looking down at his father wonderingly. ‘Haven’t you got over it
yet, father? I got over it so long ago. I wish you people would
understand what a little thing it is.’
‘Tell me,’ very humbly; ‘tell me, Dick.’
‘All right.’ He is in the chair again. ‘Mind, I can’t tell you
where I was killed; it’s against the regulations.’
‘I know where.’
Curiously, ‘You got a wire, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s always a wire for officers, even for 2nd Lieutenants.
It’s jolly decent of them.’
‘Tell me, Dick, about the--the veil. I mean the veil that is
drawn between the living and the----’
‘The dead? Funny how you jib at that word.’
‘I suppose the veil is like a mist?’
‘The veil’s a rummy thing, father. Yes, like a mist. But when
one has been at the Front for a bit, you can’t think how thin
the veil seems to get; just one layer of it. I suppose it seems
thin to you out there because one step takes you through it.
We sometimes mix up those who have gone through with those who
haven’t. I daresay if I were to go back to my old battalion the
living chaps would just nod to me.’
‘Dick!’
‘Where’s that pipe? Death? Well, to me, before my day came,
it was like some part of the line I had heard a lot about but
never been in. I mean, never been in to stay, because, of
course, one often popped in and out.’
‘Dick, the day that you----’
‘My day? I don’t remember being hit, you know. I don’t remember
anything till the quietness came. When you have been killed it
suddenly becomes very quiet; quieter even than you have ever
known it at home. Sunday used to be a pretty quiet day at my
tutors, when Trotter and I flattened out on the first shady
spot up the river; but it is quieter than that. I am not boring
you, am I?’
‘My boy!’
‘When I came to, the veil was so thin that I couldn’t see it
at all; and my first thought was, Which side of it have I come
out on? The living ones lying on the ground were asking that
about themselves, too. There we were, all sitting up and asking
whether we were alive or dead; and some were one, and some were
the other. Sort of fluke, you know.’
‘I--I--oh, Dick!’
‘As soon as each had found out about himself he wondered how it
had gone with his chums. I halloo’d to Johnny Randall, and he
halloo’d back that he was dead, but that Trotter was living.
That’s the way of it. A good deal of chaff, of course. By that
time the veil was there, and getting thicker, and we lined up
on our right sides. Then I could only see the living ones in
shadow and hear their voices from a distance. They sang out
to us for a while; but just at first, father, it was rather
lonely when we couldn’t hear their tread any longer. What are
you fidgeting about? You needn’t worry; that didn’t last long;
we were heaps more interested in ourselves than in them. You
should have heard the gabbling! It was all so frightfully
novel, you see; and no one quite knew what to do next, whether
all to start off together, or wait for some one to come for us.
I say, what a lot I’m talking!’
‘What happened, Dick?’
‘Oh!’ a proud ring coming into the voice, ‘Ockley came for us.
He used to be alive, you know--the Ockley who was keeper of the
fives in my first half. I once pointed him out to mother. I was
jolly glad he was the one who came for us. As soon as I saw it
was Ockley I knew we should be all right.’
‘Dick, I like that Ockley.’
‘Rather. I wish I could remember something funny to tell you
though. There are lots of jokes, but I am such a one for
forgetting them.’
He laughs boisterously. We may be sure that he flings back his
head. You remember how Dick used to fling back his head when he
laughed?--No, you didn’t know him.
‘Father, do you remember little Wantage who was at my private
and came on to Ridley’s house in my third half? His mother was
the one you called Emily.’
‘Emily Wantage’s boy.’
‘That’s the card. We used to call him Jemima, because he and
his mother were both caught crying when lock-up struck, and she
had to clear out.’
‘She was very fond of him, Dick.’
‘Oh, I expect no end. Tell her he’s killed.’
‘She knows.’
‘She had got a wire. That isn’t the joke, though. You see he
got into a hopeless muddle about which side of the veil he had
come out on; and he went off with the other ones, and they
wouldn’t have him, and he got lost in the veil, running up
and down it, calling to us; and just for the lark we didn’t
answer.’ He chuckles. ‘I expect he has become a ghost!’ With
sudden consideration, ‘Best not tell his mother that.’
Mr. Don rises, wincing, and Dick also is at once on his feet,
full of compunction.
‘Was that shabby of me? Sorry, father. We are all pretty young,
you know, and we can’t help having our fun still.’
‘I’m glad you still have your fun,’ the father says, once more
putting his hands on Dick’s shoulders. ‘Let me look at you
again, Dick. There is such a serenity about you now.’
‘Serenity, that’s the word! None of us could remember what
the word was. It’s a ripping good thing to have. I should be
awfully bucked if you would have it, too.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘I say, how my tongue runs on! But, after all, it was my show.
Now, you tell me some things.’
‘What about, Dick? The war?’
‘No,’ almost in a shout. ‘We have a fine for speaking about the
war. And you know, those fellows we were fighting--I forget who
they were?’
‘The Germans.’
‘Oh yes. Some of them were on the same side of the veil with
us, and they were rather decent; so we chummed up in the end
and Ockley took us all away together. They were jolly lucky in
getting Ockley. There I go again! Come on, it’s your turn. Has
the bathroom tap been mended yet?’
‘I’m afraid it is--just tied up with that string still, Dick.
It works all right.’
‘It only needs two screw-nails, you know.’
‘I’ll see to it.’
‘Do you know whether any one at my tutors got his fives choice
this half?’
‘I’m sorry, Dick, but----’
‘Or who is the captain of the boats?’
‘No, I----’
‘Whatever have you been doing?’ He is moving about the room.
‘Hullo, here’s mother’s workbox! Is mother all right?’
‘Very sad about you, Dick.’
‘Oh, I say, that isn’t fair. Why doesn’t she cheer up?’
‘It isn’t so easy, my boy.’
‘It’s pretty hard lines on me, you know.’
‘How is that?’
‘If you are sad, I have to be sad. That’s how we have got to
work it off. You can’t think how we want to be bright.’
‘I’ll always remember that, and I’ll tell your mother. Ah, but
she won’t believe me, Dick; you will have to tell her yourself.’
‘I can’t do that, father. I can only come to one.’
‘She should have been the one; she loved you best, Dick.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Do you ever,’ with a slight hesitation, ‘see
Laura now?’
‘She is staying with us at present.’
‘Is she? I think I should like to see her.’
‘If Laura were to see you----’
‘Oh, she wouldn’t see me. She is not dressed in black, is she?’
‘No, in white.’
‘Good girl! I suppose mother is in black?’
‘Surely, Dick.’
‘It’s too bad, you know.’
‘You weren’t exactly--engaged to Laura, were you, Dick?’ A bold
question from a father, but the circumstances were unusual.
Apologetically, ‘I never rightly knew.’
‘No!’ Dick has flung back his head again. Confidentially,
‘Father, I sometimes thought of it, but it rather scared me! I
expect that is about how it was with her, too.’
‘She is very broken about you now.’
Irritated, ‘Oh, hang!’
‘Would you like her to forget you, Dick?’
‘Rather not. But she might help a fellow a bit. Hullo!’
What calls forth this exclamation is the little table at which
the séance had taken place. The four chairs are still standing
round it, as if they were guarding something.
‘Here’s something new, father; this table.’
‘Yes, it is usually in the drawing-room.’
‘Of course. I remember.’
Mr. Don sets his teeth. ‘Does that table suggest anything to
you, Dick?’
‘To me? Let me think. Yes, I used to play backgammon on it.
What is it doing here?’
‘Your mother brought it in.’
‘To play games on? Mother!’
‘I don’t--know that it was a game, Dick.’
‘But to play anything! I’m precious glad she can do that. Was
Laura playing with her?’
‘She was helping her.’
‘Good for Laura.’ He is looking at some slips of paper on the
table. ‘Are those pieces of paper used in the game? There is
writing on them: “The first letter is H--the second letter is
A--the third letter is R.” What does it mean?’
‘Does it convey no meaning to you, Dick?’
‘To me? No; why should it?’
Mr. Don is enjoying no triumph. ‘Let us go back to the fire, my
boy.’
Dick follows him into the ingle-nook. ‘But, why should it
convey a meaning to me? I was never much of a hand at indoor
games.’ Brightly, ‘I bet you Ockley would be good at it.’ After
a joyous rumble, ‘Ockley’s nickname still sticks to him!’
‘I don’t think I know it.’
‘He was a frightful swell, you know. Keeper of the field, and
played against Harrow the same year. I suppose it did go just a
little to his head.’
They are back in their old seats, and Mr. Don leans forward in
gleeful anticipation. Probably Dick is leaning forward in the
same way, and this old father is merely copying him.
‘What did you nickname him, Dick?’
‘It was his fags that did it!’
‘I should like to know it. I say, do tell me, Dick.’
‘He is pretty touchy about it now, you know.’
‘I won’t tell any one. Come on, Dick.’
‘His fags called him K.C.M.G.’
‘Meaning, meaning, Dick?’
‘Meaning “Kindly Call Me God!”’
Mr. Don flings back his head; so we know what Dick is doing.
They are a hilarious pair, perhaps too noisy, for suddenly Mr.
Don looks at the door.
‘I think I heard some one, Dick!’
‘Perhaps it’s mother!’
‘She may,’ nervously, ‘have heard the row.’
Dick’s eyes must be twinkling. ‘I say, father, you’ll catch it!’
‘I can’t believe, Dick,’ gazing wistfully into the chair, ‘that
she won’t see you.’
It is a sadder voice than his own for the moment that answers,
‘Only one may see me.’
‘You will speak to her, Dick. Let her hear your voice.’
‘Only one may hear me. I could make her the one; but it would
mean your losing me.’
‘I can’t give you up, Dick.’
Mrs. Don comes in, as beautiful as ever, but a little aggrieved.
‘I called to you, Robert.’
‘Yes, I thought--I was just going to----’
He has come from the ingle-nook to meet her. He looks from her
to Dick, whom he sees so clearly, standing now by the fire. An
awe falls upon Mr. Don. He says her name, meaning, ‘See, Grace,
who is with us.’
Her eyes follow his, but she sees nothing, not even two arms
outstretched to her. ‘What is it, Robert? What is the matter?’
She does not hear a voice say, ‘Mother!’
‘I heard you laughing, Robert; what on earth at?’
The father cannot speak.
‘Now you’re in a hole, father!’ says a mischievous voice.
‘Can I not be told, Robert?’
‘Something in the paper,’ the voice whispers.
Mr. Don lifts the paper feebly, and his wife understands. ‘Oh,
a newspaper joke! Please, I don’t want to hear it.’
‘Was it my laughing that brought you back, Grace?’
‘No, that would only have made me shut my door. If Dick thought
you could laugh!’ She goes to the little table. ‘I came back
for these slips of paper.’ She lifts them and presses them to
her breast. ‘These precious slips of paper!’
Dick was always a curious boy, and forgetting that she cannot
hear him, he blurts out, ‘How do you mean, mother? Why are they
precious?’
Mr. Don forgets also and looks to her for an answer.
‘What is it, Robert?’
‘Didn’t you--hear anything, Grace?’
‘No. Perhaps Laura was calling; I left her on the stair.’
‘I wish,’ Mr. Don is fighting for Dick now, ‘I wish Laura would
come back and say good-night to me.’
‘I daresay she will.’
‘And,’ valiantly, ‘if she could be--rather brighter, Grace.’
‘Robert!’
‘I think Dick would like it.’
Her fine eyes reproach him mutely, but she says, ever
forgiving, ‘Is that how you look at it, Robert? Very well,
laugh your fill--if you can. But if Dick were to appear before
me to-night----’
In his distress Mr. Don cries aloud to the figure by the fire,
‘Dick, if you can appear to your mother, do it.’
There is a pause in which anything may happen, but nothing
happens. Yes, something has happened: Dick has stuck to his
father.
‘Really, Robert!’ Mrs. Don says, and, without a word of
reproach, she goes away. Evidently Dick comes to his father,
who has sunk into a chair, and puts a loving hand on him. Mr.
Don clasps it without looking up.
‘Father, that was top-hole of you! Poor mother, I should have
liked to hug her; but I can’t.’
‘You should have gone to her, Dick; you shouldn’t have minded
me.’
The wiser boy says, ‘Mother’s a darling, but she doesn’t need
me as much as you do.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s all right. I’m glad she’s so keen about that game,
though.’
He has returned to the ingle-nook when Laura comes in, eager to
make amends to Dick’s father if she hurt him when she went out.
Softly, ‘I have come to say good-night, Mr. Don.’
‘It’s nice of you, Laura,’ taking both her hands.
Dick speaks. ‘I want her to come nearer to the fire; I can’t
see her very well there.’
For a moment Mr. Don is caught out again; but Laura has heard
nothing. He becomes quite cunning in Dick’s interests.
‘Your hands are cold, Laura; go over to the fire. I want to
look at you.’
She sits on the hearthstone by Dick’s feet.
Shyly, ‘Am I all right?’
It is Dick who answers. ‘You’re awfully pretty, Laura. You are
even prettier than I thought. I remember I used to think, she
can’t be quite as pretty as I think her; and then when you
came you were just a little prettier.’
She has been warming her hands. ‘Why don’t you say anything?’
she asks Mr. Don.
‘I was thinking of you and Dick, Laura.’
‘What a pretty soul she has, father,’ says the boy; ‘I can see
right down into it now.’
‘If Dick had lived, Laura, do you think that you and he----?’
With shining eyes, ‘I think--if he had wanted it very much.’
‘I expect he would, my dear.’
There is an odd candour about Dick’s contribution, ‘I think so,
too, but I never was quite sure.’ They are a very young pair.
Laura is trembling a little. ‘Mr. Don----’
‘Yes, Laura?’
‘I think there is something wicked about me. I sometimes
feel--quite light-hearted--though Dick has gone.’
‘Perhaps, nowadays, the fruit trees have that sort of shame
when they blossom, Laura; but they can’t help doing it. I hope
you are yet to be a happy woman, a happy wife.’
‘It seems so heartless to Dick.’
‘Not a bit; it’s what I should like,’ Dick says.
‘It’s what he would like, Laura.’
‘Do you remember, Laura,’ Dick goes on, ‘I kissed you once. It
was under a lilac in the Loudon Woods. I knew at the time that
you were angry, and I should have apologised. I’m sorry, Laura.’
His sweetheart has risen, tasting something bitter-sweet. ‘What
is it, Laura?’ Mr. Don asks.
‘Somehow--I don’t know how--but, for a moment I seemed to feel
the smell of lilac. Dick was once--nice to me under a lilac.
Oh, Mr. Don----’ She goes to him like a child, and he soothes
and pets her.
‘There, there! That will be all right, quite all right.’ He
takes her to the door. ‘Good-night, my dear.’
‘Good-night, Mr. Don.’
‘Good-bye, Laura,’ says the third voice.
Mr. Don is looking so glum that the moment they are alone Dick
has to cry warningly, ‘Face!’ He is probably looking glum
himself, for he says candidly, ‘Pretty awful things, these
partings. Father, don’t feel hurt though I dodge the good-bye
business when I leave you.’
‘That’s so like you, Dick!’
‘I’ll have to go soon.’
‘Oh, Dick! Can’t you----’
‘There’s something I want not to miss, you see.’
‘I’m glad of that.’
‘I’m not going yet; but I mean that when I do I’ll just slip
away.’
‘What I am afraid of is that you won’t come back.’
‘I will--honest Injun--if you keep bright.’
‘But, if I do that, Dick, you might think I wasn’t missing you
so much.’
‘We know better than that. You see, if you’re bright, I’ll get
a good mark for it.’
‘I’ll be bright.’
Dick pops him into the settle again.
‘Remember your pipe.’
‘Yes, Dick.’
‘Do you still go to that swimming-bath, and do your dumb-bell
exercises?’
‘No, I----’
‘You must.’
‘All right, Dick, I will.’
‘And I want you to be smarter next time. Your hair’s awful.’
‘I’ll get it cut, Dick.’
‘Are you hard at work over your picture of those three Graces?’
‘No. I put that away. I’m just doing little things nowadays. I
can’t----’
‘Look here, sonny, you’ve got to go on with it. You don’t seem
to know how interested I am in your future.’
‘Very well, Dick; I’ll bring it out again.’
Mr. Don hesitates.
‘Dick, there is something I have wanted to ask you all the
time.’
Some fear seems to come into the boy’s voice. ‘Don’t ask it,
father.’
‘I shall go on worrying about it if I don’t--but just as you
like, Dick.’
‘Go ahead, father; ask me.’
‘It is this. Would you rather be--here--than there?’
After a pause the boy says, ‘Not always.’
‘What is the great difference, Dick?’
‘Well, down here one knows he has risks to run.’
‘And you miss that?’
‘It must be rather jolly.’
‘Did you know that was what I was to ask?’
‘Yes. But, remember, I’m young at it.’
‘And your gaiety, Dick; is it all real, or only put on to help
me?’
‘It’s--it’s half and half, father.’
‘Face!’ he cries, next moment. Then cajolingly, ‘Father,
K.C.M.G.!’
‘When will you come again, Dick?’
‘There’s no saying. One can’t always get through. They keep
changing the password.’ His voice grows troubled. ‘It’s
awfully difficult to get the password.’
‘What was it to-night?’
‘Love Bade Me Welcome.’
Mr. Don rises; he stares at his son.
‘How did you get it, Dick?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Dick seems to go closer to his father, as if
for protection. ‘There are lots of things I don’t understand
yet.’
‘There are things I don’t understand either. Dick, did you ever
try to send messages--from there--to us?’
‘Me? No.’
‘Or get messages from us?’
‘No. How could we?’
‘Is there anything in it?’
Mr. Don is not speaking to his son. He goes to the little table
and looks long at it. Has it taken on a sinister aspect? Those
chairs, are they guarding a secret?
‘Dick, this table--your mother--how could they----’
He turns, to find that Dick has gone.
‘Dick! My boy! Dick!’
The well-remembered voice leaves a message behind it.
‘Be bright, father.’
Mr. Don sits down by the fire to think it all out.
* * * * *
Printed in Great Britain by T. and A. CONSTABLE LTD.
at the Edinburgh University Press
Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other
spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.
Italics are represented thus _italic_.