While Lady Auriol Dayne was rocking about the Outer Hebrides, we find
Andrew Lackaday in Paris confronted with the grim necessity of earning a
livelihood. His pre-war savings had amounted to no fortune, and in spite
of Elodie's economy and occasional earnings with her birds, they were
well-nigh spent. The dearness of everything! Elodie wrung her hands. Where
once you had change out of a franc, now you had none out of a five-franc
note. He could still carry on comfortably for a year, but that would be the
end of it.
When he propounded the financial situation, Elodie did not understand.
"I must work," said he.
"But Generals don't work," she protested incredulously.
Even the war had developed little of the Marseilles _gamine's_
conceptions of life. A General--she knew no grades--a modest Brigadier
ranking second only to a Field Marshal--was a General. He commanded an
army. A military demigod invested with a glamour and glory which, _ipso
facto_, of its own essence, provided him with ample wealth. And once a
General, always a General. The mere fact of no longer being employed in the
command of armies did not matter. The rank remained and with the rank the
golden stream to maintain it. According to popular legend the Oriental
ascetic who concentrates his gaze on the centre of his body and his
thoughts on the syllable "Om" arrives at a peculiar mental condition. So
the magic word on which she had so long meditated, had its hypnotic effect
on Elodie.
And when he had patiently explained--
"They give you nothing at all for being a General?" she almost screamed.
"Nothing at all," said Andrew.
"Then what's the good of being a General?"
"None that I can see," he replied with his grim smile.
Elodie's illusions fell clattering round about her ears. Not her illusions
as to Generals, but her illusions as to Andrew and British military
prestige. It was a strange army that no longer acknowledged its high
commanders--a strange country that could scrap them. Were British Generals
real, like French Generals, Lyautey and Manoury and Foch before he became
_Maréchal?_ She was bitterly disappointed. She had lived for nearly a
year in Andrew's glory. Now there seemed to be no shine in it whatever. He
wore no uniform. He received no pay. He was a mere civilian. He had to work
for his living like any demobilized poilu who returned to his counter or
his conductor's step on the tramway. And she had made such a flourish among
all her acquaintance over _son mari le général_. She went off by
herself and wept.
The cook whom she had engaged, coming to lay the cloth in the tiny
dining-room found her sobbing with her arms on the table. What was the
matter with Madame?
"_Ah, ma pauvre Ernestine, je suis bien malheureuse_."
Ernestine could think of only one cause for a lady's unhappiness. Had
Monsieur le Général then been making her infidelities? All allowances
should be made for the war. On every side she had heard tales of the
effects of such long separations. But, on the other hand, she had heard of
many reconciliations. Apply a little goodwill--that was all. Monsieur le
Général was a man, _comme tout le monde_. She was certain that the
object of his warrior fancy was not worth Madame--and he would quickly
realize the fact. She only had to make much of him and give him everything
he liked to eat. As soon as the stream of words ceased Elodie vehemently
denounced the disgusting state of her mind. She must have a foul character
to think such things. She bade her haughtily to mind her own business. Why
then, asked the outraged Ernestine, did Madame declare she was miserable?
To invite sympathy and then reject it did not argue a fine character on the
part of Madame. Also when a woman sits down and weeps like a cow, _mon
Dieu_, there must be a reason. Perhaps if Monsieur was not at fault,
then--
"I order you to be silent," stormed Elodie, interrupting the intolerable
suggestion. "My reasons you couldn't possibly understand. Get on with your
work and set the table."
She made a dignified exit and returned to the _salon_ where Andrew was
writing.
"Ah, these servants--since the war! The insolence of them!"
"What have they been doing now?" he asked sympathetically.
She would not say. Why worry him with such vulgarities? But the
housekeeper's life, these days, was not an easy one. "_Tiens_," she
cried, with a swift resolve, "I'll tell you all. What you said about
yourself, a general only in name, rejected and cast on the world without
money made me very unhappy. I didn't want you to see me cry. So I went into
the _salle à manger_--"
And then a dramatic reproduction of the scene. The insolence of the woman!
Andrew rose and drew out his pocket-book.
"She shall go at once. What's her wages?"
But Elodie looked at him aghast. What? Dismiss Ernestine? He must be mad.
Ernestine, a treasure dropped from Heaven? Didn't he know that servants
did not grow like the leaves on the trees in the Champs Elysées? And
cooks--they were worth their weight in gold. In the army he could say to an
orderly "_Fiche-moi le camp_," because there were plenty of
others. But in civil life--no. She forbade him to interfere in domestic
arrangements, the nice conduct of which she had proved herself perfectly
capable of determining. And then, in her queer, twisted logic, she said,
clutching the lapels of his coat and looking up into his face:
"And it's not true what she said? You have never made me infidelities?"
He passed his delicate hand over her forehead, and smiled somewhat wearily.
"You may be sure, my dear, I have been faithful to you."
She glanced away from him, somewhat abashed. Now and then his big
simplicity frightened her. She became dimly aware that the report of the
cook's chatter had offended the never comprehended delicacies of his soul.
She murmured:
"_Je te demande bien pardon, André_."
"There's no reason for that, my dear," said he.
She went over to her birds. Andrew resumed his writing. But after a minute
or two his pen hung idle in his hand. Yes. He had spoken truly. He had been
faithful to her in that he had fled from divine temptation. For her sake he
had put the other woman and the glory that she signified out of his life.
All through the delicious intercourse, Elodie had hung at the bottom of his
heart, a dead-weight, maybe, but one which he could not in honour or common
humanity cut off. For Elodie's sake he had held himself in stern restraint,
had uttered no word that might be interpreted as that of a lover. As far as
Lady Auriol Dayne knew, as far as anyone on this earth knew, his feelings
towards her were nothing more than those of a devoted and grateful friend.
So does the well-intentioned ostrich, you may say, bury its head and
imagine itself invisible. But the ostrich is desperately sincere--and so
was Andrew.
Presently he turned.
"If that woman says such vulgarities again, she must go at once."
"I shall see that she has no opportunity," said Elodie.
* * * * *
For a time Andrew sought in France that which he had failed to find in
England; but with even less chance of success. The gates to employment in
England had been crowded with demobilized officers. Only the fortunate, the
young content with modest beginnings, those with money enough to start new
avocations, had pushed through. These had been adventurers like himself.
The others had returned to the office or counting-house or broad acres from
which they had sprung. In France he found no employment at all; the gates
round which the demobilized wistfully gathered, led no whither. As at the
War Office, so at military head-quarters in Paris. Brass-hatted friends
wrung him warmly by the hand, condoled with his lot, and genially gave him
to understand that he stood not a dog's chance of getting in anywhere.
Why hadn't he worried the people at home for a foreign billet? There were
plenty going, but as to their nature they confessed vagueness. He had put
in for several, said he, but had always been turned down. The friends shook
their heads. In Paris nothing doing. Andrew walked away sadly. Perhaps
a spirit proof against rebuffs, a thick-skinned persistence, might have
eventually prevailed in London to set him on some career in the social
reconstruction of the world. His record stood, and needed only unblushing
flaunting before the eyes of Authority for it to be recognized. But Andrew
Lackaday, proud and sensitive, was a poor seeker after favour. All his
promotion and his honour had come unsought. He had hated the braggadocio of
the rainbow row of ribbons on his khaki tunic, which Army discipline alone
forced him to wear. It was Elodie, too, who had fixed into his buttonholes
the little red rosette of the Officer of the Legion. That at least he could
do for her.... Success, such as it was, before the war, he had attained
he knew not how. The big drum of the showman had ever been an engine of
abhorrence. Others had put him on the track of things, Elodie, Bakkus....
He had sternly suppressed vulgarity in posters. He had never intrigued like
most of his craft for press advertisement. Over and over again had Bakkus
said:
"Raise a thousand or two and give it to me or Moignon to play with and
we'll boom you into all the capitals of the earth. There's a fortune in
you."
But Andrew, to whom publicity was the essence of his calling, would have
none of it. He did his work and conducted his life in his own way, earnest
and efficient.
In the war, of course, he found his real vocation. But he passed out of
the war as unknown to the general public as any elderly Tommy in a Labour
battalion. Never a photograph of him had appeared in the illustrated
papers. The head of a great Government department, to whom Lady Auriol had
mentioned his name, had never heard of it. And when she suggested that the
State should hasten to secure the services of such men, he had replied
easily:
"Men of his distinction are as thick as blackberries. That's how we won the
war."
Unknown to Lackaday she had tried to see what influence she could command.
Socially, as the rather wild-headed daughter of an impoverished and obscure
Earl, she could do but little. She too was a poor intriguer. She could only
demand with blatant vividness. Once on a flying visit to Lord Mountshire,
she tried to interest him in the man whom, to her indignation, he persisted
in styling her protégé. He still, she urged, had friends in high places,
even in the dreadful Government at which he railed.
"Never heard of the man," he growled. "Lackaday--Lackaday--" he shook his
white head. "Who was his father?"
She confessed that she didn't know. He was alone in the world. He had
sprung from Nowhere. The old Earl refused to take any interest in him. Such
fellows always fell on their feet. Besides, he had tried to put in a word
for young Ponsonby--and had got snubbed for his pains. He wasn't going to
interfere any more.
She learned that the appointment of a soldier would be made to a vacant
colonial governorship. A certain general's recommendation would carry
weight. She passed the information on to Andrew. This she could do without
offending his pride.
"Very sorry, my dear fellow," said the General. "You're the very man for
the job. But you know what these Colonial office people are. They will have
an old regular."
As a matter of fact they appointed another Brigadier who had started the
war with a new Yeomanry commission, a member of a well-known family with a
wife who had seen to it that neither his light nor hers should be hidden
under a bushel.
In the frantic scramble for place, the inexperienced in the methods of
the scrum were as much left out in the cold as a timid old maid at what
Americans call a bargain counter. He stood lost behind the throng and his
only adviser Lady Auriol stood by his side in similar noble bewilderment.
On his appointment to a Brigade, Bakkus had written:
"I'm almost tempted to make your fortune in spite of yourself. What a
sensation! What headlines! 'Famous Variety Artist becomes a General.'
Companion pictures in the _Daily Mail_, Petit Patou and Brigadier-General
Lackaday. Everybody who had heard of Petit Patou would be mad to
hear of General Lackaday, and all who had heard of soldier Andrew would
be crazy to know about Petit Patou. You'd wake up in the morning like
Byron and find yourself famous. You'd be the darling hero of the British
Empire. But you always were a wooden-headed idiot...."
To which Andrew had replied in raging fury, to the vast entertainment of
Horatio Bakkus.
All of this to show that, notwithstanding his supreme qualities of personal
courage, command and military intuition, Andrew Lackaday as a would-be
soldier of fortune proved a complete failure. For him, as he presented
himself, the tired world, in its nebulous schemes of reconstruction, had no
place.
Every day, when he got home, Elodie would ask:
"_Eh bien?_ Have you found anything?"
And he would say, gaunt and worried, but smiling: "Not yet."
As the days passed her voice grew sharper, until it seemed to carry the
reproach of the wife of the labourer out of work. But she never pressed him
further. She knew his moods and his queer silences and the inadvisability
of forcing his confidence. In spite of her disappointment and disillusion,
some of the glamour still invested him. A man of mystery, inspiring
a certain awe, he frightened her a little. A No Man's Land, unknown,
terrifying, on which she dared not venture a foot, lay between them. He was
the kind and courteous ghost of the Sergeant and the Major with whom she
had made high festival during the war.
At last, one afternoon, he cast the bomb calmly at her feet.
"I've just been to see Moignon," said he.
"_Eh bien?_"
"He says there will be no difficulty."
She turned on him her coarse puzzled face. "No difficulty in what?"
"In going back to the stage."
She sank upon the yellow and brown striped sofa by the wall and regarded
him open-mouthed.
"_Tu dis?_"
"I must do like all other demobilized men--return to my trade."
Elodie nearly fainted.
For months the prospect had hung over them like a doom; ever since the
brigade which he commanded in England had dissolved through demobilization,
and he, left in the air, had applied disastrously to the War Office for
further employment. He had seen others, almost his equal in rank, swept
relentlessly back to their old uninspiring avocations. A Bayard of a
Colonel of a glorious battalion of a famous regiment, a fellow with
decorations barred two or three times over, was now cooped up in his
solicitor's office in Lothbury, E.C., breaking his heart over the
pettifoggery of conveyances. A gallant boy, adjutant at twenty-two in the
company of which he was captain, a V.C. and God knows what else besides,
was back again in the close atmosphere of the junior department of a
Public School. One of his old seconds in command was resuming his awful
frock-coated walk down the aisles of a suburban drapery store. The flabby,
soulless octopus of civil life reached out its tentacles and dragged
all these heroic creatures into its maw of oblivion. Then another, a
distinguished actor, and a more distinguished soldier, a man with a
legendary record of fearlessness, had sloughed his armour and returned to
the theatre. That, thought he, was his own case. But no. The actor took
up the high place of histrionic fame which he had abandoned. He was the
exponent of a great art. The dual supremacy brought the public to his feet.
His appearance was the triumph both of the artist and the soldier. No. He,
Lackaday, held no such position. He recalled his first talk with Bakkus,
in which he had insisted that his mountebanking was an art, and with his
hard-gained knowledge of life rejected the sophistry. To hold an audience
spell-bound by the interpretation of great human emotion was a different
matter from making a zany of oneself and, upside down, playing a
one-stringed fiddle behind one's head, and uttering degraded sounds through
painted grinning lips in order to appeal to the inane sense of humour of
the grocer and his wife. No. There was all the difference in the world. The
comparison filled him less with consolation than with despair. The actor,
mocking the octopus below, had calmly stepped from one rock pinnacle to
another. He himself, Andrew Lackaday, in the depths, felt the irresistible
grip of the horror twining round his middle.
Put him in the midst of a seething mass of soldiery, he could command,
straighten out chaos into mechanical perfection of order, guide willing men
unquestioned into the jaws of Hell; put him on the stage of a music-hall
and he could keep six plates in the air at a time. Outside these two
spheres he could, as far as the world would try him, do nothing. He had
to live. He was young, under forty. The sap of life still ran rich in his
veins. And not only must he live, but the woman bound to him by a hundred
ties, the woman woven by an almost superstitious weft into his early
career, the woman whose impeccable loyalty as professional partner had
enabled him to make his tiny fortune, the woman whose faithful affection
had persisted through the long years of the war's enforced neglect,
the woman who without his support--unthinkable idea--would perish from
inanition--he knew her--Elodie must live, in the comfort and freedom from
anxiety to which the years of unquestioning dependence had accustomed her.
Cap and bells again; there was no other way out.
After all, perhaps it was the best and most honest. Even if he had found a
semi-military or administrative career abroad, what would become of Elodie?
Not in a material sense, of course. The same provision would be made for
her welfare as during the last five years. But the abnormal state of war
had made normal their separation. In altered circumstances would she not
have the right to cry out against his absence? Would she not be justified
in the eyes of every right-thinking man? Yet the very conditions of such an
appointment would prevent her accompanying him. The problem had appeared
insoluble. Desperately he had put off the solution till the crisis should
come. But he had felt unhappy, shrinking from the possibility of base
action. The thought of Elodie had often paralysed his energy in seeking
work. Now, however, he could face the world with a clear conscience. He had
cut himself adrift from Lady Auriol and her world. Fate linked him for ever
to Elodie. All that remained was to hide his honours and his name under the
cloak of Petit Patou.
It took him some time to convince Elodie of the necessity of returning to
the old life. She repeated her cry that Generals do not perform on the
music-hall stage. The decision outraged her sense of the fitness of things.
She yielded as to an irresistible and unreasoning force.
"And I then? Must I tour with you, as before?" she asked in dismay, for she
was conscious of increased coarseness of body and sluggishness of habit.
He frowned. "It is true I might find another assistant."
But she quickly interrupted the implied reproach. She could not fail him in
her duty.
"No, no, I will go. But you will have to teach me all over again. I only
asked for information."
"We'll begin rehearsals then as soon as possible," he replied with a smile.
A few days afterwards, Bakkus, who had been absent from Paris, entered
the _salon_, with his usual unceremoniousness, and beheld an odd
spectacle. The prim chairs had been piled on the couch by the wall, the
table pushed into a corner, and on the vacant space, Elodie, in her old
dancer's practising kit, bodice and knickerbockers, once loose but now skin
tight to grotesqueness, and Andrew in under vest and old grey flannels,
were perspiringly engaged with pith balls in the elementary art of the
juggler. Elodie, on beholding him, clutched a bursting corsage with both
hands, uttered a little squeak and bolted like an overfed rabbit. Bakkus
laughed out loud.
"What the devil----? Is this the relaxation of the great or the aberrations
of the asylum?"
Andrew grinned and shook hands. "My dear old chap. I'm so glad you've come
back. Sit down." He shifted the table which blocked the way to the two
arm-chairs by the stove. "Elodie and I are getting into training for the
next campaign." He mopped his forehead, wiped his hands and, with the old
acrobat instinct, jerked the handkerchief across the room. "You're looking
very well," said he.
"I'm splendid," said Bakkus.
The singer indeed had a curiously prosperous and distinguished appearance,
due not only to a new brown suit and clean linen and well-fitting boots,
but also to a sleekness of face and person which suggested comfortable
living. His hair, now quite white, brushed back over the forehead, was
neatly trimmed. His sallow cheeks had lost their gaunt hollows, his dark
eyes, though preserving their ironical glitter, had lost the hunger-lit
gleam of wolfishness.
"Have you signed a Caruso contract for Covent Garden?" laughed Andrew.
"I've done better. At Covent Garden you've got to work like the devil
for your money. I've made a contract with my family--no work at
all. Agreement--just to bury the hatchet. Theophilus--that's the
Archdeacon--performed the Funeral Service. He has had a stroke, poor chap.
They sent for me."
"Elodie told me," said Andrew.
"He has been very good to me during the war. Otherwise I should have
been reduced to picking up cigar ends with a pointed stick on the
Boulevards--and a damn precarious livelihood too, considering the shortage
of tobacco in this benighted country. He took it into his venerable head
that he was going to die and desired to see me. Voltaire remorse on his
death-bed, you know."
"I fail to follow," said the literal Andrew.
"All his life he had lived an unbeliever in ME. Now your military
intelligence grasps it. My brother Ronald, the runner of the Pawnee Indian,
head-flattening system of education, and his wife, especially his wife, the
daughter of a lay brother of a bishop who has got a baronetcy for making
an enormous fortune out of the war, wouldn't have me at any price. But
Theophilus must have muttered some incantation which frightened them, so
they surrendered. Poor old Theophilus and I had a touching meeting. He's
about as lonely a thing as you could wish to meet. He married an American
heiress, who died about eight years ago, and he's as rich as Croesus. We're
bosom friends now. As for Mrs. Ronald I sang her songs of Araby including
Gounod's 'Ave Maria' with lots of tremolo and convinced her that I'm a
saintly personage. It's my proud boast that, on my account, Ronald and
herself never spoke for three days. I spent a month in the wilds of
Westmorland with them, and as soon as Theophilus got on the mend--he's
already performing semi-Archidiaconal functions--I put my hands over my
eyes and fled. My God, what a crowd! Give me a drink. I've got four weeks'
arrears to make up."
Andrew went into the _salle à manger_ and returned with brandy, syphon
and glasses. Helping Bakkus he asked:
"And now, what are you going to do?"
"Nothing, my friend, absolutely nothing. I wallow in the ill-gotten
matrimonial gains of Theophilus and Ronald. I wallow modestly, it is true.
The richer strata of mire I leave to hogs with whom I'm out of sympathy.
You'll have observed that I'm a man of nice discrimination. I choose my
hogs. It is the Art of Life."
"Well, here's to you," said Andrew, lifting up his glass.
"And to you."
Bakkus emptied his glass at a draught, breathed a sigh of infinite content
and held it out to be refilled.
"And now that I've told you the story of my life, what about you? What's
the meaning of this--" he waved a hand--"this reversion to type?"
"You behold Petit Patou redivivus," said Andrew.
Bakkus regarded him in astonishment.
"But, my dear fellow, Generals can't do things like that."
"That's the cry of Elodie."
"She's a woman with whom I'm in perfect sympathy," said Bakkus.
Elodie entered, cooler, less dishevelled, in her eternal wrapper. She
rushed up to Bakkus and wrung both his hands, overjoyed to see him. He must
pardon her flight, but really--she was in a costume--and not even till she
took it off did she know that it was split--Oh, _mon Dieu!_ Right
across. With a sweep of the hand she frankly indicated the locality of the
disaster. She laughed. Well, it was good that he had arrived at last. He
would be able to put some sense into André. He a General, to go back to the
stage. It was crazy! He would give André advice, good counsel, that was
what he needed! How André could win battles when he was so helpless in
other things, she could not understand. She seized him by the shoulders and
smiled into his face.
"_Mais toi qui es si intelligent, dis quelque chose_."
"To say anything, my dear Elodie, while you are speaking," remarked Bakkus,
"is beyond the power of mortal man. But now that you are silent I will say
this. It is time for _déjeuner_. I am intoxicated with the sense of
pecuniary plenitude, I invite you both to eat with me on the Boulevards
where we can discuss these high matters."
"But it is you that are crazy," cried Elodie, gasping at the unprecedented
proposal which in itself shook, like an earthquake, her intimately
constructed conception of Horatio Bakkus. And on the Boulevards, too!
Her soul rose up in alarm. "You are wanting in your wits. One can't eat
anywhere--even at a restaurant of the second class--under a hundred francs
for three persons."
Bakkus, with an air Louis Seize, implied that one, two or three hundred
francs were as dirt in his fingers. But Elodie would have none of it. She
would be ashamed to put so much money in her stomach.
"I have," said she, "for us two, eggs _au beurre noir_ and a
_blanquette de veau_, and what is enough for two is enough for three.
And you must stay and eat with us as always."
"I wonder," said Bakkus, "whether Andrew realizes what a pearl you are."
So he stayed to lunch and repeated the story of his good fortune, to which
Elodie listened enraptured as to a tale of hidden treasure of which he
was the hero, but never a word could he find in criticism of Andrew's
determination. The quips and causticities that a couple of years ago would
have flowed from his thin, ironical lips, were arrested unformulated at the
back of his brain. He became aware, not so much of a change as of a swift
development of the sterner side of Andrew's character. Of himself he could
talk sardonically enough. He could twit Elodie with her foibles in his old
way. But of Andrew with his weather-beaten mug of a face marked with new,
deep lines of thought and pain, sitting there courteous and simple, yet
preoccupied, strangely aloof, the easy cynic felt curiously afraid. And
when Elodie taxed him with pusillanimity he glanced at Andrew.
"He has made up his mind," he replied. "Some people's minds are made up of
sand and water. Others of stuff composed of builders' weird materials
that harden into concrete. Others again have iron bars run through the
mass--reinforced concrete. That's Andrew. It's a beast of a mind to deal
with, as we have often found, my dear. But what would you have? The animal
is built that way."
"You flatter me," grinned Andrew, "but I don't see what the necessity of
earning bread and butter has to do with a reinforced-concrete mind."
"It's such an undignified way of earning it," protested Elodie.
"I think," said Bakkus, "it will take as much courage for our poor friend
to re-become Petit Patou, as it took for him to become General Lackaday."
Andrew's face suddenly glowed and he shot out his long arm with his bony
wrists many inches from his cuff and put his delicate hand on Bakkus's
shoulder.
"My dear fellow, why can't you always talk like that?"
"I'm going to," replied Bakkus, pausing in the act of lighting one of
Elodie's special reserve of pre-war cigars. "Don't you realize I'm just
transplanted from a forcing bed of High Anglican platitude?"
But Elodie shrugged her fat shoulders in some petulance.
"You men always stick together," she said.