THE ONE SHALL BE TAKEN
If only the dead could find out when
To come back and be forgiven!
OWEN MEREDITH.
"Are your minds set upon righteousness, O ye congregation?" inquired
Mr. Roche in skeptical tones.
It was Sunday morning, and all prisoners having the white Church of
England ticket on their doors had been rounded up for the chapel.
Not that that was any hardship, for they liked the service; it was
commendably short, there were plenty of hymns, and even the lessons,
as read by Dr. Scott in his voice of gold, were really quite amusing,
especially the _chroniques scandaleuses_ of the Old Testament. By
contrast with the bareness of their cells they liked, too, the satins
and the embroideries, the lights and the flowers and the incense on
which the little doctor squandered most of his pocket-money. He was a
believer in the beauty of holiness; he had transformed the bare little
barn of a place into a gem. Only the jeweled cross and candlesticks,
source of covetous desires in such members of the congregation as did
not happen to be set upon righteousness, had been a thank-offering from
another donor.
"Psalm 126, the first verse. 'When the Lord turned again the captivity
of Zion--'"
By way of prelude to this boldly hopeful text, Mr. Roche had just
announced the fall of Antwerp. Scott did not love the new chaplain, but
he could not deny that he preached well, or that he got hold of the
men. The atmosphere of the chapel was not as a rule what one might call
devotional, but this morning there was a fullness in the responses and
a clean-cut hush during the sermon which rather touchingly reflected
the general state of feeling. It was hard in 1914 to be a prisoner,
since even criminals may love their country. Several of Scott's
patients had proclaimed their intention of enlisting the moment they
were free. As months, or even years, had to elapse before that happy
time, these protestations were cheap and safe. Others, who said less,
perhaps felt more. Scott had been sorry for many, leashed in by their
punishment; for none more than B14.
"Con--found--their--pol--itics,
Frus--trate--their--knav--ish tricks--"
The National Anthem having been roared out from throats kept
artificially silent during the week, chapel was dismissed, and it was
the immediate duty of the medical officer to take the casual sick.
Scott made a rush to his house for a glance at _The Observer_, which
did not reach Westby till midday, and was back in the casualty room
by a quarter to twelve. He stood at a desk, with Mackenzie, as chief
warder, beside him, and a table covered with pills, potions, and
ointments ready to hand. One by one, as their names were called, the
patients came up for treatment.
"Mason A29, sir."
Mason advanced, a doleful wisp of a man. "Well, Mason, what's the
matter with you?"
"Oh, if you please, sir, I've got such a dreadful cold in my head!" A
fruity and exhaustive sniff lent point to the complaint.
"A cold in the head, have you? Give me your hand. Now let's see your
tongue. H'm! Dose of No. 7."
No. 7 was poured out, Mason choked over it, and was passed out by the
opposite door. "Next," said Scott.
"Gardiner B14, sir."
This was unexpected. Gardiner B14 stood cheerfully submissive, nursing
his hand, which was wrapped in his clean Sunday handkerchief.
"Hullo, you in the wars again? What's the matter now, hey?"
"Bad thumb, sir," said Gardiner, gingerly unrolling it. Yes, his hand
had broken out again. "I shall have to lance this," snapped Scott, and
did so, with inward ruth. After twenty years of practice, he still
hated inflicting pain. "What have you been doing to yourself? Why
didn't you come to me before?"
"Well, sir, I never thought twice about it till this morning. I knocked
it on a nail; I thought it would get all right."
"Get all right? Get all wrong! Your blood must be in a shocking state.
Ever have anything of this sort before you came here?"
"N-no, I don't know that I have. I expect perhaps it's the confinement;
I'm not used to it, you know."
"H'm! well, your time's up next month, isn't it? and then you'll be
free to get some war work, which is what you're fidgeting after, aren't
you? Take care of that hand, and don't go jabbing nails into it, unless
you want to lose it altogether. Two thousand men of the Naval Division
have crossed the Dutch frontier and will have to be interned. Next."
B14, with the faint suggestion of a smile, went the way of A29, and
Scott looked after him with a sigh and the faint suggestion of a frown.
Ever since his night in the padded cell it had been the same; Gardiner
was polite, and even friendly, but he kept his distance. With no one
is a reserved man more reserved than with the person before whom he
has once been helplessly open. "I've lost him for good," Scott said to
himself; and another sigh came, for he had not many friends. But he was
right, it was irrevocable; Gardiner had definitively snapped the thread.
Sunday is a day of rest. Prisoners attend chapel twice, they have two
separate hours of exercise, morning and afternoon; at half-past four
they go to their cells for supper, and are then locked up for the
night. In winter, all lights are put out. In summer, many read in bed.
But on the brightest of June mornings Gardiner's cell was barely light
enough for that; and by five o'clock in October it was as black as a
cave. He had finished his supper, and was screwing up his patience to
endure the interminable night, when his door opened to admit that very
welcome sight, a visitor--Mr. Roche the chaplain.
"I meant to get round before, but I haven't had a moment; I've been up
to my eyes in business the whole day. But I thought I might just catch
you before bed-time. How are you, eh?"
"Very well, thank you, sir. Very glad to see you." Gardiner's manner
was an odd blend of orthodox respect and unorthodox friendliness. It
had its counterpart in Roche's own: he could not quite shake off the
condescension of the chaplain, yet he did not take possession of the
prisoner's stool and leave him to stand. The consequence was that both
kept their feet.
"To tell the truth, Gardiner, I've come to say good-by. I shan't have
another chance; I'm off first thing to-morrow."
"Off on leave, sir?"
"Off for good. I'm leaving the prison. It's been in the air for some
time, but it was only finally arranged last night. I've said nothing
about it, because I didn't want a fuss; but I could not leave without
seeing you."
"Thanks," said Gardiner, smiling. "You'll be missed. I'm glad my time's
nearly up. Are you going to another prison, or is it an ordinary parish
job?"
"Neither. I am joining up."
"Chaplain to the forces?"
"Better than that. I enlist." Gardiner's face, in the first moment of
surprise, was more expressive than he could have wished. Roche, with
his odd touch of the theatrical, laid a hand on his shoulder. "You envy
me?" he asked, his voice thrilling and deepening. "Never mind, my poor
fellow, your turn will come. Another month and you too will be free to
do your bit with the best of us. In the service of your country there
is no respect of persons--"
The hand was vigorously shaken off, and Gardiner stepped back. "I'll be
shot if I'm going to let you patronize me! If you think that because
you happen to be the Honorable and Reverend Dalrymple-Roche, and I'm
B14--Why, I was round the world and back again before you were out of
your schoolroom!" He burst out laughing.
"Gardiner--"
"No, no, wait a bit; let me finish what I've got to say, now I've
begun. I've had it on my mind for some time; I meant to save it up for
when I got out, but as it seems I shan't have the chance then I'll do
it now. You've been very decent to me, and you've kept me going through
a rather beastly time, and I don't forget that, and I don't want to
let it all lapse, and I rather think you don't either; but I won't
be patronized. I may be in prison, but I've done nothing I'm ashamed
of, and I do not consider myself disgraced. Got that?" The words
were not bluff, they were plain truth; very telling was his vigorous
independence. "Well, then, if I pay you deference here it's because
discipline has to be maintained, and incidentally because I should get
it hot if I didn't. For that reason, and for no other; certainly not
because I feel deferential. Deferential! You wait till you've cut your
wisdom teeth, my son, before you start preaching to me. There; I've
done. You can report me if you like--sir."
Roche had colored up; he looked very haughty and very angry. "I think
you forget yourself," he began, and then his mobile face changed. "I
beg your pardon, Gardiner; you are perfectly right. I have no business
to patronize you. I don't mean to do it; but it's the more or less
official manner, and one slips into it--to tell the truth, that's one
reason why I want to get away."
"Oh, that's all right, lots of parsons have a turn for magniloquence,"
said Gardiner, with a laugh, "and if you do it again I shall tell you
again, that's all. You inevitably will. And so you mean to enlist?
Ho ho!" His smile broadened as he ran his eye over Roche's handsome
figure. He did not say, "You won't like that, my friend," but he
thought it.
"The French priests take their places in the ranks," said Roche, "why
not we? I put that to my bishop. He refused to release me. One must act
on one's own conscience in these matters. I am a priest, it is my duty
to lead men; when peace comes, how can I expect them to follow me, if
during the war I have been skulking behind my cloth here in England?
_I_ would not follow such a man. If the clergy shirk now, they will be
digging the Church's grave."
"Very sound sentiments. I have an old daddy, and if he were thirty
years younger--thank goodness he isn't, for he'd certainly get shot.
Well, I congratulate you. Mind my finger, I'm still rather frail."
Roche had wrung his hand with more fervor than discretion. "Funny
beggar you are!" Gardiner added, with the laugh in his eyes that was
often there when he talked to Roche. "_You_ won't get shot. Bet you
what you like you come out with the V.C.!"
"Priests don't bet."
"Privates do, though. Not that you'll stay a private. You'll be offered
a commission--"
"I shan't accept it," Roche declared.
"More fool you, then, for you're just the sort they want. You lucky
beggar--oh, you lucky beggar!"
The hunger of envy peeped out. Roche, at times self-absorbed and blind,
had at other times an Irish quickness of perception.
"Gardiner--I'm sorry! Perhaps after all, if a competent surgeon sees
your hand, instead of that wretched little sawbones--"
"Oh, that's all right, I shall get my whack by and by, even if I can't
go into the trenches. Which reminds me: you won't forget to put through
that little bit of business I asked you about, will you? (There's old
Busy Bee locking up for the night, you'll have to clear out in two
twos.) Just a word of introduction to Lord Ronayne, that's all I want.
You see a criminal just out of jail does need some sort of sponsor."
Gardiner's grin was quite free from bitterness.
"I won't forget," said Roche hurriedly, "I hadn't forgotten. I can
answer for my father. Good-by, Gardiner--God bless you!"
Again he wrung the prisoner's hand, and again left him laughing and
swearing and shaking his fingers--a characteristic farewell.
Chim-chime. Chim-chime. Chim-chime. A quarter to five. St. Agnes'
clock was striking as Roche came out into the lilac and gold of the
October sunset, which lightened and broadened down the clean deserted
streets, and glittered like tongues of fire in all the western windows.
The trees in the square were brilliant, gold lace over iron filigree.
Beyond them three tall chimneys stood, slender, black, and tapering
against the cornflower-blue of distant hills. A train, just arrived
in the station, was veiling itself in snowy mist, sun-smitten; and
as Roche turned into the High Street St. Agnes' bells began to play
_The King of Love_, merry and clear, a sweet little rocking tune in
triplets. How bright the town was, and how peaceful in its Sunday rest!
Not a soul was about, except the half-dozen travelers from the train;
one of these, a tall man in the then unfamiliar uniform of the Royal
Flying Corps, stopped to ask Roche the way to the prison.
In B14's cell it was already night. There was no sunshine here, not
even light enough for him to throw his shoe at the blackbeetle which
had crawled up the hot-water pipes, and was running about on the
concrete floor. Gardiner lay on his back, hands clasped behind his
head, staring at the gray oblong of his window, and wondering how he
was going to get through the thirteen hours of darkness. He was not
laughing now. He would have given twenty pounds for a candle and a book
to read, fifty for a cigarette--he might as well have offered to buy
the moon.
In the padded cell he had touched bottom; nothing could ever be so bad
again as the days before that night, in their agony of impotence, or
the night itself, in its agony of despair. Prison--it was a tedious
business, no doubt, but what of that? He could only wonder why he had
ever made a fuss about such a trifle. He had grappled with his bogy,
and behold it turned out to be only a turnip-lantern ghost after all.
Difficulties, once surmounted, have a way of sinking back and effacing
themselves in the past; absorbed in a greater trouble, Gardiner did not
realize that he had at last fought and won the battle, long impending,
which made him master of himself.
He did believe, from the first he had never doubted, that Lettice was
dead. Wandesforde's message, which he faithfully delivered in person,
had not shaken that conviction. It had only made him feel that Denis
was dead too. Yes, they were both gone; but Gardiner no longer held
himself responsible. That dreadful crazy feeling of guilt, which his
sanity, half insane, had used to save him from himself, had passed with
the crisis it provoked. He had not killed her; yet she was dead, and he
missed her more instead of less every day; every day he came upon fresh
tracts of his mind marked broad with her mark, and saw with dismay
the widening scope of his loss. But no one knew of it, and no one was
going to know, through him. "Not that anybody would be particularly
interested," he reflected. "My dear daddy--he would, bless his heart,
but he'll never see, and I shall never tell him; he'd get the shock of
his life to think I was old enough to want to get married. Married! Oh,
my Lord, I wish I had married her; I could have stood it better now
if I'd ever had one ounce of satisfaction.... And besides daddy, who
else? Tom? Roche? I don't think!" He laughed. "Little Scott, then--he'd
be all agog, but he isn't going to have the chance, confound him! I
wish old Denis were here. I could have talked to him. He would have
understood. He knew me pretty well, did Denis, after all these years.
I wonder how I'm going to get on without him. 'Their soul was much
discouraged because of the way.' Hard going: that's what I'm to expect,
I suppose, for the rest of my wanderings in this wilderness.... There
was a lot of likeness between them at bottom. I expect that's why I
feel as though I'd known her all my life and before I was born--I did
know her, in him. But he would always try to hide his dear old head in
a bag whenever I did anything to upset his little feelings, and she
never did. Not she! She'd go picking her way with her little lamp round
all your dark corners, inexorably showing you every cobweb and every
speck of dust that her highness didn't approve, and all without a word
spoken, just by the poise of that darling little head of hers and those
inimitable hazel eyes--hazel? No, b' Jove! What was it she used to say?
'Weak Bovril, with little bits of carrot floating about'--oh, Lettice,
Lettice! oh, why the devil did I let myself begin on this?"
He flung his arm across his eyes, as if he would have hidden his
trouble even from himself. Blind instinct had first dragged him to
Lettice, a straw in the current; he felt he needed her long before he
knew he loved her. But love, and even passion, had come since, flooding
in by back ways, filling him to the brim. He was tormented by his lost
opportunities. "When I had her to myself there in Rochehaut, why didn't
I make her marry me? She'd have done it if I'd put the screw on; you
can get pretty well anything out of Lettice if she's only sorry enough
for you. Or here in prison, why couldn't I have put my arm round that
little waist of hers and taken a kiss? What would she have done if I
had? Would she have had the impertinence to ruffle up all her pretty
feathers and make believe to be affronted? Or could I have got right
down through all her defenses to the very heart of her, and made her
drop her lashes, and color, and--acknowledge me? I'd give my eyes to
know, and I never shall, never. She had more reticences and reserves
and evasions than any human being I have ever met. She was as delicate
as the bloom on a butterfly. Angelita de mi corazón, I would have
respected your little fads; you should have kept your fenced garden and
your fountain sealed. I could have held your life in my hand and never
closed my fingers on it--yes, I could; even that. I was your very true
lover. I wonder, was it a bayonet--"
To this precipice Gardiner always came, sooner or later. We talk of
unimaginable horrors; there were none he had not imagined. How do men
live, with thoughts like these? God knows.
"B14, are ye waukin? Ye're to dress and come wi' me."
"Hullo! is that Mr. Mackenzie? What's up?"
"It's a veesitor for ye."
"A visitor at this time of night? Here's an exciting go! Who is it--an
officer? Big man in the R.F.C.?"
Mackenzie shook his head. "I canna tell ye, for I havena seen him."
"Now I wonder what good you think you are?" said Gardiner, sitting up,
laughing, blinking at the light. "Rousing me out of my beauty sleep!
Yes, I beg your pardon, sir, and all that, but I'm coming out quite
soon, you know. Hold the light, do you mind, and let me find my socks?"
He laughed in self-defense, and he asked questions for form's sake; but
he knew all the time that this was his doom. Only an urgent messenger
would have been admitted at this hour. It was Wandesforde, come to
tell him how she had died. That thought went with him down the twilit
passages, it stood sentinel before the yellow-glimmering door of the
visitors' room. "Ye've half-an-hour," said Mackenzie in business-like
tones as he turned the handle. Gardiner drew a long breath and walked
through the specter into the room.
A long-legged officer stood up. Wandesforde? No. Oh, good God!
"She's safe," said Denis instantly. "Here, hold on, old man; it's all
right!"
Gardiner was not all right; he was nearly fainting. By and by he found
himself sitting in a chair, still gripping Denis with both hands, while
Denis patted him gently on the back.
"She's all right," he kept repeating--wise Denis, to harp on the one
thing that mattered. "Quite all right; quite safe. Gently does it.
Better now, are you?"
Yes, Gardiner was better and he said so with decision. Denis withdrew
to the other side of the table and sat smiling at him.
"We got back last night. We've been together all the time. Didn't
Wandesforde tell you? I went first to the W.O. to report myself, and
then straight on to get leave to see you. Even a Government department
has bowels these days. I wanted Lettice to come too, but she said she
thought you'd rather not, so she's gone down to her own people in Kent.
Rather rough luck on them all this time, what? She sent her love."
"Go on," said Gardiner, leaning back and composing himself to listen.
"Begin at the beginning and go on to the end, then stop. Lord! I wish
you'd asked the bowelful Home Office to let me have a smoke while you
were about it. Anda, caballerito! Let's have the 'ole of the 'orrible
details."
Denis launched into his tale. He began, as directed, with the raid on
Aix, and his soft Irish tongue ran on fluently till he came to the
Bellevue. "I can't tell you what it was like to see it, Harry. It's
one thing to read about these things, safe here in England; but to see
it--a place you've known--"
"A place you own," said Gardiner grimly. "Yes, that's what these
beastly pacifists never seem to grasp. On a toujours assez de
force--they'd sing a different song if it was their own _maux_ instead
of those of _autrui_. Poor old Bellevue. Well, I'll build it up again.
Go ahead. What happened next?"
"Oh, well, of course I had to ask about it--them--I was a bit reckless,
I suppose. I went down and hailed a man in the road. He told me they
were safe at the Hasquins' farm. And so while we were talkin' of course
a lot of beastly Boches came round the corner. I skipped like a young
unicorn, I can tell you, but they potted me, and then they chased me
all over the place. But I dodged 'em and got up into the fir wood. I
wanted pretty badly to see for myself--"
Gardiner raised his eyebrows. "Bit risky, what?"
"Ah, but I never meant to show up. I was goin' to lie doggo and get
off again after dark. It was Lettice spied me out--you know what her
eyes are." Gardiner nodded. "I do blame myself," said Denis earnestly.
"I'll never get over it; but I was bleedin' like a pig and a bit
muzzy-headed. Well, there it was, anyway. I fainted, and they did what
they liked with me. They got me over and hid me in the tower. Remember
the tower?"
Did Gardiner remember the tower? He remembered it so well, and saw
Lettice beside it so vividly, that he fell silent, and let Denis tell
the rest of his tale almost without question. They had stayed at the
farm till Denis was fit to travel. Then, one wet evening, they set out
to tramp across Belgium, he in Monsieur Hasquin's blouse and loose
trousers, she in Madame's Sunday skirt. "She didn't like it one bit,"
said Denis, with a reminiscent smile. "Wanted to take her hair curlers
in the bundle. Very annoyed with me because I wouldn't let her. It
rankled for days." Denis in addition had his scarred face tied up to
represent toothache. "We did look rather scalawags," he admitted. They
lay up by day and walked by night, keeping mostly to the fields, and
guiding themselves by Denis's pocket compass. Once the café where they
were at supper was invaded by soldiers, who luckily took no notice of
their ragged companions. Another time when they were sheltering in a
barn some Brandenburgers came in to search for fodder. They did not
search behind the patent reaper in the corner. Yet again they went
to sleep in a copse, and woke to find they had chosen the exercising
ground of a squadron of cavalry. That was near the Dutch frontier. Next
night they crossed under cover of darkness, and were safe.
"Well, I consider it all most compromising for Lettice, and if you'd
a spark of proper feeling you'd offer to marry her," said Gardiner,
yawning with his arms above his head, "but of course you never think of
that, selfish brute. Lord! I shall sleep like a pig to-night. Spoiled
your beauty, Denis," he added, looking at the scar, red and puckered.
Denis put up his hand to the place.
"That was our friend Fritz. He does sometimes score a bull's-eye."
"Well, it seriously detracts from your market value as a husband. On
second thought, I'm not sure but Lettice had better put up with me
after all." He hesitated. A point that had not escaped him was Denis's
significant change of pronoun in the latter part of his narrative from
"they" to "she." What in the world had they done with Dorothea? Left
her behind at the farm? Anything was possible with that dear lunatic!
He had no thought of tragedy. There seemed no room for it in Denis's
straightforward tale, and no hint of it in his quiet, smiling manner.
"I say, Denis, I've no wish to be indiscreet, and I'm not asking if I
ought to hold my tongue--but Wandesforde said--"
"Yes," said Denis, "I was comin' to that. She died."
"Died!"
"Instead of me. I'd never have got off but for her. She put on my
flying kit and led them away from the farm. She was always keen on
dressin' up as a boy. Of course I'd have stopped it if I'd known, but I
didn't; I was off my head. I can't tell you exactly what happened, but
they shot her, and they hunted her, and finally they rounded her up in
the fir wood. The officer in command was quite a decent boy, Lettice
said; she'd have been all right if she'd given herself up. But that
would have meant givin' me up, do you see, so she wouldn't do it. She
crawled into one of those caves up there and refused to come out."
"Well?"
"They bombed her," said Denis simply. "Like clearin' a dug-out. So the
whole place fell in. She must have counted on that. She knew it wasn't
safe."
"That was pretty fine," said Gardiner under his breath. He could
find nothing more. The contrast was too poignant. "The one shall be
taken"--but Lettice was left.
"Yes," said Denis. "I've wondered, Harry: do you think there's anything
in that Carth'lic idea of prayers for the dead?"
Gardiner, with those expectant dark blue eyes fixed on him in their
inveterate simplicity, found himself answering: "Oh, I expect--"
"Because, you see, we didn't have much time to say things," Denis
explained. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bore you with this, but it's
been rather a facer for me. You know, if she'd lived, she'd have been
my wife."
"Oh, my dear old Denis--!" said Gardiner.