A DAY or two afterwards Godfrey Baltazar, still tied by his maimed leg
to Churton Towers, received a letter which caused him to frown and rub
his head. It was type-written save for the signature, and was addressed,
care of a firm of solicitors in Bedford Row. As soon as Marcelle came to
do his morning dressing he handed it to her.
“What do you make of this?”
Before replying, she read it through without remark. It ran:
Dear Sir,
_I have just been visiting Cambridge after many years’ absence
abroad, and have learned that the son of my old college friend,
John Baltazar, is lying wounded at Churton Towers Convalescent
Home. I am writing to you, therefore, to enquire whether one who
was very intimately connected with your father in the old days
might venture to run down to Godalming and see you, with the
double purpose of making the acquaintance of John Baltazar’s
son, of whose brilliant academic beginnings the University
authorities have informed me, and of paying a stranger
Englishman’s tribute to a gallant fellow who has shed his blood
for his country. My time being, at your disposal, I shall be
happy to keep any appointment you may care to make._
_Yours very faithfully_,
James Burden
“Seems rather nice of him,” said Marcelle.
“I suppose it is. But who is the old fossil?”
Marcelle smiled. “Probably what he claims to be. An old college friend
of your father.”
“He must have been a don of sorts. Not merely an undergraduate friend.
Otherwise how could he have got straight to the people who knew all
about me? You ever heard of James Burden?”
“No,” replied Marcelle, shaking her head. “How could I know all the
fellows of your father’s college? Newnham students in my day were kept
far from the madding crowd of dons.”
“Well, what about seeing the sentimental blighter? Oh, of course he’s
sentimental. His ‘double purpose’ reeks of it. Rather what before the
war we used to call ‘colonial.’ What shall I do? Shall I tell him to
come along?”
“Why not? It can do no harm.”
Godfrey reflected for a few moments. Then he said:
“You see, before I met you I would have jumped at the idea of seeing an
old friend of my father. But you knew more of him than the whole lot of
the others put together. I’ve got my intimate picture of him through
you. I’m not so keen to get sidelights, possibly distorting lights, from
anybody else. You see what I mean, don’t you?”
“I see,” said Marcelle. “Let us have a look at the foot.”
She plied her nurse’s craft; set him up for the day’s mild activities.
When he hobbled an hour later into the hall to attend to his
correspondence and resume his study of the late Dr. Routh’s _Treatise on
Rigid Dynamics_, he wrote a polite note to Mr. Burden suggesting an
appointment. After all, even in such luxurious quarters as Churton
Towers, life was a bit monotonous, and stragglers from the outer world
not unwelcome. It was all very well for most of his comrades, who had
mothers, fathers, sisters, cousins, girl friends attached and unattached
to visit them; but he, Godfrey, had found himself singularly alone. Here
and there a representative of the Woodcott crowd had paid him a
perfunctory visit. He professed courteous appreciation. But they were
not his people. Memories of his pariah boyhood discounted their gush
over the one-footed hero with the Military Cross. He was cynical enough
to recognize that they took a vast lot of the credit to themselves, to
the Family. They went away puffed with pride and promises. He said to
Marcelle:
“I’m not taking any.”
A few men friends, chiefly men on leave, wandered down from time to
time. But they had the same old tales to tell; of conditions in the
sector, of changes in the battalion, of such and such a scrap, of
promotions and deaths, a depressing devil of a lot of deaths; the
battalion wasn’t what it was when Godfrey left it; he could not imagine
the weird creatures in Sam Browne belts that blew in from nowhere, to
take command of platoons, things with their mother’s milk wet on their
lips, and garters from the Burlington Arcade, their idea of devilry, in
their pockets. And the N.C.O.s! My God! Oh, for the good old days
of—six months ago!
Godfrey, wise in his generation, laughed at the jeremiads of these
callow _laudatores temporis acti_, and on probing further, satisfied
himself that everything was still for the best in the best of all
possible armies. He also found that ginger was still hot in the mouths
of these friends of his, and that he had not lived until he had seen
Betty or Kitty or Elsie So-and-So, or such and such a Revue.
Frankly and boyishly, his appreciated his friends’ entertaining chatter.
But they came and went, with the superficial _bonhomie_ of the modern
soldier. They touched no depths. If he had died of his gangrened foot,
they would have said “Poor old chap!” and thought no more about him. He
did not condemn them, for he himself had said and thought the same of
many a comrade who had gone West. It was part of the game which he
played as scrupulously and as callously as the others. He craved,
however, solicitude deeper and more permanent.
Of course there was Dorothy Mackworth. She did not come to Churton
Towers; but she had dutifully attended the Carlton when he had summoned
her thither to meet Sister Baring, and put on for his benefit her most
adorable clothing and behaviour. The lunch had been a meal of delight.
The young man glowed over his guests—the two prettiest women, so he
declared, in the room. Marcelle in the much-admired hat, her cheeks
slightly flushed and her eyes bright, looked absurdly young. The girl,
conscious of angelic dealing, carried off her own absurd youth with a
conquering air that bewitched him more than ever. She dropped golden
words:
“Oh, let us cut out Leopold! I’ve no use for him.”
She had no use for Leopold Doon, his half-brother and rival. He was to
be cut out of their happy thoughts. Also:
“I’m not going to have you creep back into civil life and bury yourself
at Cambridge. You’d get a hump there you’d never recover from. There’s
lots of jobs on the staff for a brainy fellow like him, aren’t there,
Miss Baring? I’ll press father’s button and he’ll do the rest.”
Now Dorothy’s father was a Major-General doing things at Whitehall,
whose nature was indicated by mystic capital letters after his name.
“You’ll look splendid in red tabs,” she added.
This profession of interest and this air of proprietorship enraptured
him. Under the ban of her displeasure Cambridge faded into a dreary,
tumbledown desolation. She had but to touch him with her fairy wand and
he would break out all over in red tabs. She spoke with assurance in the
future tense.
And again, in a low voice, on their winding way out through the tables
of the restaurant, Marcelle preceding them by a yard or two:
“Miss Baring’s a real dear. But don’t fall in love with her, for I swear
I’m not going to play gooseberry.”
He had protested in a whisper: “Fall in love with anyone but you?”
And she had replied: “I think I’m nice enough,” and had laughed at him
over her shoulder and looked exceedingly desirable.
He had never dared till that inspired moment speak to her of love in
plain, bald terms; now he had done it and not only remained unfrozen,
but basked in the warmth of her approval.
“I think that’s the most beautiful beano I’ve ever had,” he said to
Marcelle, on their journey back to Godalming.
Yes. There was Dorothy. She had promised to participate in a similar
beano any time he liked. But such bright occurrences must be rare. He
longed to plunge into fervid correspondence. Caution restrained him.
Elusive and perplexing, Heaven knew what she might say to a violent
declaration of passion. It might ruin a state of things both delicate
and delicious. Far better carry on his wooing by word of mouth.
In the meanwhile, the days at Churton Towers were long and life lacked
variety. So he looked forward to the visit of Mr. James Burden, compound
of fossil and sentimental blighter though he might be.
* * * * *
Punctually at three o’clock, the appointed hour, one afternoon, the maid
who attended the door came up to Godfrey Baltazar waiting lonely in the
great hall, and announced the visitor. With the aid of the now familiar
crutch he rose nimbly. He saw advancing towards him in a brisk, brusque
way, a still young-looking man in grey tweeds, rather above medium
height, thickset, giving an immediate impression of physical strength.
“Are you Mr. Godfrey Baltazar?”
“Yes, sir,” said the boy courteously.
“My name is Burden. It’s good of you to let me come to see you.”
He grasped Godfrey’s hand in a close grip and looked at him keenly out
of bright grey eyes. Not much fossil there, thought the young man. On
the contrary, a singularly live personality. There was strength in the
heavy though clean-cut face, marked by the deep vertical furrow between
the brows; strength in the coarse, though well-trimmed, thatch of brown
hair unstreaked by grey; strength in his voice.
“Do sit down,” said Godfrey.
Baltazar sat down and, looking at his son, clutched the arm of his
chair. Crosby and Sheepshanks were right. A splendid fellow, the ideal
of a soldier, clean run, clear eyes; a touch of distinction and breed
about him, manifestation of the indomitable old Huguenot strain. By God!
A boy to be proud of; and he saw bits of himself in the boy’s features,
expression and gesture. A thrill ran through him as he drank in the new
joy of parenthood. Yet through the joy pain stabbed him—fierce
resentment against Fate, which had cheated him of the wonderful years of
the boy’s growth and development. For the first time in his decisive
life he felt tongue-tied and embarrassed. He cursed the craftiness that
brought him hither under an assumed name. Yet, had he written as John
Baltazar, he would have risked a rebuff. What sentimental regard or
respect could this young man have for his unknown and unnatural father?
At any rate his primary object had been attained. Here he was in his
son’s presence, a courteously welcomed guest. He looked at him with
yearning eyes; Godfrey met his gaze with cool politeness. Baltazar wiped
a perspiring brow. After a few moments Godfrey broke an awkward
situation by offering his cigarette case. The cigarettes lit, Baltazar
said suddenly:
“It’s an infernal shame!”
“What?” asked Godfrey, startled.
Baltazar pointed downwards. “That,” said he.
“Oh!” Godfrey laughed. “I’m one of the lucky ones. Far better to have
stopped it with my foot than my head.”
“But to limp about on crutches all your life—a fellow like you in the
pride of youth and strength. It makes one angry.”
“That’s kind of you, sir,” said Godfrey. “But it doesn’t worry me much.
They’re wangling a new foot for me, and as soon as I can stick it on,
I’ll throw away my crutches, and no one but myself will be a bit the
wiser.”
“You take it bravely,” said Baltazar.
“It’s all in the day’s work. What’s the good of grousing? What’s the
point of a real foot, anyway, when a faked one will do as well?”
But though Baltazar admired the young fellow’s careless courage, he
still glowered at the maimed leg. He resented fiercely the lost foot. He
had been robbed of a bit of this wonderful son.
“How did you come to get hit?” he asked abruptly.
There are many ways of asking a wounded man such a question. Many he
loathes. Hence the savagely facetious answers that have been put on
record. But there are ways that compel reply. Baltazar’s was one.
Godfrey felt strangely affected by the elder man’s earnestness; yet his
instinct forbade him to yield at once.
“Getting hit’s as simple as being bowled out at cricket. A jolly sight
simpler. Like going out in the rain and getting wet. You just go out
without an umbrella and something hits you, and that’s the end of it.”
“But when was it? How was it?” asked Baltazar.
Godfrey, after the way of British subalterns, gave a bald account of his
personal adventures in his last fight near Ypres. It might have been a
description of a football match. Baltazar wondered. For all his
wanderings and experience of life, he had never heard a first-hand
account of modern warfare. The psychology of it perplexed and fascinated
him. He plied the young man with questions; shrewd, direct questions
piercing to the heart of things; and gradually Godfrey’s English reserve
melted, and he laid aside his defensive armour and told his intent
visitor what he wanted to know. And Baltazar’s swift brain seized the
vivid pictures and co-ordinated them until he grew aware of the hells
through which this young and debonair gentleman had passed.
“And what did you get that for?”
He pointed to the ribbon of the Military Cross.
“I managed to get away with some machine guns out of a tight corner. It
was only when we were scooting back that I discovered we had been left
in the air. I thought the battalion was quite up close. If I hadn’t, I
should probably have bolted. These things are all flukes.”
“What a proud man your father would have been,” said Baltazar.
“By the way, yes,” said Godfrey. “I was forgetting. You were a friend of
my father’s.”
“It’s a great misfortune that he never met you,” said Baltazar.
“He disappeared before I was born,” Godfrey remarked drily.
“I know. That’s why I wrote to you in some diffidence. I had no idea how
you regarded your father’s memory. I hope you appreciate my feeling that
I might be treading on delicate ground.”
Godfrey waved an indulgent hand. “Oh, that’s all right, sir. My father
was a distinguished and romantic person, and I’m rather interested in
him than otherwise.”
Baltazar drew a great breath of relief. At any rate he was not execrated
by the paragon of sons. “I see,” said he, his features relaxing, for the
first time, into a smile. “Like any other ancestor, he’s part of your
family history.”
“Something of the sort. Only perhaps a bit nearer.”
“How nearer?”
“People live who knew him in the flesh. You, for instance.”
“Yes,” said Baltazar. “I knew him intimately. We were undergraduates and
dons together. I left Cambridge about the same time as he did—when my
fellowship lapsed. I went away to the Far East, where I’ve spent my
life. I’m just back, you know. Instinct took me to Cambridge, a sort of
Rip van Winkle, to see if there were any remains of old friends—and my
visit to you is the result of my enquiries.”
“When you wrote to me, I wondered whether you could tell me if my father
was alive or dead.”
Baltazar made a little gesture.
“_Quien sabe?_ From what I remember of John Baltazar he was not a man to
let himself die easily. He was the most obstinate mule I ever came
across. Death would have had a trying time with him. Besides, he was as
tough as a rhinoceros.”
“So he still may be in the land of the living?”
“As far as I know.” Baltazar leaned forward on his chair. “You have no
feeling of resentment against him?”
“One can’t feel resentment against a shadow,” replied Godfrey.
“Suppose he reappeared, what would be your attitude towards him?”
Godfrey frowned at the touch of impertinence in the question which
probed too deeply. He glanced distrustfully at his visitor.
“I’m afraid I’ve never considered the point,” he replied frostily. “Have
you any special reason for putting it to me?”
Baltazar winced. “Only as a student of psychology. But I see you would
rather continue to regard him as a legendary character?”
“Quite,” said Godfrey.
“You must forgive me, Mr. Baltazar,” said the father, with a smile. “I’m
half orientalized and only beginning to attune myself to Western habits
of thought. I lived for so many years in the interior of China that I
almost lost the Western point of view. Well, there the basis of all
religious and philosophic systems is filial piety. The whole moral and
political system of the Empire has been reared on it for thousands of
years. If you were a Chinaman, you would venerate your father, no matter
what grievances you might have against him or how shadowy and legendary
he might be.”
“But I’m not a Chinaman,” said Godfrey.
“Precisely. That’s where your typically Western point of view is of
great interest to me. I hope, therefore, you see that the question I put
to you, although it may be one of curiosity, is of philosophical and not
idle curiosity.”
“I see,” replied Godfrey, smiling and mollified. “May I ask you which of
the two attitudes you consider the most workable in practical life?”
“I told you just now,” said Baltazar, “that my mind was in process of
adjustment.”
There came a slight pause. Godfrey broke it by suggesting politely that
Mr. Burden must have found Cambridge greatly changed. Baltazar launched
into vivid description of the toga giving way to arms. Eventually came
to personalities. The death of Dr. Crosby’s only son.
“Yes. I heard,” said Godfrey. “Fine soldier. Done in by high explosive
shell. Not a trace of him or six others left. Not even the heel of a
boot.”
“How lightly you all take death nowadays,” Baltazar remarked
wonderingly.
“That oughtn’t to surprise you,” said Godfrey. “I’ve been led to believe
they don’t worry their heads much about it in China.”
“I thought it one of the points at which East and West could never
touch.” He laughed. “More readjustment, you see.”
“In the Army we’ve got either to be fatalists or lunatics. If your
number’s up it’s up, and that’s all there is to it. _You_ can’t do
anything. You can’t even run away.”
“But surely you cling to life—young men like you—with all sorts of
golden promises in front of you?”
“We don’t do silly ass things,” said Godfrey. “We don’t stand about like
Ajaxes defying the lightning. When shells come we scurry like rabbits
into the nearest funk-hole. We’re not a bit brave unless there’s no help
for it. But when you see so many people killed around you, you say ‘My
turn next,’ and it doesn’t seem to matter. You think ‘Who the blazes are
you that you should be so precious?’ . . . No. Going out all in the
fraction of a second like Crosby doesn’t matter. Why should it? What
does give you a horrible feeling in the pit of your stomach is the fear
lest you may be utterly messed up and go on living. But death itself is
too damned ordinary. At any rate, that’s the way I size it up. Of course
it’s pretty cheap and easy for a lucky beggar like me, who’s out of it
for ever, to talk hot philosophic air—but all the same, looking back, I
think I’ve told you in a vague sort of way what I felt when I was out in
France. Sometimes the whole thing seems a nightmare. At others, I want
to kick myself for sitting here in luxury when there’s so much to be
done out there. I had got my platoon—I was acting first
lieutenant—like a high-class orchestra—just the last two months, you
know. It was the weirdest feeling. I just had to wave my baton and they
did everything I wanted. Once or twice I nearly cried with sheer
amazement. And then just when the band was playing its damndest, I got
knocked out and fainted like a silly fool, and woke up miles away. When
one has sweated one’s guts out over a thing, it’s annoying not to reap
the fruit of it. It’s rough luck. It’s—well——”
Suddenly self-consciousness returned. He flushed deeply.
“I’m awfully sorry, sir. I never meant to bore you like this about
myself.”
“Bore me!” cried Baltazar. “My dear fellow, you could go on like this
for ever and command my most amazed interest. Do go on.”
“It’s very kind of you,” stammered the young man, “but—really——”
He stopped, confused, embarrassed, ashamed of his boasting. Never had he
spoken like that to human being of his incomparable platoon. Never had
he unveiled to profane eyes his soldier’s Holy of Holies. Certainly not
to his comrades. Not to Dorothy. Not even to Marcelle. What on earth
must this stranger, whom he didn’t know from Adam, be thinking of him?
He lit a cigarette, before, remembering manners, he offered his case to
his visitor. The sense of sentimental braggadocio overwhelmed him,
burning him red-hot. He longed with sudden fury to get rid of this
uncanny guest with his clear, compelling eyes, which even now steadily
regarded him with an inscrutable smile and continued the impossible
invitation: “Do go on.” He could no more go on than smite him over the
head with his crutch (which he was far more inclined to do) for plucking
out the heart of his mystery. If only the man would go! But he sat
there, strong, urbane, maddeningly kind. He hated him. Yet he felt
himself under his influence. From the man seemed to emanate a suggestion
of friendship, interest, control, which his sensitive English spirit
vehemently repudiated. He heard him say:
“The old French blood in your veins has suddenly come up against the
English.”
He started. “What do you know about my French ancestry?”
“Your father was very proud of his Huguenot descent.”
“My father!” cried Godfrey, his nerves on edge. “I’m rather fed up with
my father. I wish he had never been born.”
Baltazar rose. “I’m sorry,” said he courteously, “to have distressed
you. Believe me, it was far from my intention.”
Godfrey stared at him for a second, and passed his hand across his eyes.
“It’s for me to apologize. I’m afraid I’ve been rude. Please don’t go.”
But Baltazar stood smiling, holding out his hand. Now that the man was
going Godfrey realized the enormity of his own discourtesy. He looked
around as if seeking some outlet for the situation. And then, as if in
answer to a prayer, at the end of the hall appeared the passing,
grey-clad figure of a guardian angel.
“Sister!” he cried.
Marcelle halted, smiled, and advanced towards him.
“Sister,” said he, “this is Mr. James Burden. You ought to know each
other. You both knew my father.”
Baltazar turned. And for a few speechless seconds he and Marcelle stared
into each other’s eyes.