THE VICTIM
_and_ THE WORM
PHYLLIS BOTTOME
* * * * *
THE VICTIM
_and_ THE WORM
BY
PHYLLIS BOTTOME
AUTHOR OF “THE KINGFISHER,” “THE DARK TOWER,” “A
SERVANT OF REALITY,” “THE SECOND FIDDLE,” ETC.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
* * * * *
COPYRIGHT, 1923,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
[Illustration]
THE VICTIM _and_ THE WORM. I
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
* * * * *
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE VICTIM 7
THE WORM 177
THE VICTIM
CHAPTER I
Oliver P. Brett sat under the shade of a giant yew and regarded a hedge
of red and purple fuchsias with thoughtful eyes.
“These bees,” he said to himself, “(if they ain’t wasps which is just as
likely), make the calmest sound in the universe.
“They act brisk, but they hum as if they were dreaming. They’re like the
English.
“You could make a skipping run over the face of the earth and not find a
quieter place to decline in than England, and yet while you’re declining
the English get things done. They’re slow but they go on, and they go on
after everything else has stopped.
“I put my flashiest into giving them a boost when they needed it most,
and they tried hard to turn me down for showing them how. Mad! I was so
mad that if I could have got my papers in a hurry I’d have gone out of
this old country as fast as their kindergarten railway cars would have
taken me. But they hung me up over my papers—just the same as they hung
me up over my gas—and by the time they knew what my mother’s maiden
name was, and what made my great-aunt kick the bucket at 92, they’d
decided to have a go at the gas after all. I’d have lost time if I’d
gone elsewhere then, so I stayed.
“That ain’t gas the Germans used to start off with—that was just a
little parlour scent squirted out so as to surprise the troops that
weren’t looking for perfumes at the moment, but it looked bad. I admit
it looked real bad. Those Canadians and all were splendid chaps, and it
riles me to think they stood and died of it; they needn’t have died of
it, if they hadn’t drunk it in wrong, and breathed too quick. Why, when
I practised at it myself (after we got some over to experiment with) I
sat kind of near the cylinder, and smoked a cigar right into it. I
wasted that cigar, but I got no more harm than a turtle dove swallowing
a gnat. _My_ gas—well—it’s a real gas! Thinking don’t matter to it,
any more than Christian Science matters to a jug of prussic acid half
way down your throat.
“But gee! How long it took these English to see it! They just kinder
felt they ought to be good about war.
“I guess they don’t feel that way now; it’s been submarined out of them.
“If we could have morally won this war—we wouldn’t have needed to have
started it. We had all the morals in a row on our side sitting on the
Belgian fence; but a good knock down blow at the fence kinder dispersed
the morals.
“That’s the way war acts. You can have morals before, and you can have
morals after; in between you want to study the swiftest kicks.”
Mr. Brett leaned back still further in his steamer chair, and drew his
hat almost over his keen half shut eyes.
“I guess,” he continued to himself dreamily, “that I shall just sit here
and watch the English till I pan out. America’s my home, but I don’t
want to die in it. I should feel too lively. You can live just as dead
here as you like. No newspaper men, no prominent citizens, no delegates,
nothing to keep up, and no one thinking how many million dollars you own
and trying to creep inside them.
“I’ve had my fight and Theodora’s dead; and I guess I feel played out.
If there was a harp here I’d think I was in Heaven, but so long as
Theodora’s in the next world I’m a good deal better off in this.”
Oliver P. Brett sighed retrospectively at a passing butterfly. There was
something in the tilt of its white and flashing wings that reminded him
of Theodora.
“It wiggle woggles to put you off,” said Mr. Brett thoughtfully,
watching the insect’s tortuous approach to the fuchsias, which was
causing much confusion to a more direct and simple minded bee, “but it
knows what it’s about. That’s like Theodora too.
“She wanted to die, and she always had to do what she wanted, and on
that occasion she hadn’t time to change her mind before she really _was_
dead. The Almighty acted spry and took her at her word, which was more
than I ever succeeded in doing.”
Mr. Brett’s thoughts at this point did not stop, but they ceased to take
the form of words; they crystallized into pictures. For the first time
for forty years he was resting.
In the quiet, old, creeper-covered, brick house behind him there was no
one to thwart or work against him.
There were half a dozen perfectly trained English servants who knew
nothing about him but his superficial tastes, which they studied as
easily and silently as possible to satisfy. And then there was Elise.
Elise was his unmarried daughter; it made Mr. Brett’s sardonic deep
lined mouth smile tenderly when he thought of Elise. She slipped in and
out of the big sweet rooms as if she were a shaft of travelling
sunshine.
Elise was as pretty as a picture, and as gentle as the fall of dew on
the wide emerald lawns.
She was generally to be found in the garden, and when she was in the
house she never looked as if it belonged to her. She looked as if she
were one of the flowers waiting on a side table to be arranged by the
stiff backed parlour-maid.
Yet Elise could have had half a dozen houses if she had wanted them. She
was dimly aware that her father would never set a limit to her desires,
but it made it still simpler that she had very few, and that he
satisfied them all without her asking him for anything. All except one.
Unfortunately, this one wish was a very strong and frequent wish, and
all Papa ever said when Elise expressed it was, “Why, no, Elise. I guess
I don’t see my way to it.”
It really did look as if Papa was cruel about Hermione.
Elise knew that it was not the fault of her beautiful and enchanting
elder sister that her marriage with a Roumanian Prince had turned out a
disastrous failure. In spite of her wit, her beauty and her charm,
nobody had ever breathed a word against Hermione. Her virtue was as
undisturbed as her complexion.
She was bereft of her husband (a comfort under the circumstances, but a
comfort which could always be used as a grievance), and, by the
wickedest of European laws, she was parted from her only child.
She lived (Papa no doubt gave her a great deal of money to live on) the
life of a broken-hearted invalid in the best apartments that the Ritz
could offer.
She wrote that she didn’t like Paris, but Papa wouldn’t have her come to
stay at Mambles.
When the air raids became troublesome in Paris, Hermione was moved with
an extraordinary amount of care and the best attentions of the highest
officials in France and England, with all her papers especially signed
and eased of their usual restrictions, to London.
Papa found two trained nurses for her and a house in one of the quietest
of London squares, but he did not relax his inexplicable refusal to have
Hermione at Mambles.
“Why, no, Elise,” he repeated. “You can go up to see Hermione (if she
isn’t too ill to speak, and I don’t understand that her illnesses take
that form), as long as you won’t make her any deathbed promises. I
should object to that. But I don’t want her down here.
“You just tell her it’s a dull place and damp, unless you find she
hankers after damp and wants it dull—then you tell her it’s lively and
dry as a bone.
“You can take Whisket and go and stay at Claridge’s Hotel, stay there
just as long as you want, and remember, if you stay after you’ve stopped
wanting, I shall send John to bring you away.
“I notice John is as good as a rain gauge about your feelings, and I
will say for John, though he has all the faults of the English that rile
me most, if he puts his foot on a wasp he gets the wasp.
“Hermione will probably say it’ll kill her to have you leave her, but
don’t you believe it. Hermione is so tough she can die that way 365
times in the year and start up all over again on New Year’s Day with
resolutions of ill health that would weaken a hefty elephant.
“People who can stand dying as often as Hermione, don’t die—not under
sixty.”
Elise flushed painfully, and set her delicate, weak little mouth into
stiffness.
It was hard not to be angry with Papa, and she had to remind herself of
his tragedy in order to forgive him.
Papa’s tragedy was that he had lost his only son in France and that the
telegram announcing it had killed Mamma on the spot.
Mamma had opposed Arnold’s going from the first, and curiously enough,
Papa, who always seemed so much more fond of Arnold than Mamma ever was,
hadn’t stopped it. Mamma said that as long as his country wasn’t in, why
should Arnold fight?
Mamma despised the English anyway. If Arnold had wanted to go in with
the French, and taken a good staff appointment, not anywhere near the
front, Mamma wouldn’t have minded.
The French were smart and Mamma adored Paris. She said if Papa chose to
back Arnold and help the French Government, they’d be sure to give
Arnold just the kind of job she wanted for him, and a lovely uniform.
But Papa had just come right over to England with Arnold, and done
unspoken of, mysterious things for the English Government, who didn’t
appreciate him, or make any fuss over any of them; and after all Papa
had done, Arnold only got the plainest commission in a line regiment,
and was killed before America came in.
Mamma had died with the whole household round her in the hall—they had
all rushed in terrified at the scream she gave when she opened the
telegram.
She screamed till they were all there, and then she said “My son!” like
a person on the stage, and fell forward.
Papa had picked her up and laid her down on the sofa without looking at
her.
When he did look at her, he found that she was dead.
Papa never said anything at all about Mamma’s death, which showed how
much he felt it. But that night when he was sitting up with Elise, who
had fallen seriously ill from shock, he said to her quite cheerfully:
“I think we can feel happy about Arnold now. I used to think he’d live
to carry out my plans—but he’s done a better thing than that—he’s died
carrying out his own. I want you to remember that you’ve got a man in
your family to be proud of Elise. Lots of men die for their country, but
Arnold did a bigger thing than that—he died for the future. He was up
against the best army in the world, because he felt that if we knocked
it out, there wouldn’t have to be any more armies.
“I guess I’ll stay over here in England and see the thing through. They
want petrol and I can raise petrol. But if you feel badly, honey, I’ll
see you safely home again. You’ve only got to say the word.
“You’ve got your life before you, and our own country is the finest in
the world for young life—don’t you worry any about me. I find England
feels like a cushion in the small of my back, but you’re too young to
need a cushion.”
“I’d rather stay with you, Papa,” Elise asserted.
That had been her great decision, and she had never regretted it; even
when Papa was most unkind about Hermione.
Mr. Brett’s eyes lost their smile. His mind ceased to rest on the
picture of Elise. They hardened a little as if what they rested on was
the face of an enemy; then they became fixed. It was not wholly grief
that held the imagination of Mr. Brett, though down whatever avenue of
thought his fancy carried him, this one picture always met him at the
end. The picture that held him was that of a small hillside near Ypres.
He had visited this sector of the front on one of his many silent
unnoticeable missions. He wanted to see how his gas worked, and where
his son was buried.
When the officer conducting him had pointed out that on account of a
promiscuous shell fire that morning, the situation was not a healthy one
for the living, Mr. Brett had given a curious little laugh and replied,
“Why, I guess I’ve been quite lately in a more unhealthy spot than
this.”
The officer supposed that Mr. Brett was referring to the Chemin des
Dames, in which quarter the quiet American had also had some business to
transact. But Mr. Brett had not been thinking of that famous and
precarious ridge—his mind had returned to a large south room in the
Hotel Ritz in Paris where he had last watched Princess Girla drinking
excellent chocolate before the air raids had persuaded her to leave for
a more convenient spot.
“I guess,” Mr. Brett observed, regarding a shell-burst to the left of
them with lacklustre eyes, “you men up here in the front don’t know what
danger is.”
The young officer looked offended, but Mr. Brett patted him gently on
the shoulder.
“Sure, you know all about death,” he said kindly, “but when you get away
from here, you’ll have to start afresh and learn something about life,
and as far as I can see the worry about life is—that it goes on. Death
only stops.”
The A.D.C. pointed to a small stick in the ground.
“We think Captain Brett is buried here,” he explained. “We aren’t
perfectly certain because, as you see, the place has been a good deal
shelled lately and there are a lot of graves.”
“It’s near enough,” said Mr. Brett quietly, as if he were talking to
himself. “He lies where good men lie. He’s had a short life and a clean
death. I don’t need to worry any more about Arnold.”
Mr. Brett had gone on steadily with his inventions and his adaptations,
but, when he sat under the yew tree and watched the bees in the fuchsia
hedge, the sunshine and the flowers had a trick of fading out and
leaving in their places a shell-swept muddy hillside under a low grey
sky.