There was no objection to Vane going to London, it transpired. He had
merely to write his name in a book, and he was then issued a half-fare
voucher. No one even asked him his religion, which seemed to point to
slackness somewhere.
It was with feelings the reverse of pleasant that Vane got into the
first-class carriage one morning four days after he had written to Mrs.
Vernon. She would be glad to see him, she had written in reply, and
she was grateful to him for taking the trouble to come. Thursday
afternoon would be most convenient; she was out the other days, and on
Sundays she had to look after the children. . . .
Vane opened the magazine on his knees and stared idly at the pictures.
In the far corner of the carriage two expansive looking gentlemen were
engaged in an animated conversation, interrupted momentarily by his
entrance. In fact they had seemed to regard his intrusion rather in
the light of a personal affront. Their general appearance was not
prepossessing, and Vane having paused in the doorway, and stared them
both in turn out of countenance, had been amply rewarded by hearing
himself described as an impertinent young puppy.
He felt in his blackest and most pugilistic mood that morning. As a
general rule he was the most peaceful of men; but at times, some strain
inherited from a remote ancestor who, if he disliked a man's face hit
it hard with a club, resurrected itself in him. There had been the
celebrated occasion in the Promenade at the Empire, a few months before
the war, when a man standing in front of him had failed to remove his
hat during the playing of "The King." It was an opera hat, and Vane
removed it for him and shut it up. The owner turned round just in time
to see it hit the curtain, whence it fell with a thud into the
orchestra. . . . Quite inexcusable, but the fight that followed was
all that man could wish for. The two of them, with a large
chucker-out, had finally landed in a heap in Leicester Square--with the
hatless gentleman underneath. And Vane--being fleet of foot, had
finally had the supreme joy of watching from afar his disloyal opponent
being escorted to Vine Street, in a winded condition, by a very big
policeman. . . .
Sometimes he wondered if other people ever felt like that; if they were
ever overcome with an irresistible desire to be offensive. It struck
him that the war had not cured this failing; if anything it had made it
stronger. And the sight of these two fat, oily specimens complacently
discussing business, while a woman--in some poky house in Balham--was
waiting to hear the last message from her dead, made him gnash his
teeth.
Of course it was all quite wrong. No well-brought-up and decorous
Englishman had any right to feel so annoyed with another man's face
that he longed to hit it with a stick. But Vane was beginning to doubt
whether he had been well brought up; he was quite certain that he was
not decorous. He was merely far more natural than he had ever been
before; he had ceased to worry over the small things.
And surely the two other occupants of the carriage were very small. At
least they seemed so to him. For all he knew, or cared, they might
each of them be in control of a Government Department; that failed to
alter their littleness.
Fragments of their conversation came to him over the rattle of the
wheels, and he became more and more irate. The high price of whisky
was one source of complaint--it appeared, according to one of them,
that it was all going to France, which caused a shortage for those at
home. Then the military situation. . . . Impossible, grotesque. . . .
Somebody ought to be hanged for having allowed such a thing to happen.
After four years to be forced back--inexcusable. What was wanted was
somebody with a business brain to run the Army. . . . In the meantime
their money was being wasted, squandered, frittered away. . . .
Vane grew rampant in his corner as he listened; his mental language
became impossibly lurid. He felt that he would willingly have given a
thousand or two to plant them both into that bit of the outpost line,
where a month before he had crawled round on his belly at dawn to see
his company. Grey-faced and grey-coated with the mud, their eyes had
been clear and steady and cheerful, even if their chins were covered
with two days' growth. And their pay was round about a shilling a
day. . . .
It was just as the train was slowing down to enter Victoria that he
felt he could contain himself no longer. The larger and fatter of the
two, having concluded an exhaustive harangue on the unprecedented
wealth at present being enjoyed by some of the soldiers' wives in the
neighbourhood--and unmarried ones, too, mark you!--stood up to get his
despatch case.
"It seems a pity, gentlemen, you bother to remain in the country,"
remarked Vane casually. "You must be suffering dreadfully."
Two gentlemen inferred icily that they would like to know what he meant.
"Why not return to your own?" he continued, still more casually.
"Doubtless the Egyptian Expeditionary Force will soon have it swept and
garnished for you."
The train stopped; and Vane got out. He was accompanied to the barrier
by his two late travelling companions, and from their remarks he
gathered that they considered he had insulted them; but it was only
when he arrived at the gate that he stopped and spoke. He spoke at
some length, and the traffic was unavoidably hung up during the
peroration.
"I have listened," said Vane in a clear voice, "to your duologue on the
way up, and if I thought there were many like you in the country I'd
take to drink. As it is, I am hopeful, as I told you, that Jerusalem
will soon be vacant. Good morning. . . ."
And the fact that two soldiers on leave from France standing close by
burst into laughter did not clear the air. . . .
"Jimmy," said Vane half an hour later, throwing himself into a chair in
his club next to an old pal in the smoking-room, "I've just been a
thorough paced bounder; a glorious and wonderful cad. And, Jimmy! I
feel so much the better for it."
Jimmy regarded him sleepily from the depths of his chair. Then his
eyes wandered to the clock, and he sat up with an effort. "Splendid,
dear old top," he remarked. "And since it is now one minute past
twelve, let's have a spot to celebrate your lapse from virtue."
With the conclusion of lunch, the approaching ordeal at Balham began to
loom large on his horizon. In a vain effort to put off the evil hour,
he decided that he would first go round to his rooms in Half Moon
Street. He had kept them on during the war, only opening them up
during his periods of leave. The keys were in the safe possession of
Mrs. Green, who, with her husband, looked after him and the other
occupants of the house generally. As always, the worthy old lady was
delighted to see him. . . .
"Just cleaned them out two days ago, Mr. Vane, sir," she remarked.
New-fangled Army ranks meant nothing to her: Mr. Vane he had
started--Mr. Vane he would remain to the end of the chapter.
"And, Binks, Mrs. Green?" But there was no need for her to answer that
question. There was a sudden scurry of feet, and a wire-haired
fox-terrier was jumping all over him in ecstasy.
"My son, my son," said Vane, picking the dog up. "Are you glad to see
your master again? One lick, you little rascal, as it's a special
occasion. And incidentally, mind my arm, young fellow-me-lad."
He put Binks down, and turned with a smile to Mrs. Green. "Has he been
good, Mrs. Green?"
"Good as good, sir," she answered. "I'm sure he's a dear little dog.
Just for the first week after you went--the same as the other
times--he'd hardly touch a thing. Just lay outside your door and
whined and whined his poor little heart out. . . ."
The motherly old woman stooped to pat the dog's head, and Binks licked
her fingers once to show that he was grateful for what she'd done.
But--and this was a big but--she was only a stop-gap. Now--and with
another scurry of feet, he was once again jumping round the only one
who really mattered. A series of short staccato yelps of joy too great
to be controlled; a stumpy tail wagging so fast that the eye could
scarcely follow it; a dog. . . .
"I believe, Mrs. Green," said Vane quietly, "that quite a number of
people in England have lately been considering whether it wouldn't be a
good thing to kill off the dogs. . . ."
"Kill off the dogs, sir!" Mrs. Green's tone was full of shrill
amazement. "Kill Binks? I'd like to see anyone try." . . . Vane had
a momentary vision of his stalwart old landlady armed with a poker and
a carving knife, but he did not smile.
"So would I, Mrs. Green. . . . So would I. . . ." And with a short
laugh he took the key from her and went upstairs.
The room into which he went first was such as one would have expected
to find in the abode of a young bachelor. Into the frame of the mirror
over the fireplace a score of ancient invitations were stuck. Some
heavy silver photo frames stood on the mantel-piece, while in the
corner a bag of golf clubs and two or three pairs of boxing gloves gave
an indication of their owner's tastes. The room was spotlessly clean,
and with the sun shining cheerfully in at the window it seemed
impossible to believe that it had been empty for six months. A few
good prints--chiefly sporting--adorned the walls; and the books in the
heavy oak revolving bookcase which stood beside one of the big leather
chairs were of the type generally described as light. . . .
For a time Vane stood by the mantelpiece thoughtfully staring out of
the window; while Binks, delirious with joy, explored each
well-remembered corner, and blew heavily down the old accustomed cracks
in the floor. Suddenly with a wild scurry, he fled after his principal
joy--the one that never tired. He had seen Vane throw it into the
corner, and now he trotted sedately towards this wonderful master of
his, who had so miraculously returned, with his enemy in his mouth. He
lay down at Vane's feet; evidently the game was about to begin.
The enemy was an indiarubber dog which emitted a mournful whistling
noise through a hole in its tummy. It was really intended for the use
of the very young in their baths--to enable them to squirt a jet of
water into the nurse's eye; but it worried Binks badly. The harder he
bit, the harder it whistled. It seemed impossible to kill the damn
thing. . . .
For a while he bit the whistling atrocity to his heart's content; then
with it still between his fore paws he looked up into Vane's face.
Surely his master had not forgotten the rules of the game. Really--it
was a little steep if it was so. But Vane, as far as Binks could see,
was looking at one of the photographs on the mantelpiece with a slight
smile on his face. One or two mournful whistles produced no apparent
result. So Binks decided it was time for desperate measures. He stood
up; and, with his head on one side, he contemplated his hated
adversary, prone on the carpet. Then he gave a short sharp bark--just
as a reminder. . . .
It was quite sufficient, and Vane apologised handsomely. "Beg your
pardon, old man," he remarked. "For the moment I was thinking of
trivialities." He moved his foot backwards and forwards close to the
indiarubber dog, and Binks, with his ears pricked up, and his head
turning slightly as he followed the movement of his master's foot,
waited. Shortly, he knew that this hereditary enemy of his would fly
to one side of the room or the other. The great question was--which?
It would hit the wall, and rebound on to the floor, where it would be
seized, and borne back with blood curdling growls for the process to be
repeated . . . The game, it may be said, was not governed by any
foolish time limit. . . .
Suddenly the swinging leg feinted towards the left, and Binks dashed in
that direction. Curse it--he was stung again. His adversary flew to
the right, and was comfortably settled on the floor before Binks
appeared on the scene. However, his tail was still up, as he brought
it back, and he gave it an extra furious bite, just to show that he
would tolerate no uppishness on account of this preliminary
defeat. . . . Vane laughed. "You funny old man," he said. He stopped
and picked up the toy, replacing it on the mantelpiece. "That ends the
game for to-day, Binks, for I've got to go out. Would you like to
come, too?" The brown eyes looked adoringly up into his. Binks failed
to see why the first game after such a long time should be so short;
but--his not to reason why on such matters. Besides his master was
talking and Binks liked to have his opinion asked.
Once again Vane's eyes went back to the photograph he had been
studying. It was one of Margaret--taken years ago. . . . And as he
looked at it, a pair of grey eyes, with the glint of a mocking smile in
them, seemed to make the photo a little hazy.
"Come on, old man. We're going to Balham. And I need you to support
me."
Culman Terrace was not a prepossessing spectacle. A long straight road
ran between two rows of small and dreary houses. Each house was
exactly the same, with its tiny little plot of garden between the front
door and the gate. In some of the plots there were indications that
the owner was fond of gardening; here a few sweet peas curled lovingly
up the sticks put in for them--there some tulips showed signs of
nightly attention. But in most the plot was plain and drab as the
house--a dead thing; a thing without a soul. Individuality,
laughter--aye, life itself--seemed crushed in that endless road, with
its interminable rows of houses.
As Vane walked slowly up it looking for No. 14, the sun was shining.
For the moment it seemed clothed in some semblance of life; almost as
if it was stirring from a long sleep, and muttering to itself that love
and the glories of love were abroad to-day. . . . And then the sun
went behind a cloud, and everything was grey and dead once more.
Vane pictured it to himself on damp dark mornings in the winter--on
evenings when the days were shortening, and the gas lamps shone through
the gloom. He saw the doors opening, and each one disgorging some
black coated, pallid man, who passed through the gate, and then with
quick nervous steps walked towards the station. The 8.30 was their
train; though in some very rare cases the 9.3 was early enough. . . .
But as a rule the 9.3 crowd did not live in Culman Terrace. Just a few
only, who had come there young and eager, and had died there. True,
they caught the 9.3, but they were dead. And the pretty laughing girls
who had married them when the lamp was burning with the divine fire of
hope, had watched them die . . . hopelessly, helplessly. . . . Love
will stand most things; but the drab monotony of the successful
failure--the two hundred pound a year man who has to keep up
appearances--tries it very high. . . .
Some of them turned into shrews and nagged; some of them ran to fat and
didn't care; but most of them just sank quietly and imperceptibly into
the dreariness and smallness of their surroundings. At rare intervals
there flashed across their horizon something of the great teeming world
outside; they went to a bargain sale, perhaps, and saw the King drive
past--or they went to the movies and for a space lived in the Land of
Make Believe. . . . But the coils of Culman Terrace had them fast, and
the excitement was only momentary--the relapse the more complete. And,
dear Heavens, with what high ideals they had all started. . . . It
struck Vane as he walked slowly along the road that here, on each side
of him, lay the Big Tragedy--bigger far than in the vilest slum. For
in the slum they had never known or thought of anything better. . . .
Odd curtains were pulled aside as he walked, and he felt conscious of
people staring at him. He pictured them getting up from their chairs,
and peering at him curiously, wondering where he was going--what he was
doing--who he was. . . . It was the afternoon's excitement--a wounded
officer passing the house.
A familiar singing noise behind him made him look round and whistle.
Long experience left no doubt as to what was happening, and when he saw
Binks on his toes, circling round a gate on which a cat was spitting
angrily, he called "Binks" sharply once, and walked on again. It was
the greatest strain Binks was ever called on to face, but after a
moment of indecision he obeyed as usual. Cats were his passion; but
ever since he had carried the Colonel's wife's prize Persian on to
parade and deposited it at Vane's feet he was discreet in the matter.
The infuriated pursuit by the lady in question on to the parade ground,
armed with an umbrella in one hand and a poker in the other, had not
tended towards steadiness in the ranks. In fact, something like alarm
and despondency had been caused amongst all concerned--especially
Binks. . . .
"Lord! old man," muttered his master, "here we are." Vane turned in at
the gate of No. 14 and rang the bell. There was an unpleasant sinking
feeling in the pit of his stomach and he nervously dried his left hand
on his handkerchief.
"Pray Heaven she doesn't cry," he said to himself fervently, and at
that moment the door opened. A pale, grave-eyed woman in black
confronted him, and after a moment or two she smiled very slightly and
held out her hand. Vane took it awkwardly.
"It is good of you to take the trouble to come, Captain Vane," she said
in a singularly sweet voice. "Won't you come inside?"
He followed her into the small drawing-room and sat down. It was
scrupulously clean, and it was more than that--it was homely. . . . It
was the room of a woman who loved beautiful things, and who had with
perfect taste banished every single object which might jar on the
fastidious mind. It struck Vane that it was probably a unique room in
Culman Terrace; he felt certain that the rest of the house was in
keeping. . . .
"What a charming room," he said involuntarily, and it was only when she
looked at him with a little lift of her eyebrows that he realised she
might regard the remark as impertinent. Why shouldn't the room be
charming? . . .
But Mrs. Vernon quickly removed his embarrassment. "It's always been a
passion of mine--my house," she said quietly. "And now--more than
ever. . . . It's a duty, even, though a pleasant one---- After all,
whatever may go on outside, whatever wretchedness worries one--it's
something to have a real sanctuary to come to. I want the children to
feel that--so much. I want them to love the beautiful things in life,"
she went on passionately, "even though they live in these
surroundings." She stared out of the window for a moment, and then she
turned with a sudden quick movement to Vane. "But, forgive me. I
don't know why I should inflict my ideas on you. Will you tell me
about Philip?"
It was the moment he had been dreading, and yet, now that it had come,
he found it easier than he had expected. There was something about
this quiet, steadfast woman which told him that she would not make a
scene. And so, gently and quietly, with his eyes fixed on the empty
fireplace, he told her the story. There are thousands of similar
stories which could be told in the world to-day, but the pathos of each
one is not diminished by that. It was the story of the ordinary man
who died that others might live. He did not die in the limelight; he
just died and was buried and his name, in due course appeared in the
casualty list. . . .
Not that Vane put it that way. He painted his picture with the touch
of glamour; he spoke of a charge, of Vernon cheering his men on, of
success. Into the peaceful drawing-room he introduced the atmosphere
of glory--unwittingly, perhaps, he fell back on the popular conception
of war. And the woman, who hung on every word, silent and tearless,
thrilled with the pride of it. Her man, running at the head of
others--charging--dying at the moment of victory. . . . It would be
something to tell her two boys, when their turn came to face the battle
of life; something which would nerve them to the success which her man
would have won except for. . . .
Vane's voice died away. He had finished his story, he had painted his
picture. No suspicion had he given that a stray bit of shell had torn
Vernon to bits long after the tumult and the shouting had ceased.
After all, he was dead . . . it was the living who counted. No man
could have done more. Surely he deserved the white lie which pictured
his death more vividly--more grandly. . . .
"He died in my arms," went on Vane after a little pause, "and his last
words were about you." He told her the few simple sentences, repeated
to her the words which a man will say when the race is run and the tape
is reached. God knows they are commonplace enough--those short
disjointed phrases; but God knows also that it is the little things
which count, when the heart is breaking. . . .
And, then, having told her once, perforce he had to tell her
again--just the end bit. . . . With the tears pouring down her cheeks
she listened; and though each word stabbed her to the heart
afresh--woman-like, she gloried in her pain.
"'God bless you, Nell,' and then he died," she said softly to herself,
repeating Vane's last sentence. "Ah! but you made good, my man. I
always knew you would some day. . . ."
It seemed to the man staring into the fireplace that he was very near
to holy ground; and suddenly he rose and strode to the window. With
eyes that were a trifle dim he saw the beautifully kept little
garden--a mass of colour; he saw the name plate, "Sea View," on the
gate, glinting bravely in the sun. Something of the hopeless tragedy
of that "Some day" was getting him by the throat. . . . "Made
good"--dear Lord! and he thought of his two travelling companions in
the morning. . . .
For perhaps five minutes he stood there silently, and then he turned
back into the room. It had come to him quite clearly that Philip
Vernon had indeed made good; that the real tragedy would have been his
return to "Sea View." By his death he had justified himself; in his
life he would have failed. . . . For he had been branded with the
brand of Culman Terrace, and there is no need to say more. He was
relieved to see that Mrs. Vernon was quite composed again. He had
performed the first part of his mission, and now the second required
tackling. And something warned him that he would have to tread very
delicately; any suspicion of the word charity would be fatal to
success. . . .
"About your eldest boy, Mrs. Vernon," he began; "your husband often
spoke about him to me. Let me see--what age is he?"
"Jack is fifteen, Captain Vane," she said quietly.
"Fifteen! Couldn't be better. Now I was wondering, Mrs. Vernon,
whether you would care in a year or two, to let him come to me. I'm in
a very big business in the City, and my boss is always on the look out
for bright boys. I know your boy is clever--but so much depends on
getting a good start these days. Of course he'd be judged entirely on
his merits . . . but he'd start with a real good chance of making the
best of his talents." He looked quickly at her, and found she was
watching him gravely. "It's part of the privilege of the brotherhood
of the trenches, Mrs. Vernon, to be allowed to make such an
offer. . . ." He was finding it easier now. "To do anything for your
husband's son would be a real pleasure; though, I need hardly say that,
beyond giving him the chance, I could offer nothing else. It would be
up to him to make good."
For a while Mrs. Vernon was silent, and he flashed a quick look at her.
Had he put it well? Had he kept every suspicion of patronage out of
his offer?
"Thank you very much, Captain Vane," she said at last, "for your offer.
I hope you won't think me ungrateful when I refuse. Four years ago I
think I should have accepted it with gratitude; but now . . ." She
shook her head "A lot of the shams have gone; we see clearer--some of
us. . . . And I tell you that I would not willingly condemn Jack to
such a life as his father led--even if I was penniless. Wait--let me
finish"--as Vane started to speak--"Of course with you he would have
better chances than his father had before him--but the city life would
kill him--even as it has killed thousands of others. . . . I wonder if
you can realise the hideous tragedy of the poor clerk. He can't strike
for higher wages, like the British working man. He just goes on and on
and suffers in silence. . . . In Jack's case it would be the
same. . . . What--four hundred a year?" She laughed a little
scornfully. "It's not much to bring up a family on, Captain
Vane. . . . Four hundred a year, and Acacia Avenue--two streets
up. . . . Acacia Avenue doesn't call on Culman Terrace, you
know. . . ." Again she laughed. "No, Jack isn't made for that sort of
life, thank God. He aches for the big spaces in his boyish way, for
the lands where there are big things to be done. . . . And I've
encouraged him. There'll be nobody there to sneer if his clothes get
frayed and he can't buy any more--because of the children's boots.
There'll be no appearances to keep up there. And I'd a thousand times
rather that Jack should stand--or fall--in such surroundings, than that
he should sink slowly . . . here."
She paused for a moment, and then stood up and faced him. "It's
emigration, Captain Vane, that I and people like me have got to turn to
for our boys. For ourselves--it doesn't much matter; we've had our
day, and I don't want you to think the sun never shined on us, for it
did. . . . Just wonderfully at times. . . ." She gave a quick sigh.
"Only now . . . things are different. . . . And up till now, Culman
Terrace hasn't considered emigration quite the thing. It's not quite
respectable. . . . Only aristocratic ne'er-do-wells and quite
impossibly common men emigrate. It's a confession of failure. . . .
And so we've continued to swell the ranks of the most pitiful class in
the country--the gentleman and his family with the small fixed income.
The working man regards him with suspicion because he wears a black
coat--or, with contempt because he doesn't strike; the Government
completely ignores him because they know he's too much a slave to
convention to do anything but vote along so-called gentlemanly lines.
What do you suppose would be the result if the enormous body of middle
class slaves in this country did, one day, combine and refuse to be
bled by every other class? We're bled by the people on top for their
own advantage; and then we're bled again for the advantage of the dear
workman. . . ." She laughed a little. "Forgive me talking so much;
but not for Jack, thank you."
Vane bowed. "Mrs. Vernon, I think you're perfectly right--and I wish
you and him the very best of luck." He shook hands gravely and a few
moments later he was walking back towards the station with Binks
trotting sedately at his heels. In all probability he would never see
Mrs. Vernon again; war and its aftermath had brought their paths
together for a space, and now they were diverging again. But that
short space had been enough to make him feel ashamed and proud.
Ashamed of himself for his cynicism and irritability; proud of the
woman who, with her faith clear and steadfast, could face the future
without faltering. Her man's job had been laid upon her; she would
never fail him till the time came for her to join him. . . . And by
then she would have earned her reward--rest. . . . She will deserve
every moment of it. . . . Surely the Lord of True Values will not
grudge it to her. . . .
And though he had said nothing to her of his thoughts--men when deeply
moved are so hopelessly inarticulate--somehow he wished going up in the
train that he had. Falteringly, crudely, he might have said something,
which would have helped her. If only a man had the power of expressing
sympathy without words. He needn't have worried, had he known . . .
and Binks, who was looking out of the window with interest, could not
tell him. Anyway, it was not anything to make a song or dance
about--putting a cold wet nose into a hand that hung down from a chair,
and letting it rest there--just for a while. . . . But it was not the
first time, and it will not be the last, that the Peace that passeth
all understanding has been brought to the human heart by the touch of a
dog. . . . Binks had justified his inclusion in the trip. . . .