Vane, conscious that he was a little early for lunch, idled his way
through the woods. He was looking forward, with a pleasure he did not
attempt to analyse, to seeing Joan in the setting where she belonged.
And if occasionally the thought intruded itself that it might be
advisable to take a few mental compass bearings and to ascertain his
exact position before going any further, he dismissed them as
ridiculous. Such thoughts have been similarly dismissed before. . . .
It was just as Vane was abusing himself heartily for being an ass that
he saw her coming towards him through a clearing in the undergrowth.
She caught sight of him at the same moment and stopped short with a
swift frown.
"I didn't know you knew this path," she said as he came up to her.
"I'm sorry--but I do. You see, I knew Rumfold pretty well in the old
days. . . . Is that the reason of the frown?"
"I wasn't particularly anxious to see you or anybody," she remarked
uncompromisingly. "I wanted to try to think something out. . . ."
"Then we are a well met pair," laughed Vane. "I will walk a few paces
behind you, and we will meditate."
"Don't be a fool," said Joan still more uncompromisingly. "And anyway
you're very early for lunch." She looked at her wrist watch. . . . "I
said one o'clock and it's only half past twelve. The best people don't
come before they're asked. . . ."
"I throw myself on the mercy of the court," pleaded Vane solemnly.
"I'll sit on this side of the bush and you sit on the other and in a
quarter of an hour we will meet unexpectedly with all the usual
symptoms of affection and joy. . . ."
The girl was slowly retracing her steps, with Vane just behind her, and
suddenly through an opening in the trees Blandford came in sight. It
was not the usual view that most people got, because the path through
the little copse was not very well known--but from nowhere could the
house be seen to better advantage. The sheet of placid, unruffled
water with its low red boathouse: the rolling stretch of green sweeping
up from it to the house broken only by the one terrace above the tennis
lawns; the rose garden, a feast of glorious colour, and then the house
itself with its queer turrets and spires and the giant trees beyond it;
all combined to make an unforgettable picture.
Joan had stopped and Vane stood silently beside her. She was taking in
every detail of the scene, and Vane, glancing at her quickly, surprised
a look of almost brooding fierceness in her grey eyes. It was a look
of protection, of ownership, of fear, all combined: a look such as a
tigress might give if her young were threatened. . . . And suddenly
there recurred to his mind that phrase in Margaret's letter about
financial trouble at Blandford. It had not impressed him particularly
when he read it; now he found himself wondering. . . .
"Isn't it glorious?" The girl was speaking very low, as if unconscious
that she had a listener. Then she turned on Vane swiftly. "Look at
that!" she cried, and her arm swept the whole perfect vista. "Isn't it
worth while doing anything--anything at all--to keep that as one's own?
That has belonged to us for five hundred years--and now! . . . My
God! just think of a second Sir John Patterdale--here"--the brooding
wild mother look was in her eyes again, and her lips were shut tight.
Vane moved restlessly beside her. He felt that the situation was
delicate; that it was only his unexpected and unwelcome arrival on the
scene that had made her take him into his confidence. Evidently there
was something gravely the matter; equally evidently it was nothing to
do with him. . . .
"I hope there's no chance of such a tragedy as that," he said gravely.
She turned and faced him. "There's every chance," she cried fiercely.
"Dad is up against it--I know he is, though he doesn't say much. And
this morning . . ." She bit her lip, and once more her eyes rested on
the old house. "Oh! what's the good of talking?" she went on after a
moment. "What has to be--has to be; but, oh! it makes me mad to think
of it. What good does it do, what purpose in the scheme of things you
may talk about, does it serve to turn out a man, who is beloved for
miles around, and put in his place some wretched pork butcher who has
made millions selling cat's meat as sausages?"
She faced Vane defiantly, and he wisely remained silent.
"You may call it what you like," she stormed; "but it's practically
turning him out. Is it a crime to own land, and a virtue to make a
fortune out of your neighbours in trade? Dad has never swindled a
soul. He's let his tenants down easy all through the war when they've
had difficulties over their rent; he's just idolised by them all. And
now he's got to go--unless. . . ." She paused and her two hands
clenched suddenly. Then she continued, and her voice was quite calm.
"I know I'm talking rot--so you needn't pay any attention. The great
thinkers are all agreed--aren't they?--that the present land system is
wrong--and they must know, of course. But I'm not a great thinker, and
I can't get beyond the fact that it's not going to increase anybody's
happiness--and there are a good many to be considered--if Dad goes, and
a pork butcher comes in. . . . And that's that. . . ."
"Supposing," said Vane curiously, "it wasn't a pork butcher? Suppose
it was someone who--well, let's say whom you wouldn't mind going in to
dinner with."
"It would be just the same," she answered after a moment. "Just the
same. It's ours, don't you see?--it's _ours_. It's always been ours."
And the brooding, animal look had come back into her eyes. . . .
Then with a laugh she turned to him. "Come on; you've got to make a
bow to Aunt Jane. Mind you tell her you've killed a lot of Germans.
She'll adore you for ever. . . ."
She threw off her fit of depression and chatted gaily all the way up to
the house.
"I've told Dad you're a very serious young man," she remarked, as they
reached the drive; "so you'd better live up to your reputation."
Vane groaned. "Your sins be upon your own head," he remarked. "I've
already had one serious dissertation this morning from old John, who
used to be lodgekeeper at Rumfold."
"I know him well," cried the girl. "A dear old man. . . ."
"Who shares your views on the land question," said Vane with a smile.
She stopped and faced him. "Don't you?" she demanded quietly.
"In your own words, Joan--I am a very serious young man; and I am
seeking for knowledge."
For a moment she seemed about to reply, and then, with a short laugh,
she turned on her heel and walked on. It was just as they were
entering the drawing-room that she looked at him over her shoulder. "I
hope your search will be successful," she remarked; "and I hope still
more that when it is successful you won't commit suicide. To have
knowledge, to know to-day what is the truth, would be, I think, the
most terrible burden any man could bear. Have you ever thought how
tired God must be?"
Before he could answer she was shouting down her aunt's ear-trumpet.
And Vane was left wondering at the strange mixture which went to make
up Joan Devereux.
* * * * *
Sir James was cordially delighted to see him, especially when he
discovered that Vane knew Mr. Trent.
"Where's the little girl?" he asked as they eat down to luncheon.
"Margaret was her name, I think."
To his intense annoyance Vane found himself colouring slightly, and at
the same moment he became acutely aware that a pair of grey eyes were
fixed on him from the other side of the table.
"She is nursing at Etaples, I believe," he answered casually, but a
soft gurgle of laughter told him it was useless.
"Captain Vane, Dad, is the soul of discretion," mocked Joan. "I
shouldn't be surprised if he wasn't nursed by her. . . ."
"Devilish nice girl to be nursed by, too, my dear," chuckled her
father, "from what I remember of her. What do you think, Vane?" He
was mercifully spared the necessity of answering by the intervention of
Aunt Jane, who had pursued her own train of thought, blissfully
unconscious of any change of conversation.
"How many of the brutes did you say you'd killed, young man?" she
boomed at him, at the same time putting her ear-trumpet at the "ready."
"Two for certain," howled Vane; "perhaps three."
She resumed her lunch, and Sir James laughed. "My sister," he
remarked, "is full of war. . . . Rather fuller--like a good many of
those who have stayed behind--than you fellows. . . ."
"It's very much nicer," said Vane with a laugh, "to kill--even a
Boche--in imagination than in reality. . . . Though I've seen many
men," he added thoughtfully, "go blood mad."
"Do you remember that description of Kipling's," said Sir James, "of
the scrap between the Black Tyrone and the Pathans? Mulvaney was sick,
and Ortheris cursed, and Learoyd sang hymns--wasn't it?"
"I've seen them all those ways," said Vane thoughtfully, "and the worst
of the lot are the silent ones. . . . There was one fellow I had who
never uttered a word from the time we went over till the finish, and he
never--if he could avoid it--struck a man anywhere except in the
stomach. . . . And incidentally he could quote more from the Bible
than most Bishops. . . . In fact, if he ever did speak, so I'm told,
when he was fighting it was just to remark, 'And the Lord said'--as he
stabbed."
Sir James nodded, and then half-closed his eyes. "One just can't get
it," he said. "None of us who haven't been there will ever get it--so
I suppose it's not much use trying. But one can't help thinking that
if only a few of the people who count over here could go and see, it
might make a difference. We might not be having so much trouble. . . ."
"See the reality and clear away the humbug," said Vane. "Can't be
done, Sir James. I know Staff Officers who would willingly give a
year's pay to shepherd a personally conducted Cook's party to France of
the British working man. They get their legs pulled right and left by
everybody out there; and do you wonder?" He laughed shortly. "Tommy's
no fool: six pounds a week instead of a shilling a day. And
comparisons are odious."
"But couldn't they be taken really into things?" asked his host.
"I can't quite see the party popping the parapet," grinned Vane. "It's
not a thing which anyone does for pleasure. . . ."
It was at that moment that with a loud booming noise Aunt Jane again
contributed to the conversation. "I'm afraid you've wasted your time
out there, young man."
"She means that two Germans and one doubtful isn't enough," gurgled
Joan, as she saw Vane's look of bewilderment. To his relief the old
lady did not adjust her trumpet, so he assumed rightly that he would be
allowed to suffer her displeasure in silence. . . .
"Well," said Sir James after a pause. "I suppose there are
unsurmountable difficulties in making people understand. But if I had
my way I'd take some of these blackguards who are fattening on the
country's helplessness and I'd put 'em in the front line
trenches. . . ."
"With a trench mortar bombardment on," supplemented Vane laughing.
"And I'd let 'em stop there and rot," continued Sir James. "It's
wicked; it's vile; it's abominable--exploiting their country's danger
for their own pockets. . . . What's going to happen when the war is
over, God alone knows."
"Your fish will get cold, Daddy, unless you go on with it," said Joan
soothingly.
But Sir James was started on his favourite hobby. It would have taken
more than the possibility of cold fish to stem the torrent, and Vane,
supported by the most fleeting of winks from Joan, made no attempt to
do so. He had heard it all before; the worthy Baronet's views, were
such as are delivered daily by the old order in every part of the
country. And the thing that perplexed Vane more and more as he
listened, and periodically returned a non-committal "Yes" or "No," was
where the fallacy lay. These were the views he had been brought up on;
they were the views with which, in his heart of hearts, he agreed. And
yet he felt dimly that there must be another side to the question: he
knew there was another side. Otherwise . . . but Sir James, when he
got into his stride, did not permit much meditation on the part of his
audience.
"Organised labour," he thundered, "has found itself, because we are at
war, all powerful. We depend on the organised workers, and they know
it. The lives of our men are at stake. . . . Their brothers, mark
you, Vane. What do they care? Not a dam, sir, not a dam. More money,
money--that's all they want. They know the State won't dare a
lock-out--and they trade on it. . . . Why don't they conscript 'em,
sir?--why don't they put the whole cursed crowd into khaki? Then if
they strike send 'em over into the trenches as I said, and let 'em rot
there. That would soon bring 'em to their senses. . . ." Sir James
attacked his chicken viciously.
"What's going to happen," he went on after a moment, "when we return to
peace conditions? The private employer can't pay these inflated
wages. . . . He simply can't do it, and that's an end of it. But now,
of necessity it's been a case of surrender--surrender--surrender to any
demands the blackguards like to put up. And they've got it each time.
Do you suppose they're going to stop?"
"But surely there's such a thing as common sense," interrupted Vane.
"Surely the matter can be put in front of them so that they will
understand? . . . If not, it's a pretty useful confession of
ineptitude."
Sir James laughed shortly. "There are several floating round at the
moment. . . . But it isn't quite as easy as all that, my dear fellow.
In times of unrest power comes automatically more and more into the
hands of the man who can talk; men like Ramage, and others of his
kidney. A few meaningless but high flown phrases; a few such parrot
cries as 'Down with the Capitalist and the Future is for the Worker,'
and you've got even the steadiest man unsettled. . . . Especially if
he's one of a crowd; mob psychology is the devil. . . ." Sir James
paused and stared out of the window. "I don't fear for the decent
fellow in the long run; it's in the early stages he may get
blown. . . ."
"What are you two men talking about so busily?" Aunt Jane once again
presented her trumpet to Vane.
"Labour trouble, Miss Devereux," he roared. "Trouble in the labour
market."
The old lady's face set grimly. "My convictions on that are well
known," she boomed. "Put them in a row against a wall and shoot them."
"My sister's panacea for all evil," said Sir James with a smile.
"There are others as well as Miss Devereux who would recommend the same
thing," said Vane with a short laugh.
"Shoot 'em," rasped the old lady; "shoot 'em, and go on shooting till
there are no more left to shoot. I'm sure we'd get along very well
without the brutes."
"What's going to stop 'em?" Sir James returned to his former question.
"Nothing--until they've tried everything, and found they're wrong. And
while they're finding out the simple fact that no employer can pay a
guinea for a pound's worth of work the country will crash. We'll have
anarchy, Vane--Bolshevism like Russia, unless a miracle saves us. . . .
Financed by the Boche probably into the bargain."
"Dear old Daddy," laughed Joan. "You're such an optimist, aren't you?"
"It's no laughing matter, my dear," snorted her father. "There's a
wave of madness over the world . . . absolute madness. The more you
give into them--the more decently you treat 'em--the more they
want. . . . People talk about the old order changing; what I want to
know is what they're going to put in its place? When they've broken up
the Empire and reduced England to a fifth-rate Power, they'll probably
want the old order back. . . . It'll be too late to want then."
"I gather, Sir James, that you are not exactly a Socialist," murmured
Vane gravely, with a side glance at Joan.
His host rose to the bait. "I--a Socialist--I! Why--why! . . ." he
spluttered, and then he saw his daughter's face. She was dimpling with
laughter, and suddenly Sir James laughed too.
"You nearly had me then, my boy," he cried; "very nearly. But it's on
that point, Vane, that I get so wild with these intellectual men--men
who should know better. Men like Ramage, and Johnson and all that lot.
They know themselves that Socialism is a wild impossibility; they know
that equality is out of the question, and yet they preach it to men who
have not got their brains. It's a dangerously attractive doctrine; the
working man who sees a motor flash past him wouldn't be human if he
didn't feel a tinge of envy. . . . But the Almighty has decreed that
it should be so: and it's flying in His Face to try to change it."
Vane looked thoughtfully at his host. "I fancy the Almighty's dictates
are less likely to be questioned by the motor car owner than by the
working man."
"I agree with you, Vane," returned Sir James at once. "But that
doesn't alter the principle of the thing. . . . By all means improve
their conditions . . . give them better houses . . . stop sweated
labour. That is our privilege and our duty. But if they continue on
their present line, they'll soon find the difference. Things we did
for 'em before, they'll have to whistle for in the future."
"You're getting your money's worth this time, aren't you, Captain
Vane?" said Joan demurely.
But Vane only smiled at her gravely and did not answer. Here were the
views, crudely expressed, perhaps, of the ordinary landed gentleman.
The man who of all others most typically represented feudalism.
Benevolent, perhaps--but feudalism. . . . The old order. "They talk
about 'back to the land,'" snorted Sir James suddenly, "as the
sovereign cure for all evils. You can take it from me, Vane, that
except in a few isolated localities the system of small holdings is
utterly uneconomical and unsuccessful. It means ceaseless work, and a
mere pittance in return. You know Northern France--well, you've got
the small holdings scheme in full blast there. What time do they get
up in the morning; what time do they go to bed at night? What do they
live on? And from what you know of your own fellow countrymen, do you
think any large percentage would tackle such a life? Believe me, these
days, none of us want to keep land very much." Sir James frowned
slightly. "Unless one has old family traditions. . . . And even those
will have to go by the board--sooner or later. . . . It doesn't pay,
Vane, you can take it from me. . . . And to split it up into small
holdings, and invite men of varying degrees of inefficiency to earn a
livelihood on it, won't help matters."
Sir James pushed back his chair and they rose from the table.
"I have victimised you enough, my dear boy," he remarked. "I think
Joan had better carry on the good work." She put her arm round his
waist, and her father looked down at her lovingly. "What are you going
to do with him, old lady?"
"Are you busy, Dad, this afternoon?" she asked.
Sir James nodded, and he seemed to Vane to have grown very old. "The
old order is changing--what are they going to put in its place? . . ."
A sudden fear caught him in its grip. He turned quickly and stared out
of the window; at the wonderful bit of England that lay before him.
Quiet and smiling in the warm sun, it lay there--a symbol of the thing
for which Englishmen have laid down their lives since time started. At
that very second men were dying for it--over the water. Was it all to
be in vain?
"Yes, girlie," Sir James was speaking. "I've got a lot of business to
attend to. That wretched fellow Norton can't pay his rent again. . . ."
"Oh! Dad, he is a bit steep," cried the girl. "That's the third time."
Sir James laughed. "I know, my dear; but things are bad. After all,
he has lost one of his sons in Mesopotamia."
"A drunken waster," cried the girl.
"He died, Joan," said her father simply. "No man may do more."
"You're too kind-hearted, Dad," she said, patting his arm, and looking
up into his face. "I wouldn't be."
Sir James laughed. "Oh! yes, you would. Besides, I sha'n't have a
chance much longer." With a quick sigh, he bent and kissed her. "Run
along and take Vane out on the lake. I'll come down later and shout at
you from the bank." She watched her father leave the room, and then
she turned to Vane.
"Would you care to come on the lake?" she asked, and in her eyes there
was a strange, inscrutable look which set him wondering.
"I'd love it," said Vane. He followed her into the open window and
together they stepped on to the lawn.
Aunt Jane had already taken her usual position, preparatory to her
afternoon nap; but Vane's sudden appearance apparently stirred some
train of thought in her mind. As he came up to her she adjusted her
trumpet and boomed, "Shoot 'em, young man--shoot 'em until there are
none left."
"Why, certainly, Miss Devereux," he shouted. "That's what I think."
She nodded her approval at meeting such a kindred spirit, and replaced
the foghorn on the ground beside her. He felt that his poor record of
dead Huns was forgiven him, and rejoined Joan with a smile.
"How easy it would be, if that was the way," she said quietly. "Dear
old Aunt Jane--I remember sitting up with her most of one night, trying
to comfort her, when her pug dog went lame on one foot."
Vane laughed, and as they came to a turn in the path, they looked back.
The old lady was already dozing gently--at peace with all the world.