STEADY OLD ADELA.
‘Leave, boys; leave!’ shouted Beefy one night, rushing in with
battalion orders in his hand.
‘When is it?’ Ginger asked.
‘Next week.’
‘How long do we get, Beefy?’ I inquired.
‘Four days, my boys—four priceless days of priceless fun. Cheero!’ he
concluded, throwing his cap in the air.
This was excellent news. Leave is our greatest joy in the army. At
once we commenced to plan out days of fun and nights of glory. All
were rather secret about their arrangements. They were scheming out
timetables in which not one lady but many were involved. Nobby,
however, confided to me that he was going off to see rather a pretty
widow. She was good fun, and had lots of brass. (Nobby was after the
brass.) Beefy whispered that he had a wonderful woman in Cambridge,
and another in Bath. He was going to see _both_. Tosher, thoroughly
practical, decided to investigate the claims of Scottish girls, and
see whether a Scottish wife would be a sound investment for his dollars
and his affections. Even Billy, the padre, was after a girl—a V.A.D.
commandant, slightly over the popular age, but ‘a fine woman, a fine
woman,’ as Billy confidentially remarked. Ginger announced that he was
going to have a quiet holiday at the Sweetville Hotel. I said nothing,
but thought of—the barmaid.
My own arrangements were not decided. Like that of every soldier,
my visiting list was rather heavy, and in my address–book were the
names of pre–war charmers and war charmers. To see them all was quite
impossible. Fours days did not allow of that. Like a sub–editor, I had
‘to cut down,’ and eventually arrived at a very brief, yet interesting,
programme. Having learnt something about organisation at the school, I
knew how essential it was that there should be no hitch. So I sent off
the following telegrams:
MRS BROWN,
RUSTIC MANOR, BERKS.
Getting short leave, but want to go to London to see tailors. Hope you
don’t mind.
JOHN.
MISS CHARMING,
CHEER–’EM–UP REVUE,
TIDDLEWINKS THEATRE, LONDON.
Getting leave. See you Thursday. Will arrange joy–ride and supper at
Ciro’s. Wire if all right.
JOHN.
MISS PLUNGER,
ROWDEENE, BRIGHTON.
Getting leave. What about a taxi–ride to Town and seeing the shows? Let
me know.
JOHN.
MADAME PETITE,
BRIGHT VILLA, HAMPSTEAD.
Calling Saturday. Hope Jeanette is at home.
JOHN.
MISS SPRIGHTLY,
MANOR HOUSE, SLEEPVILLE.
Getting leave. Come up to Town on Sunday. Bring closed car. Cheero!
JOHN.
ADELA GORDON,
THE GRANGE, SWEETVILLE.
Getting leave, but want go home to see mater, also the tailor, on
important business.
JOHN.
_The Replies._
It’s all right, dear boy. Love.—MOTHER.
Sorry, old boy, can’t be done. Am running a staff–captain just now.
CHARMING.
Have joined the W.A.A.C.’s. Must be in bed by nine. Almost engaged to
flying–man. Sorry.
PLUNGER.
Regret not at home Saturday. Jeanette now in a convent.
PETITE.
Quite impossible. Recently married an army chaplain.
NO LONGER SPRIGHTLY.
Terribly disappointed. Longing to see you. Never mind the tailor. Do try
and come. Love.
ADELA.
These replies came in one by one, and each was like a BOMB. Truly,
the war had upset things, and khaki provided a terrific opposition.
I was mad, I may tell you. Like the others, I had invested in a
first–class sleeping–berth on the London Express, and had arranged
for a royal luncheon with the boys _en route_. Now the whole scheme
had fizzled out. Of course, I could have gone to see the dear old
mater; but as I had told her such a ‘whopper,’ this would have been
rather embarrassing. Wasn’t it rotten bad luck? Molly Charming running
a staff–captain; Phyllis Plunger in the W.A.A.C.’s; Jeanette, of
wonderful memory, in a convent; and Gladys Sprightly actually linked
to an army chaplain! I _did_ feel offended. Of course, there was
Adela—steady old Adela. She was only five miles away, and she was dying
to see me. But I didn’t want to go, for the very plain reason that she
wanted me to come. Whether you agree or not, that is the attitude of
the average man. When the Blue Bird of Happiness is in his hand, he
does not want it. His eyes look away and afar. Man always desires to
chase the unknown, to court the uncertain, and fritter away his time
and his manhood pursuing the bubbles and the maddening mirage.
‘You look glum, John,’ remarked Beefy that night.
‘Yes. My scheme has fizzled out.’
‘You’re a silly ass.’
‘Why?’
‘Hang it all! you wire women, asking to see them. That isn’t the plan.
You don’t understand the dear girls.’
‘Well, old Bluebeard, what would you do?’
‘I simply wire: “Coming to see you. Meet me at So–and–so—certain.”
That’s all! They turn up all right. _It’s an order._ Women love to be
ordered about. When you start to say “please,” they think you’re a
bally old fool. I’m getting fed up trying to educate you,’ concluded
Beefy, going off.
On this subject Beefy _was_ an authority.
However, I decided to go and see Adela. When all the boys had left
I jumped on my bike, and in a short time was sitting in the lovely
old garden. It was a charming day. High in the heavens the sun shone
gloriously. The earth was a panorama of pastoral beauty, and above The
Grange garden birds and bees went blithely on their way. Everything
was restful. Everything seemed clean. And I thought it a much better
atmosphere than the fug of a London lounge or the sooty surroundings of
Oxford Street. And yet there was a longing for the lights that glitter,
and the women who _understand_. I was only a boy, and just human. My
virtues and vices were not entirely formed. One day I could with ease
have become a parson; next, I wanted—’to risk it.’ Heredity tells. I
had the blood of parsons, soldiers, and dreamers in my veins. In my
soul God and the Devil were always struggling for victory. I was the
mere tool of moods and passions which had been handed on.
We are all like that.
Then I looked at Adela. She was reclining in an Oriental hammock
reading a book, and between–times picking up a chocolate. She looked
calm and restful, without nerves, and with a suggestion of decision in
her pose. Adela was not so fetching as a ballet–girl, or so charming
as one of those creatures of Mayfair. London women are very hard to
beat in the little things which captivate and enthral. Their experience
is gained in a cosmopolitan world. They talk with the intellectuals and
dance with the fools. And they can charm both.
Adela was of the soil, the fresh, clean–smelling earth which breeds
health and strength, and few illusions. She had no tricks, no little
bag with a puff for her nose, or the dainty fads of millinery to
enhance her complexion or form. Plain skirt, plain blouse, neat
stockings, and well–cut shoes. And yet she was well dressed. The girl
of taste is not a bag of glad rags. But the real charm of Adela lay in
her magnificent physique, and in her personality.
Adela was different.
No man can define a woman’s personality. It is as baffling as it is
alluring. And what I wondered about was this: Adela knew me, yet I
didn’t know Adela. A man is an open book even to a schoolgirl. She
can find him out in ten minutes, but you will never find a girl out
in a thousand years. A man hates this. It is rather an insult to his
intellect, but it is a woman’s secret and her strength. She knows it,
and she uses it, sometimes in a very cruel way, as history proves.
Still, it is a gift of nature with which Providence has endowed the
sex, which for centuries has been in chains.
Adela was young. Yet she was ‘old.’
‘Johnnie,’ she said, putting down her book and looking at me, ‘why
didn’t you go to the tailor?’
I had been waiting for that question, so promptly pulled the telegrams
out of my pocket, and said, ‘That’s why,’ as I put them in her hand. It
was a brutal thing to do, but it was a fair thing. The dons had always
insisted on my speaking the truth. Not a bad rule, but quite a rotten
scheme with the average girl.
Insincerity has always been popular.
Her brows contracted as she read each reply, and I noted her breast
heaving with suspense. She read them over about a dozen times, then,
folding them up, handed them back with the remark, ‘I thought so!’
‘Why did you?’
‘You are all the same.’
‘But aren’t girls good at the game?’
‘Yes—some are. Others are different; at least, a few are.’
‘You are posing, Adela.’
‘No, Johnnie! I like you, but I can do without you. I haven’t much
admiration for that sort of thing.’
‘If I hadn’t shown them to you, you wouldn’t have known.’
‘Oh yes, I should. I know you. You are quite a nice boy, but, like
all nice boys, you’ve been spoiled. Girls have thrown themselves at
you, and you think you may go on like that to the end of the chapter.
Nevertheless, I’m rather interested in you.’
‘But, Adela, if, as you say, you expected this, why were you so
pressing in your invitation? Why did you want to be “one of the crowd”?’
‘The maternal instinct.’
‘But you are competing with them.’
‘Not at all, old boy; I’m doing salvage–work. I’m giving you a breath
of fresh air in this beautiful garden; then afternoon tea; next a game
of golf; in the evening a stroll over the Downs, with just a kiss or
two, without messing you up with rouge or powder. If, after that, you
feel that the dolls of Bond Street want you, you must go; for then I’ll
know you’re a decadent, hopelessly neurotic, and bound to end up—a
fool.’
‘Where did you learn all this, Adela?’ I said, getting interested.
‘It’s an instinct, and, of course, I use my eyes. We girls have been to
school, you know.’
‘The war has made you think, I suppose?’
‘The war, Johnnie, is messing things up. Women are making themselves
cheap. They mean well. They want the boys to have a good time, but both
are getting burnt in the process. You have learnt too much in France.’
‘But we knew these things before the war, Adela.’
‘The war, Johnnie, has made them fashionable—that’s the difference.
Shell–fire makes you boys neurotic. Your nerves want soothing. But you
all go the wrong way about it. It’s fresh air and porridge you need,
not giggling Jennies, who degrade your manhood.’
‘But, hang it all, Adela! if we’re beating a brute like the Boche, we
can’t be hopelessly decadent. You read things in the papers. You’ve got
too much time to think. If you saw the soul of the army, you’d know we
are at least “not bad.”’
‘Perhaps. But why don’t you all stick to your games?’
‘We try, but you women upset the balance. All the trouble in this world
is due either to wine or to women. You’re sent to try us, and sometimes
you smash us. Despite that, Adela, you are all very charming. And,
to be short, if you hadn’t been decent, I shouldn’t have come to–day.
Let’s have tea.’
‘Right, you old darling!’ she whispered into my ear as she tumbled out
of the hammock. Then she set out a dainty table, the maid brought the
tea, and, under the arms of some old, waving chestnut–trees, we munched
a refreshing snack. We didn’t talk much. I was enjoying the scenery,
and the presence of Adela; while Her Royal Highness was no doubt
wondering what extraordinary creatures we fellows are.
‘Now, Johnnie, I think we’ll cut the golf, and go over the Downs
instead.’
‘Any old thing for a quiet life,’ I said, rising.
She got her stick, called her favourite dogs, and away we went across
the sweet–smelling fields, where the bees hummed in the clover, and
the larks sang high overhead. The air was stimulating, the surrounding
country beautiful; while the presence of Adela added the final touch
to a rustic dream. It was sporting. It was healthy. It was clean. The
spirit of romance was there, and the poetic side of my nature was
roused to its heights. I certainly did feel that the green vales of the
Old Land, and the _real_ girls of the Old Land, were indeed our best
possessions. Somehow the whole thing appeared to me as a sort of moral
lesson, as well as a silent sermon on patriotism.
I became prouder of my country.
I felt _decent_ with Adela.
And so we ambled along, drinking in the joys of nature, and chatting
of many things. It wasn’t the smart talk of Mayfair, in which I was
an expert. It was just straight, frank, none–of–your–damn–nonsense
kind, in which we looked at things with our eyes, and not through
rose–coloured glasses. And you can talk about many things, once barred,
without loss of modesty or self–respect. After all, education has
spread. And if education can bring a man and a woman together on an
equal plane, our country must benefit. A man wants a girl for a chum, a
confidante, and a lifelong companion, and not as a serf, a housekeeper,
and just—A COOK.
Yes, that was a memorable day in my life, and it was near the
turning–point. The school, with all its deficiencies, was making its
mark; while Adela was working hard, although I didn’t notice it at the
time. From the dear old commandant, too, I had gained the spirit of
tolerance and the milk of human kindness. Captain Cheerall had also
stirred me to probe and analyse the human soul; while my comrades had
given me the joys of friendship and the value of understanding.
John Brown was beginning to be—A MAN.
After the walk, we had dinner with the family. The mother was a
delightful old lady, full of good–nature and shrewd common–sense. The
father was equally pleasant; but Winnie, the sister, was down in the
depths. She was thinking of Beefy—dear, kind–hearted, devil–may–care,
old Beefy.
Women always love the daring Don Juans.
‘Let me help you,’ said Adela, as I took my coat from the stand about
half–past ten.
‘Thanks, old girl.’
She lifted it on, then took my arm down the drive. When we got to the
gate, she remarked, ‘Johnnie, I want you to do something.’
‘What, Adela?’
‘Give me those telegrams.’
‘With pleasure,’ I said, handing them over. ‘But what are you going to
do with them?’
‘Burn them,’ she answered, striking a match and lighting them there and
then. As the last telegram flickered out she kissed me good–night, and
said, ‘Do try to be a sensible boy, John Brown.’
Next day I bought the engagement–ring.