It was under the shade of a great rhododendron bush that Vane was first
privileged to meet Sir John. The bush was a blaze of scarlet and purple,
which showed up vividly against the green of the grass and the darker
green of the shrubs around. Through the trees could be seen glimpses of
the distant hills, and Vane, as he stumbled unexpectedly into this sudden
bit of fairyland, caught his breath with the glory of it. Then with
drastic suddenness he recalled that half-forgotten hymn of childhood, of
which the last line runs somewhat to the effect that "only man is vile."
Sir John was in full possession, with an unwilling audience of one bored
cavalryman. It was one of his most cherished sentiments that nothing
aided convalescence so much as a little bright, breezy conversation on
subjects of general interest--just to cheer 'em up, and make 'em feel at
home. . . .
At the moment of Vane's arrival he was discoursing fluently on the
problem of education. The point is really immaterial, as Sir John
discussed all problems with equal fluency, and the necessity for
answering was rare. He had a certain shrewd business-like efficiency,
and in most of his harangues there was a good deal of what, for want of a
better word, might be termed horse sense. But he was so completely
self-opinionated and sure of himself that he generally drove his audience
to thoughts of poisons that left no trace or even fire-arms. Especially
when he was holding forth on strategy. On that subject he considered
himself an expert, and regularly twice a week he emptied the smoking-room
at Rumfold by showing--with the aid of small flags--what he would have
done had he been in charge of the battle of the Somme in 1916. He was
only silenced once, and that was by a pessimistic and saturnine Sapper.
"Extraordinary," he murmured. "I congratulate you, Sir John. The plan
you have outlined is exactly in every detail the one which the
Commander-in-Chief discussed with me when overlooking the charming little
village of Gueudecourt. 'Johnson,' he said, 'that is what we will do,'
and he turned to the Chief of Staff and ordered him to make a note of
it." The Sapper paused for a moment to relight his pipe. Then he turned
impressively to Sir John. "There was no Chief of Staff. The Chief of
Staff had gone: only a few bubbles welling out of the mud remained to
show his fate. And then, before my very eyes, the C.-in-C. himself
commenced to sink. To my fevered brain it seemed to be over in a minute.
His last words as he went down for the third time were 'Johnson, carry
on.' . . . Of course it was kept out of the papers, but if it hadn't
been for a Tank going by to get some whisky for the officers' mess,
which, owing to its pressure on neighbouring ground squeezed them all out
again one by one--you know, just like you squeeze orange pips from your
fingers--the affair might have been serious."
"I did hear a rumour about it," said the still small voice of a
machine-gunner from behind a paper.
"Of course," continued the Sapper, "the plan had to be given up. The
whole of G.H.Q. sat for days in my dug-out with their feet in hot water
and mustard. . . . A most homely spectacle--especially towards the end
when, to while away the time, they started sneezing in unison. . . ."
A silence settled on the smoking-room, a silence broken at last by the
opening and shutting of the door. Sir John had retired for the
night. . . .
At the moment that Vane paused at the entrance to his bit of fairyland
Sir John was in full blast.
"What, sir, is the good of educating these people? Stuffing their heads
with a lot of useless nonsense. And then talking about land
nationalisation. The two don't go together, sir. If you educate a man
he's not going to go and sit down on a bare field and look for
worms. . . ." He paused in his peroration as he caught sight of Vane.
"Ah! ha!" he cried. "Surely a new arrival. Welcome, sir, to my little
home."
Restraining with a great effort his inclination to kick him, Vane shook
the proffered hand; and for about ten minutes he suffered a torrent of
grandiloquence in silence. At the conclusion of the little man's first
remark Vane had a fleeting vision of the cavalry-man slinking hurriedly
round two bushes and then, having run like a stag across the open, going
to ground in some dense undergrowth on the opposite side. And Vane, to
his everlasting credit be it said, did not even smile. . . .
After a while the flood more or less spent itself, and Vane seized the
occasion of a pause for breath to ask after old John.
"I see you've got a new lodge-keeper, Sir John. Robert tells me that the
old man who was here under Lord Forres is in the village."
"Yes. Had to get rid of him. Too slow. I like efficiency, my boy,
efficiency. . . . That's my motto." Sir John complacently performed
three steps of his celebrated strut. "Did you know the Hearl?" Though
fairly sound on the matter, in moments of excitement he was apt to
counterbalance his wife with the elusive letter. . . .
Vane replied that he did--fairly well.
"A charming man, sir . . . typical of all that is best in our old English
nobility. I am proud, sir, to have had such a predecessor. I number the
Hearl, sir, among my most intimate friends. . . ."
Vane, who remembered the graphic description given him by Blervie--the
Earl's eldest son--at lunch one day, concerning the transaction at the
time of the sale, preserved a discreet silence.
"A horrible-looking little man, old bean," that worthy had remarked.
"Quite round, and bounces in his chair. The governor saw him once, and
had to leave the room. 'I can't stand it,' he said to me outside, 'the
dam fellow keeps hopping up and down, and calling me His Grace. He's
either unwell, or his trousers are coming off.'" Lord Blervie had helped
himself to some more whisky and sighed. "I've had an awful time," he
continued after a while. "The governor sat in one room, and Patterdale
bounced in the other, and old Podmore ran backwards and forwards between,
with papers and things. And if we hadn't kept the little blighter back
by force he was going to make a speech to the old man when it was all
fixed up. . . ."
At last Sir John left Vane to himself, and with a sigh of relief he sank
into the chair so recently vacated by the cavalryman. In his hand he
held a couple of magazines, but, almost unheeded, they slipped out of his
fingers on to the grass. He felt supremely and blissfully lazy. The
soft thud of tennis balls, and the players' voices calling the score,
came faintly through the still air, and Vane half closed his eyes. Then
a sudden rustle of a skirt beside him broke into his thoughts, and he
looked up into the face of the girl whom Lady Patterdale had greeted as
Joan.
"Why it's my bored friend of the photograph!" She stood for a moment
looking at him critically, rather as a would-be purchaser looks at a
horse. "And have they all run away and left you to play by yourself?"
She pulled up another chair and sat down opposite him.
"Yes. Even Sir John has deserted me." As he spoke he was wondering what
her age was. Somewhere about twenty-two he decided, and about ten more
in experience.
"For which relief much thanks, I suppose?"
"One shouldn't look a gift host in the stockings," returned Vane lightly.
"I think it's very charming of him and his wife to have us here."
"Do you? It's hopelessly unfashionable not to do war work of some sort,
and this suits them down to the ground. . . . Why the Queen visited
Rumfold the other day and congratulated Lady Patterdale on her
magnificent arrangements." There was a mocking glint in her eyes,
otherwise her face was perfectly serious.
"You don't say so." Vane gazed at her in amazement. "And did you dress
up as a nurse for the occasion?"
"No, I watched from behind a gooseberry bush. You see, I'm a very busy
person, and my work can't be interrupted even for a Royal visit."
"Would it be indiscreet," murmured Vane, "to inquire what your work is?"
"Not a bit." The girl looked solemnly at him. "I amuse the poor wounded
officers."
"And do you find that very hard?" asked Vane with becoming gravity.
"Frightfully. You see, they either want to make love to me, or else to
confide that they love another. My chief difficulty as I wander from
bush to bush is to remember to which class the temporary occupant
belongs. I mean it's a dreadful thing to assure a man of your own
undying devotion, when the day before you were sympathising with him over
Jane not having written. It makes one appear of undecided intellect."
"Why don't you institute a little system of labels?" asked Vane. "Blue
for those who passionately adore you--red for those who love someone
else. People of large heart might wear several."
"I think that's quite wonderful." She leaned back in her chair and
regarded Vane with admiration. "And I see that you're only a
Captain. . . . How true it is that the best brains in the Army adorn the
lower positions. By the way--I must just make a note of your name." She
produced a small pocketbook from her bag and opened it. "My duties are
so arduous that I have been compelled to make lists and things."
"Vane," he answered, "Christian--Derek."
She entered both in her book, and then shut it with a snap. "Now I'm
ready to begin. Are you going to amuse me, or am I going to amuse you?"
"You have succeeded in doing the latter most thoroughly," Vane assured
her.
"No--have I really? I must be in good form to-day. One really never can
tell, you know. An opening that is a scream with some people falls as
flat as ditch-water with others." She looked at him pensively for a
moment or two, tapping her small white teeth with a gold pencil.
Suddenly Vane leaned forward. "May I ask your age, Joan?"
Her eyebrows went up slightly. "Joan!" she said.
"I dislike addressing the unknown," remarked Vane, "and I heard Lady
Patterdale call you Joan. But if you prefer it--may I ask your age, Miss
Snooks?"
She laughed merrily. "I think I prefer Joan, thank you; though I don't
generally allow that until the fourth or fifth performance. You see, if
one gets on too quickly it's so difficult to fill in the time at the end
if the convalescence is a long one."
"I am honoured," remarked Vane. "But you haven't answered my question."
"I really see no reason why I should. It doesn't come into the rules--at
least not my rules. . . . Besides I was always told that it was rude to
ask personal questions."
"I am delighted to think that something you were taught at your mother's
knee has produced a lasting effect on your mind," returned Vane.
"However, at this stage we won't press it. . . . I should hate to
embarrass you." He looked at her in silence for a while, as if he was
trying to answer to his own satisfaction some unspoken question on his
mind.
"I think," she said, "that I had better resume my official duties. What
do you think of Rumfold Hall?"
"It would be hard in the time at my disposal, my dear young lady, to give
a satisfactory answer to that question." Vane lit a cigarette. "I will
merely point out to you that it contains a banqueting chamber in which
Bloody Mary is reported to have consumed a capon and ordered two more
Protestants to be burned--and that the said banqueting hall has been used
of recent years by the vulgar for such exercises as the fox trot and the
one step. Further, let me draw your attention to the old Elizabethan
dormer window from which it is reported that the celebrated Sir Walter
Raleigh hung his cloak to dry, after the lady had trodden on it. On the
staircase can be seen the identical spot where the dog basket belonging
to the aged pug dog of the eighteenth Countess of Forres was nightly
placed, to the intense discomfiture of those ill-behaved and rowdy guests
who turned the hours of sleep into a time for revolting debauches with
soda water syphons and flour. In fact it is commonly thought that the
end of the above-mentioned aged pug dog was hastened by the excitable
Lord Frederick de Vere Thomson hurling it, in mistake for a footstool, at
the head of his still more skittish spouse--the celebrated Tootie Rootles
of the Gaiety. This hallowed spot has been roped off, and is shown with
becoming pride by the present owner to any unfortunate he can inveigle
into listening to him. Finally I would draw your attention. . . ."
"For Heaven's sake, stop," she interrupted weakly. "The answer is
adjudged incorrect owing to its length."
"Don't I get the grand piano?" he demanded.
"Not even the bag of nuts," she said firmly. "I want a cigarette.
They're not gaspers, are they?"
"They are not," he said, holding out his case. "I am quite ready for the
second question."
She looked at him thoughtfully through a cloud of smoke. "Somehow I
don't think I will proceed along the regular lines," she remarked at
length. "Your standard seems higher."
"Higher than whose?" Vane asked.
"Than most of the others." Her smile was a trifle enigmatic. "There is
a cavalryman here and one or two others--but . . . well! you know what I
mean."
"I do know what you mean--exactly," he remarked quietly. "And, Joan,
it's all wrong."
"It's all natural, anyway. Their ways are not our ways; their thoughts
are not our thoughts. . . . I can't help whether I'm being a poisonous
snob or not; it's what I feel. Take Sir John. Why, the man's an offence
to the eye. He's a complete outsider. What right has he got to be at
Rumfold?"
"The right of having invented a patent plate. And if one looks at it
from an unbiassed point of view it seems almost as good a claim as that
of the descendant of a really successful brigand chief."
"Are you a Socialist?" she demanded suddenly.
"God knows what I am," he answered cynically. "I'm trying to find out.
You see something has happened over the water which alters one's point of
view. It hasn't happened over here. And just at the moment I feel
rather like a stranger in a strange land." He stared thoughtfully at a
thrush which was dealing with a large and fat worm. Then he
continued--"You were talking about outsiders. Lord! my dear girl, don't
think I don't know what you mean. I had a peerless one in my
company--one of the first and purest water--judged by our standards. He
was addicted to cleaning his nails, amongst other things, with a prong of
his fork at meals. . . . But one morning down in the Hulluch sector--it
was stand to. Dawn was just spreading over the sky--grey and sombre; and
lying at the bottom of the trench just where a boyau joined the front
line, was this officer. His face was whiter than the chalk around him,
but every now and then he grinned feebly. What was left of his body had
been covered with his coat: because you see a bit of a flying pig had
taken away most of his stomach."
The girl bit her lip--but her eyes did not leave Vane's face.
"He died, still lying in the wet chalky sludge, still grinning, and
thanking the stretcher bearers who had carried him." He paused for a
moment--his mind back in the Land over the Water. "There are thousands
like him," he went on thoughtfully, "and over there, you see, nothing
much matters. A man, whether he's a duke or a dustman, is judged on his
merits in the regimental family. Everyone is equally happy, or equally
unhappy--because everyone's goal is the same."
"And over here," put in the girl, "everyone's goal is different. How
could it be otherwise? It's when you get a man trying to kick the ball
through the wrong goal--and succeeding--that the trouble comes."
"Quite right," agreed Vane. "Personally I'm trying to find out what my
own goal is."
"What was it before the war?"
"Soda water syphons and flour; hunting, cricket and making love."
"And you don't think that would still fill the bill?"
"The Lord knows!" laughed Vane. "In the fulness of time probably I shall
too."
"And how do you propose to find out?" persisted
the girl.
Once again Vane laughed. "By the simple process of doing nothing," he
answered. "I shall--as far as my arduous military duties allow me--carry
on. . . . I believe everyone is carrying on. . . . It's the phase,
isn't it? And in the process, as far as it progresses before I have to
return to France--I may get some idea as to whether I am really a
pronounced Pacifist or a Last Ditcher."
For a while she looked at him curiously without speaking. "You're
somewhat different from most of my patients," she announced at last.
He bowed ironically. "I trust that in spite of that, I may find favour
in your sight. It's something, at any rate, not to be labelled G.S., as
we say in the Army."
"Frankly and honestly, you despise me a little?"
Vane considered her dispassionately. "Frankly and honestly, I do. And
yet . . . I don't know. Don't you see, lady, that I'm looking at your
life through my spectacles; you look at it through your own. For all I
know you may be right, and I may be wrong. In fact," he continued after
a short pause, "it's more than likely it is so. You at any rate have not
been qualifying for a lunatic asylum during the past four years."
She rose from her chair, and together they strolled towards the lawn.
Tennis was still in full swing, and for a time they watched the game in
silence.
"Do those men think as you think?" she asked him suddenly. "Are they all
asking the why and the wherefore--or is it enough for them to be just out
of it?"
"It's enough for us all for the time," he answered gravely. "And then it
tugs and it pulls and we go back to it again. . . . It's made everyone a
bit more thoughtful; it's made everyone ask the why and the wherefore,
insistently or casually, according to the manner of the brute. But Hell
will come if we don't--as a whole--find the same answer. . . ."
She idly twisted her parasol, and at that moment the cavalryman lounged
up. "Thought you'd deserted us, Miss Devereux." He glanced at Vane and
grinned. "I appeal to you," he cried, "as an infantry soldier to state
publicly whether you have ever seen a more masterly bit of scouting than
mine when the old man buttonholed you. Jove! you should have seen it.
Purple face caught him by the rhododendron bush, where he'd been
inflicting himself on me for a quarter of an hour; and in one minute by
the clock I'd got to ground in the parsley bed."
They all laughed, and for a few minutes the two men chatted with her;
then Vane disappeared into the house to write letters. It was a slow and
laborious process, and, as a rule, he wrote as few as possible. But
there was one he had to get off his conscience, though he dreaded doing
so. A promise to a dead pal is sacred. . . .
At length the scrawl was finished, and looking up from the writing table
he saw Joan Devereux passing through the hall. He got up and hurried
after her. "Would you mind addressing this for me?" He held out the
envelope. "I've managed to spoil the paper inside, but I don't want to
tax the postman too highly."
With a smile she took the letter from him, and picked up a pen. "Well,"
she said after a moment, "I'm waiting."
She looked up into his face as he stood beside her at the table, and a
glint of mischief came into her eyes as they met his. He was staring at
her with a thoughtful expression, and, at any rate for the moment he
seemed to find it a pleasant occupation.
"And what may the seeker after truth be thinking of now?" she remarked
flippantly. "Condemning me a second time just as I'm trying to be useful
as well as ornamental?"
"I was thinking. . . ." he began slowly, and then he seemed to change his
mind. "I don't think it matters exactly what I was thinking," he
continued, "except that it concerned you. Indirectly, perhaps--possibly
even directly . . . you and another. . . ."
"So you belong to the second of my two classes, do you?" said the girl.
"Somehow I thought you were in the first. . . ."
"The class you embrace?" asked Vane drily.
With a quick frown she turned once more to the table. "Supposing you
give me the address."
"I beg your pardon," said Vane quietly. "The remark was vulgar, and
quite uncalled for. After four years in the Army, one should be able to
differentiate between official and unofficial conversation."
"May I ask what on earth you mean?" said the girl coldly.
"I take it that your preliminary remarks to me in the garden were in the
nature of official patter--used in your professional capacity. . . .
When off duty, so to speak, you're quite a normal individual. . . .
Possibly even proper to the point of dulness." He was staring idly out
of the window. "In the States, you know, they carry it even
further. . . . I believe there one can hire a professional female
co-respondent--a woman of unassailable virtue and repulsive aspect--who
will keep the man company in compromising circumstances long enough for
the wife to establish her case."
The girl sprang up and confronted him with her eyes blazing, but Vane
continued dreamily. "There was one I heard of who was the wife of the
Dissenting Minister, and did it to bolster up her husband's
charities. . . ."
"I think," she said in a low, furious voice, "that you are the most
loathsome man I ever met."
Vane looked at her in surprise. "But I thought we were getting on so
nicely. I was just going to ask you to have lunch with me one day in
town--in your official capacity, of course. . . ."
"If you were the last man in the world, and I was starving, I wouldn't
lunch with you in any capacity." Her breast was rising and falling
stormily.
"At any rate, it's something to know where we stand," said Vane
pleasantly.
"If I'd realised that you were merely a cad--and an outsider of the worst
type--do you suppose that I would have talked--would have allowed. . . ."
The words died away in her throat, and her shoulders shook. She turned
away, biting furiously at her handkerchief with her teeth. "Go away--oh!
go away; I hate you."
But Vane did not go away; he merely stood there looking at her with a
faint, half-quizzical smile on his lips.
"Joan," he said, after a moment, "I'm thinking I have played the deuce
with your general routine. All the earlier performances will be in the
nature of an anti-climax after this. But--perhaps, later on, when my
abominable remarks are not quite so fresh in your mind, you won't regard
them as quite such an insult as you do now. Dreadful outsider though I
am--unpardonably caddish though it is to have criticised your war
work--especially when I have appreciated it so much--will you try to
remember that it would have been far easier and pleasanter to have done
the other thing?"
Slowly her eyes came round to his face, and he saw that they were
dangerously bright. "What other thing?" she demanded.
"Carried on with the game; the game that both you and I know so well.
Hunting, cricket and making love. . . . Is it not written in 'Who's
Who'--unless that interesting publication is temporarily out of print?"
"It strikes me," the girl remarked ominously, "that to your caddishness
you add a very sublime conceit."
Vane grinned. "Mother always told me I suffered from swelled
head. . . ." He pointed to the envelope still unaddressed, lying between
them on the writing table. "After which slight digression--do you mind?"
She picked up the pen, and sat down once again. "I notice your tone
changes when you want me to help you."
Vane made no answer. "The address is Mrs. Vernon, 14, Culman Terrace,
Balham," he remarked quietly.
"I trust she is doing war work that pleases you," sneered the girl. She
handed him the envelope, and then, as she saw the blaze in his eyes, she
caught her breath in a little quick gasp.
"As far as I know," he answered grimly, "Mrs. Vernon is endeavouring to
support herself and three children on the large sum of one hundred and
fifty pounds a year. Her husband died in my arms while we were
consolidating some ground we had won." He took the envelope from her
hand. "Thank you; I am sorry to have had to trouble you."
He walked towards the door, and when he got to it, he paused and looked
back. Joan Devereux was standing motionless, staring out of the window.
Vane dropped his letter into the box in the hall, and went up the stairs
to his room.