Almost inevitable as it had more than once seemed, in the crises of his
illness, the Colonel’s death was a great shock to them all.
At the sound of Lois’s hasty tattoo on the floor, the others had
hastened up to her. They found her still clasping the one thin cold
hand with one of hers and still beating the floor with the other.
They thought at first that it might be a fainting fit--which in itself,
in the circumstances, would have been ominous enough. But briefest
examination showed them that their old friend had answered The Call and
was gone.
They were down again in the small sitting-room, discussing it quietly
and sadly, when Auntie Mitt, after staring fixedly at Lois for a full
minute, as though she had suddenly detected something strange in her
appearance, said suddenly,
“My dear, you are Lady Luard now.”
And Lois stared back at them both with a startled look, and gasped, “I
never thought of that. Oh, I wish Ray were here!”
They all wished that, but no amount of wishing will bring men home from
the war.
“We must send Alma word at once,” said Mrs Dare. “I will write out a
telegram.”
“It will be a shock to her,” said Auntie Mitt. “Perhaps, my dear, a
letter----”
“Alma was prepared for the worst,” said Mrs Dare. “Last time she was
here she told me it would be a miracle if he got through such an
illness at his age. She would like to know at once, I am sure,” and she
sat down at the writing table to prepare the telegram.
And while they were still in the midst of these agitations, and Lois
was wondering how she would ever be able to reconcile herself to the
inevitable changes, she happened to glance vaguely through the window
and saw Alma coming quickly up the front path.
“Here she is,” she cried, and jumped up and ran to meet her.
At sight of Lois at the door, Alma exultingly waved a paper she carried
in her hand and quickened her pace almost to a run.
“Good news!” she cried. “Word of Con at last.”
“Oh, Al, I _am_ so glad,” and she burst into tears.
“Why, Lo, dear, what’s up? It’s good news----”
“Uncle Tony has just died. Mother was just writing a telegram to send
to you.”
“I am not surprised, dear,” said Alma, putting her arm round her. “I
had very little hope of his pulling through. He was an old man, you
see. I am sure he was not very sorry to go; though he would have liked
to see the end of this war, I know. And I do wish he had heard about
Con. He would have been so glad. However, he knows more about it all
now than any of us, and that will please him mightily,” and they went
in together.
So the good news and the bad--nay, why call the news of a good man’s
promotion bad news?--let us say, the other news tended to counteract
one another in the hearts of those who were left. Indeed the net result
that remained with them all was a sense of thankfulness,--for the
peaceful passing of the fine full life, and for the young life spared
for further work.
Alma’s letter was not from Con himself, which at first sight was
disturbing. But the contents explained. Lieutenant Dare had been
wounded--in the hand, the writer said,--at Landrecies during the
retreat from Mons. He was now a prisoner in Germany--at Torgau, and was
being well looked after. He was making good recovery from his wounds
which had been severe, and they were all hoping that something might
presently be arranged in the way of an exchange of medical-staff
prisoners. The writer signed himself Robert Grant, R.A.M.C.
“I can’t tell you what a relief it is,” said Alma. “I almost danced
when I got it. It’s worry that kills, and I was beginning to worry
about the boy. What about Ray?”
“It’s ten days since my last letter,” said Lois. “I’m hoping for the
next every minute.... Do you know, Al, just at the very last, when
Uncle Tony knew the end had come, he said, ‘Good lad, Ray! He will come
back to you. And Con--good lad too! God bless you all!--all!’--that was
almost the last thing he said.”
“The dear old man!... We will take it as a good omen.... I think,
you know, that just at the last they often have an outlook--a
forelook--altogether beyond our understanding. They see with other eyes
than ours.”
“Undoubtedly!” agreed Mrs. Dare.
Alma’s stay, even under the circumstances, could not be a long one.
They had had forty-nine wounded officers in, two days before, many of
their nurses had gone to the front, and they were very short-handed.
Lois walked down to the station with her, and they talked in quiet
sisterly fashion of the past, present, and future.
“It is very curious how things seem to work together at times,” said
Lois.
“Always, maybe, if we knew more about it all, dear.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Here have I been so taken up with nursing Uncle
Tony that I really have never had time to get anxious about Ray.”
“Ray will be all right, you’ll see. I pin my faith to Uncle Tony’s
vision.”
“And yet, when one allows oneself to think about it all, after reading
the terrible accounts of the fighting--and he would have me read them
all to him--it seems almost impossible that any of them can come back
alive.”
“We had forty-nine of them the other day, and it’s amazing how well
they stand it. They’re as cheerful as can be, laughing and chaffing and
joking. And yet some of them are pretty bad. It’s just as well for all
of us to take the cheerful view of things.”
“And then, just when Uncle Tony goes, and we were feeling it so badly,
you come in with your good news of Con. I can’t tell you how glad I am,
Al.”
“I know, dear. And I’ll be just as glad for you one of these days. Pin
your faith to Uncle Tony.”
And through the many dark days when no news came--and in those days no
news did not as a rule mean good news--the thought of Uncle Tony’s last
words held mighty comfort for them all.
They would have liked to bury him quietly, with no great outward show
of the esteem and love in which they held him. Their feelings were too
deep for any outward expression and the times hardly seemed suitable
for making parade of death. There was sorrow enough abroad without
emphasising it.
But Colonel Sir Anthony Luard, V.C., C.B., was a person of consequence.
He had died for his country as truly as any man killed at the
front. The higher powers decreed him a military funeral, and the
quieter-thinking ones at home had to give way. And, after all, they
believed it would please him.
So, on a gun-carriage, escorted by a detachment from the reserve
battalion of his old regiment, with muffled drums and mournful music,
and the Last Post and the crackle of guns, he was laid to rest. And the
others picked up the threads of life again and kept his memory sweet by
constantly missing him and remembering all his sayings and doings.
His lawyer, Mr. Benfleet of Lincoln’s Inn, came out immediately after
the funeral and explained to all concerned--so far as they were
available--the remarkably thoughtful provisions of his will.
It had been made--or remade--immediately after the return of Ray and
Lois from abroad, and it aimed at the comfort and security of all his
little circle, so far as he could provide for these.
There were many wet eyes and brimming hearts as Mr. Benfleet went
quietly through the details.
To Miss Amelia Mitten--“my very dear and trusted friend”--he left
four hundred pounds a year for life. And Auntie Mitt, with her little
black-bordered handkerchief to her eyes, sobbed gratefully.
To Margaret Dare--wife of John Dare of The Red House, Willstead,--“in
token of my very great love and esteem,”--he left the sum of £20,000,
settled inalienably on herself, with power to will it at her death to
whom she chose.
“To my niece, Victoria Luard--who-might-have-been-Balaclava,”--it
was down there in the will in black and white, and they came near
to smiling at the very characteristic touch,--the sum of £50,000 on
attaining the age of twenty-one.
To Dr Connal Dare--if still alive--the sum of £25,000; and to his wife
Alma, formerly Alma Luard, an equal sum. In case of Dr Connal Dare’s
death the whole £50,000 came at once to Alma.
To Lois Luard, formerly Lois Dare, the sum of £25,000 in her own right.
To Raglan Luard, the residue,--which, said Mr. Benfleet, would amount
to probably £100,000 or more when the securities, in which it was all
invested, appreciated again after the war.
There were many little minor legacies and gifts to old servants and so
on. And Uncle Tony, if he was present in the spirit at the reading of
his will, must have been well pleased with the effect of his generous
forethought.