Dick.'
The son frowns. He is not going to stand any nonsense.
'Now then, behave! What did I say about that face?'
Mr. Don smiles at once, obediently.
'That's better. I'll sit here.'
We see from his father's face which is smiling with difficulty that Dick
has plopped into the big chair on the other side of the ingle-nook. His
legs are probably dangling over one of its arms.
Rather sharply, 'Got your pipe?'
'I don't--I don't seem to care to smoke nowadays, Dick.'
'Rot! Just because I am dead! You that pretend to be plucky! I won't
have it, you know. You get your pipe, and look slippy about it.'
'Yes, Dick,' the old man says obediently. He fills his pipe from a jar
on the mantelshelf. We may be sure that Dick is watching closely to see
that he lights it properly.
'Now, then, burn your thumb with the match--you always did, you know.
That's the style. You've forgotten to cock your head to the side. Not so
bad. That's you. Like it?'
'It's rather nice, Dick. Dick, you and me by the fire!'
'Yes, but sit still. How often we might have been like this, father,
and weren't.'
'Ah!'
'Face. How is Fido?'
'Never a dog missed her master more.'
'Oh,' frowning. 'She doesn't want to go and sit on my grave, or any of
that tosh, does she? As if I were there!'
'No, no,' hastily; 'she goes ratting, Dick.'
'Good old Fido!'
'Dick, here's a good one. We oughtn't to keep a dog at all because we
are on rations now; but what do you think Fido ate yesterday?'
'Let me guess. The joint?'
'Almost worse than that. She ate all the cook's meat tickets.'
They laugh, together, but when Dick says light-heartedly, 'That dog will
be the death of me.' his father shivers. Dick does not notice this; his
eyes have drawn him to the fishing-rods.
'Hullo!'
'Yes, those are your old fishing-rods.'
'Here's the little hickory! Do you remember, father, how I got the
seven-pounder on a burn-trout cast? No, you weren't there. That was
a day. It was really only six and three-quarters. I put a stone in
its mouth the second time we weighed it!'
'You loved fishing, Dick.'
'Didn't I? Why weren't you oftener with me? I'll tell you a funny thing,
When I went a soldiering I used to pray--just standing up, you
know--that I shouldn't lose my right arm, because it would be so awkward
for casting.' He cogitates as he returns to the ingle-nook. 'Somehow I
never thought I should be killed. Lots of fellows thought that about
themselves, but I never did. It was quite a surprise to me.'
'Oh, Dick!'
'What's the matter? Oh, I forgot. Face!' He is apparently looking down
at his father wonderingly. 'Haven't you got over it yet, father? I got
over it so long ago. I wish you people would understand what a little
thing it is.'
'Tell me,' very humbly; 'tell me, Dick.'
'All right.' He is in the chair again.
'Mind, I can't tell you where I was killed; it's against the
regulations.'
'I know where.'
Curiously, 'You got a wire, I suppose?'
'Yes.'
'There's always a wire for officers, even for 2nd Lieutenants. It's
jolly decent of them.'
'Tell me, Dick, about the--the veil. I mean the veil that is drawn
between the living and the----.'
'The dead? Funny how you jib at that word.'
'I suppose the veil is like a mist?'
'The veil's a rummy thing, father. Yes, like a mist. But when one has
been at the Front for a bit, you can't think how thin the veil seems to
get; just one layer of it. I suppose it seems thin to you out there
because one step takes you through it. We sometimes mix up those who
have gone through with those who haven't. I daresay if I were to go back
to my old battalion the living chaps would just nod to me.'
'Dick!'