"Ubique--"
The gunner's motto. Mark's motto, stamped on all the letters he would
write. A blue gun on a blue gun-carriage, the muzzle pointing to the
left. The motto waving underneath:
"UBIQUE."
At soldiers' funerals the coffin was carried on a gun-carriage and
covered with a flag.
"_Ubique quo fas et gloria ducunt_." All through the excitement of the
evening it went on sounding in her head.
It was Mark's coming of age party in the week before he went. The first
time she could remember being important at a party. Her consciousness of
being important was intense, exquisite. She was Sub-Lieutenant Mark
Olivier's sister. His only one.
And, besides, she looked nice.
Last year's white muslin, ironed out, looked as good as new. The blue
sash really was new; and Mamma had lent her one of her necklets, a
turquoise heart on a thin gold chain. In the looking-glass she could see
her eyes shining under her square brown fringe: spots of gold darting
through brown crystal. Her brown hair shone red on the top and gold
underneath. The side pieces, rolled above her ears and plaited behind,
made a fillet for her back hair. Her back hair was too short. She tried
to make it reach to her waist by pulling the curled tips straight; but
they only sprang back to her shoulder-blades again. It was unfortunate.
Catty, securing the wonderful fillet with a blue ribbon told her not to
be unhappy. She would "do."
Mamma was beautiful in her lavender-grey silk and her black jet cross
with the diamond star. They all had to stand together, a little behind
her, near the door, and shake hands with the people as they came in. Mary
was surprised that they should shake hands with her before they shook
hands with Mark; it didn't seem right, somehow, when it was his birthday.
Everybody had come except Aunt Charlotte; even Mr. Marriott, though he
was supposed to be afraid of parties. (You couldn't ask Aunt Charlotte
because of Mr. Marriott.) There were the two Manistys, looking taller and
leaner than ever. And there was Mrs. Draper with Dora and Effie. Mrs.
Draper, black hawk's eyes in purple rings; white powder over crushed
carmines; a black wing of hair folded over grey down. Effie's pretty,
piercing face; small head poised to strike. Dora, a young likeness of
Mrs. Draper, an old likeness of Effie, pretty when Effie wasn't there.
When they looked at you you saw that your muslin was not as good as new.
When they looked at Mamma you saw that her lavender silk was
old-fashioned and that nobody wore black jet crosses now. You were frilly
and floppy when everybody else was tight and straight in Princess
dresses.
Mamma was more beautiful than Mrs. Draper; and her hair, anyhow, was in
the fashion, parted at the side, a soft brown wing folded over her left
ear.
But that made her look small and pathetic--a wounded bird. She ought not
to have been made to look like that.
You could hear Dora and Effie being kind to Mamma. "Dear Mrs.
Olivier"--Indulgence--Condescension. As if to an unfortunate and rather
foolish person. Mark could see that. He was smiling: a hard, angry smile.
Mrs. Draper was Mamma's dearest friend. They could sit and talk to each
other about nothing for hours together. In the holidays Mrs. Draper used
to be always coming over to talk to Mamma, always bringing Dora and Effie
with her, always asking Mark and Dan and Roddy to her house, always
wondering why Mark never went.
Dan went. Dan seemed as if he couldn't keep away.
This year Mrs. Draper had left off asking Mark and Dan and Roddy. She had
left off bringing Dora and Effie with her.
Mary wondered why she had brought them now, and why her mother had asked
them.
The Manistys. She had brought them for the Manistys. She wanted Mamma to
see what she had brought them for. And Mamma had asked them because she
didn't care, and wanted them to see that she didn't care, and that Mark
didn't care either.
If they only knew how Mark detested them with their "_Dear_ Mrs.
Olivier"!
Something was going on. She heard Uncle Victor saying to Aunt Lavvy,
"Mark's party is a bit rough on Dan."
Dan was trying to get to Effie through a gap in the group formed by the
Manistys and two young subalterns, Mark's friends. Each time he did it
Mrs. Draper stopped him by moving somehow so as to fill the gap. He gave
it up at last, to sit by himself at the bottom of the room, jammed into a
corner between the chimney-piece and the rosewood cabinet, where he
stared at Effie with hot, unhappy eyes.
Supper. Mamma was worried about the supper. She would have liked to have
given them a nicer one, but there wasn't enough money; besides, she was
afraid of what Uncle Victor would think if they were extravagant. That
was the worst of borrowing, Mark said; you couldn't spend so much
afterwards. Still, there was enough wine yet in the cellar for fifty
parties. You could see, now, some advantage in Papa's habit of never
drinking any but the best wine and laying in a large stock of it while he
could.
Mary noticed that Papa and Dan drank the most. Perhaps Dan drank more
than Papa. The smell of wine was over all the supper, spoiling it,
sending through her nerves a reminiscent shiver of disgust.
Mark brought her back into the dining-room for the ice she hadn't had.
Dan was there, by himself, sitting in the place Effie had just left.
Effie's glass had still some wine in it. You could see him look for the
wet side of the rim and suck the drops that had touched her mouth.
Something small and white was on the floor beside him. Effie's
pocket-handkerchief. He stooped for it. You could hear him breathing up
the scent on it with big, sighing sobs.
They slunk back into the drawing-room.
Mark asked her to play something.
"Make a noise, Minky. Perhaps they'll go."
"The Hungarian March." She could play it better than Mamma. Mamma never
could see that the bass might be even more important than the treble. She
was glad that she could play it better than Mamma, and she hated herself
for being glad.
Mark stood by the piano and looked at her as she played. They talked
under cover of the "Droom--Droom--Droom-era-room."
"Mark, am I looking too awful?"
"No. Pretty Minx. Very pretty Minx."
"We mustn't, Mark. They'll hear us. They'll think us idiots."
"I don't care if they do. Don't you wish they'd go? Clever Minx. Clever
paws."
Mamma passed and looked at them. Her face shrank and sharpened under the
dropped wing of her hair. She must have heard what Mark said. She hated
it when Mark talked and looked like that. She hated it when you played
_her_ music.
Beethoven, then. The "Sonata Eroica" was bound up with "Violetta," the
"Guards" and "Mabel" Waltzes and the "Pluie des Perles."
"_Ubique quo fas et gloria ducunt_." That was the meaning of the noble,
serious, passionate music.