Ray went off in full rig first thing in the morning, taking his kit
with him, in case, as he thought probable, he should be ordered to join
his company at once.
Vic and Honor had business in town, so they went with him and Lois to
the station, where they found Noel and Gregor marching impatiently
about the platform for the train to come in.
“You can’t travel with us, you know,” said Noel. “We go third.
Officers----”
“Thanks, my child! ‘Out of the mouths of babes----’”
“The girls will of course follow the uniform,” said Noel, while Gregor
grinned hopefully.
“Of course,” said Honor, and they got in with Ray. He leaned out of the
window for a last word with Lois, who was going up later to do some
shopping; and then they were gone, and she stood watching the joggling
end carriage till it was out of sight, and wondered forlornly if she
would ever see him again.
She was still standing watching, with an odd little feeling in her
heart that when she turned away it would be like cutting the last link
with the happy past and turning to face the anxious future, which stood
waiting peremptorily just behind her, when the down-train ran in. She
turned with a sigh that was almost a sob, and went out into the road.
Her eyes were misty as she went. It was the beginning of partings, and
if he went to the front, as he most assuredly would if the rest went,
it might be the beginning of the end.
And life was just at its fullest with them, just opening its fairest
white flowers. They were so very happy,--and would have been happier
still, if this hideous war had not come.
But she must be brave. Ray was feeling it just as much as she was. But
he had gone to his duty with high heart and quiet face, and she must do
no less.
But it was hard, hard, hard, to part with him so soon. God help them
both! They were in His hands, and she must cling to that with might and
main.
“Lois!”--and she turned quickly and found Alma hurrying to come up with
her.
But a much-altered Alma. The beautiful face, which used to be all
agleam with the joy of life,--the gracious curving mouth, where quick
smiles and ready laughter used to hover,--the eloquent eyes which
caught your thought in advance of your words,--they were all there but
frozen to the semblance of a marble saint. Lois caught her breath at
the change in her.
“Am I too late? Has he gone?” panted Alma.
“Just gone. Oh, Alma! My dear! My dear!” and they embraced one another
there in the road, oblivious of who might see them at it. For the
tragic web of circumstance in which their hearts were caught lifted
them above all care for such small mundane considerations.
“Vic wrote me a line last night about you two, and I knew Ray would
have to be off at once, so I came as soon as I could possibly get away.
I _would_ have liked to see the dear old boy once more. How is he
feeling and looking?”
“Just as you would expect him to. He looks splendid. He is
feeling--well, very much as we are, I suppose.”
“Yes, these are sad and sober times for us all, but chiefly for us
women. I think it hits us harder than the men. They have all the
glamour and the activities. There is not much glamour in it for us who
sit at home and wait for things to happen and fear the worst all the
time.”
“No ... Al, dear, I can’t tell you all I feel about you and Con. But,
dear, I feel somehow that he will come back. I do not believe he is ...
gone for good.”
“I don’t myself. But the waiting and hearing nothing is hard to
bear.... I thank God a dozen times a day that I have my work and that
it is hard and taxing. If I hadn’t I should break down. You must get
some work to do, Lois. It is the only way to bear it.... But when Con
and I parted, the evening of the day we were married--it was just
outside the big gate at the hospital--I just knelt by my bed half the
night. I could not think of sleeping. And I gave him up, there and
then, to God and his country, and made up my mind that I might never
see him again.”
“It was brave and strong of you, dear. I’m afraid I haven’t got up to
that yet.”
“It is best so. We may never see again any of those who go. If we can
bring ourselves to really understand that, and say good-bye to them in
our hearts, I think the pain of the actual news will be lessened.”
“But we can always hope for them.”
“Of course. We can, and do, and will. And if the hope is realised, so
much the better. But if not, the pain will be less.”
“It is all very terrible. Who would have thought it three months ago?”
“Ay, indeed!... I cannot help hoping that those who brought it about
may suffer in themselves every bit of the suffering they are causing.”
Her unexpected visit was a pleasant surprise to the Colonel and Auntie
Mitt. It reminded them of her sudden home-swoops of ante-war-days, but
with the unforgettable difference. Auntie Mitt, indeed, kept stealing
surreptitious glances at her, as though she were not absolutely certain
in her own mind that this really was their own Alma. And the Colonel’s
voice had a novel inflection in it when he spoke to her.
“No news, Uncle, or you would have let me know,” was her first word to
him.
“Nothing yet, my dear. I shall hear the moment they have anything
definite. But they all seem quite hopeful.”
But she had heard that so often that it had come to lose its savour for
her.
“I am very sorry to have missed Ray. I got off as early as I could, but
we are terribly busy. Have you any further idea as to my going out?”
“My dear, you could go out, I imagine, with any party that is going.
But ... I really think your best place is here,--at your own work, I
mean. If any news came, and you were away out there somewhere,--think
how awkward it might be. We might want you at once and never be able to
find you. Can’t you bring your mind to stopping at home?”
“I suppose I must if you put it so. But I feel as though I would like
to go out and tackle harder work still,--the harder and grimmer and
redder, the better.”
“I know,” said the Colonel understandingly. “And if I thought it best
I would say so, and help you there. But I really think you are best at
home--for a time at all events. Now I must run, my dear. I promised to
be in town at eleven. Stop as long as you can. I’ll send you good news
as soon as I learn any.”
She stayed till close on mid-day, ran in for a short chat with Mrs
Dare, had an early lunch, and then Lois walked back to the station with
her.
“You will keep me posted as to Ray’s doings, Lo,” she said, as they
stood on the platform. “For your sake, dear, I could almost wish he
might not have to go. But I know him, and you know him, and we both
know that if the rest went and he was left behind, it would break his
heart.”
Lois nodded. Her heart was very full. She wished Alma could stop at
home. They could have helped one another. Life was all partings at
present.
“Remember, dear,” said Alma, as the train came round the curve, “we
are more than ever sisters now. We must help one another all we can.
And--don’t forget!--throw yourself into some good work or other. It is
the very best anodyne.”
And, the next minute, Lois was watching the joggling end of the train
as it carried her away.
She went slowly home to discuss with her mother what work she should
set her hand to. But before they had decided anything the matter was
settled for them, for the time being, in quite a different way. A
telegram was brought over to her from Oakdene, and it was from Ray at
Watford.
“Have got rooms for you at Malden Hotel here. Come along.”
This meant a quick fly round if she was to do him no discredit. Within
an hour she was in town and whirling in a taxi to Regent Street. Inside
another hour she had chosen, tried on, and had properly fitted, a
costume and hat equal to the occasion, and she reached the Malden at
Watford just in time for tea.
Then she waited joyously for Ray to put in an appearance, her clouds
for the time being lightened by the certainty of seeing him again, and
of having at all events some small share in him for a few days longer.
She knew well enough that it was but a postponement of the evil day,
a very temporary lifting of the war-clouds to let the sun of their
happiness shine briefly through. But possibly, to one under sentence
of death, a respite of even a week may seem a mighty gain,--seven long
days and nights snatched from the shadow beyond. Possibly!--for to some
it might seem better to have it over and done with rather than to live
on in the inevitableness of the ever-approaching menace.
Yet most would be gratified for even the gift of days, and Lois was
so. Like Alma, she felt that when the actual parting came it would be
wisdom to look on it as possibly--probably final. And so these few
unlooked-for extra days were jewels beyond compare, vouchsafed them by
the goodness of God,--to be made the very most of, and afterwards to
be treasured as long as memory lasted.
Ray came striding in on her just before dinner.
“Well!” he said, when he had kissed her to their hearts’ content, and
then held her off at arm’s length to take her all in,--“We are smart!”
“To be upsides with you, sir.”
“However did you manage it? I was half afraid it would bother you to
come, but the Colonel gave permission and it was too good a chance to
miss.”
“I should think so, indeed. I am so glad you managed it.”
There was a joyous surface-light on his face though below it was set in
firm restraint. Like herself,--but with larger knowledge of the actual
facts and so a clearer estimate of the possibilities--he thought it
more than likely they might never see one another again when they said
their last good-bye. The slaughters out there were terrible. Officers
especially were going under at a terrific rate. It seemed, from what
they heard, that it was an essential part of the new low German fashion
of fighting to make a dead set at every man in officer’s uniform.
But not for one moment did he regret what they had done. If the worst
was to come, his last breath would be the happier for the knowledge
that their lives had been one, and that Lois’s future was secure so far
as Uncle Tony’s generous hands could make it.
His billet was not very far away, but the Colonel, who had known him
for years and Uncle Tony still better, and who had heard all about
their little romance, permitted him the privileges of the hotel so that
he might spend as many of these last precious hours with his new-made
wife as possible, and Ray saw to it that love trespassed not on duty by
so much as one hair’s breadth.
He was up and away each day before she was properly awake, and he came
in at night--when he came in at all--tired and hungry, but hungriest of
all for another sight of her.
And Lois spent the days intercepting the Battalion on its route marches
or exercising itself in cover-taking and trench-digging and manœuvering
at Fortune’s Farm.
And always, when she managed to catch the long line on the march, the
sight of the intent masterful faces under the cocked bonnets, and the
rhythmic swing of the kilts and bare knees and hodden-gray stockings
and blue flashes, to the spirited skirling of the pipes, brought her
heart up into her throat, and, often as not, the tears into her eyes.
They looked so gallant and so gay, so eager to be at it, so gloriously
young and full of life, so ready to do, and dare, and die,--and,
inevitably, some of them, many of them maybe, would swing away into the
war-cloud, just like that--gaily, gallantly, eagerly, and would never
come out of it. The glorious young life would gasp itself out on the
foreign soil,--those who loved them would know them no more save as
happy memories,--and maybe that life that was dearer to her than her
own would be among them.
It was a sweet, poignant, uplifting time, and she lived to its utmost
every vital moment of it. As in one of those gorgeous death-banquets
of old, the ever-pressing knowledge of the inevitable end heightened
and deepened and quickened the vitality of the moments that were left.
Life--in herself and in these others--had never seemed so wonderful and
so desirable. For--for some of them--its hours were numbered.