The ensuing weeks proved to the Philosopher beyond a doubt that so far
as the war news was concerned it was not “twaddle.” Needless to
recapitulate all the cruel and terrible happenings which are burned deep
into the nation’s brain, and graven ineffaceably on the recording stone
of History,--and the details of such lives lived like that of the
Philosopher, out of the reach of the enemy’s fire, hardly deserve to be
chronicled at all save for the curious fact that despite “battle, murder
and sudden death” these lives go on more or less placidly, unmoved by
good or ill report of what does not immediately concern themselves. Like
the old farmer pictured in “Punch” whose wife warned a visitor not to
speak of the war, “Cos ’e don’t bleeve there ain’t no war,” so the
Philosopher pursued the even tenor of his way, spending more and longer
time in the country, especially after “raids” began to affect London’s
social equanimity. He plunged deeper and deeper into labyrinths of
forgotten languages, delving for the “root” of this word and the
“branches” of that,--and taking care to delight his host (who daily
became more gouty and irritable) with the patience of his research and
the “flattering unction” he applied to the self-satisfaction of the good
old gentleman, who firmly believed that his great work--“The
Deterioriation of Language Invariably Perceived as a Precursor to the
Decadence of Civilisation” was destined to reform the world. His pet
theory was that if the language of a people could be preserved in
pristine purity and elegance of speech, without the introduction of
slang or flippant abbreviations, it would go a long way to check
degeneration and decay. There was no doubt something in it;--as the
Philosopher once sagely remarked, “there is always something in
everything,”--but it was a something not likely to appeal to the average
understanding. Anyway he was happy in his old age, pursuing a fox of a
word through the brushwood of centuries with hounds of argument, urged
on by the Philosopher,--and as long as they two could sit turning over
dictionaries and comparing notes, they paid little heed to the Great War
raging across Channel except as an echo of distant thunder. With the
pretty Sentimentalist it was different. She busied herself with a
thousand things. Punctiliously careful of her father’s household, and
attentive to all his wishes and caprices, she nevertheless found time to
help all sorts of “war charities,”--and as soon as she heard of a V.A.D.
hospital being started in the neighbourhood she offered her services for
so many hours each day,--services which were readily accepted. The
“Commandant,” a sour, stern, old, county lady with more wrinkles than
hairs, set her to do the dirtiest and most repulsive sort of work, for
several cogent reasons--first, because she was pretty,--secondly,
because her hands were white and well-kept, and as the “county” dame
remarked, with an impressive sniff to herself, “Do her good to get them
roughened a bit”--and thirdly, because she was a sensitive creature, and
ugly sights and smells made her sick. But she was quite docile and
obedient, and did all she was told to do with a patient sweetness which
might have softened any heart but that of the V.A.D. “commandant” whose
life-organ had apparently become tanned and hardened into a species of
human leather. She never told her father or his friend the Philosopher
anything about her hospital duties,--nor did they in their complete
self-absorption notice that she looked frail and tired in the evenings.
“Women _must_ have something to do,” said the Philosopher, comfortably.
“And it amuses them to go fussing over wounded men and putting bandages
on broken heads and limbs--it _saves_ them,--_saves_ them, I do assure
you! That V.A.D. hospital is a perfect godsend to the women of this
neighbourhood--gives them a fresh interest in life and stops their
horrible “bridge” for a time. To wipe the fevered manly brow and comb
the manly hair gives them a thrill of delightful excitement--it’s
something new; and the plainest old spectacled harridan that ever lived
likes to be called ‘Sister’ by a smart boy of twenty. Yes! the V.A.D. is
a boon and a blessing!--it serves a double purpose: sick-nursing and
matrimony. The blacksmith’s anvil at Gretna Green is not in it with a
bed in a convalescent ward, and a good-looking ‘sister’ about.”
His gouty host grumbled assent--the Sentimentalist listened without
comment. When the Philosopher talked in this sort of way she always
felt herself removed very far from him,--she realised, with a little
sense of pain that he and she had nothing in common. She had an
appreciation of what she imagined to be his “cleverness,” but she also
had a keen consciousness that he merely tolerated what he considered her
stupidity under the guise of “sentiment.”
One day on her way back from her work at the V.A.D. she met Jack. She
had not seen him for some time, and had lately wondered what kept him so
long away, but the moment she saw him she knew. He was in khaki,--and
very smart and well set up he looked. Yet there was an expression in his
handsome young face that altered it somehow--and her heart beat a little
more quickly as she held out her hand to him with a pleased utterance of
his name:
“Jack!”
He smiled tenderly into her uplifted eyes.
“Yes, it’s me!” he said. “I’ve joined up. I had to. I couldn’t rest day
or night till I did.”
“But--but you are an American!” she exclaimed.
“Yes. But I’m a man too, I hope! I couldn’t see all the brave blood of
Britain starting to kill the Hun Dragon without wanting to be a bit of
St. George myself. And America will be in the tussle presently. That’s
what I’ve told the old man--my father--and though I’m his only hopeful
(or hopeless!) he lets me go. I meant to see you somehow before
training. But I never get you alone for five minutes in the house.
Let’s have a stroll by the river.”
She turned, and walked slowly beside him, through a swing gate and along
a little side path just wide enough for two, which meandered across a
wide field to the water’s edge. It was full autumn--indeed verging on
winter,--the trees were almost leafless and a chill wind blew through
their branches. The river, so full of charm in the sunshine, had a dull
glassy glare of cold grey on its surface and a tiny shiver ran through
the veins of the Sentimentalist as she looked around her at the
dreariness of the landscape which had been so fair and sunshiny in the
spring.
“I hear you’ve been working at the V.A.D.,” he said, then, “Don’t you
tire yourself! I won’t have it!”
She smiled, but the tears were very near her eyes.
“Won’t you?”
“No, I won’t,” he repeated, emphatically. “Where’s that old Philosopher
of yours?”
“Oh, he’s at home, working at the dictionaries with Dad, as usual. He
likes being here--you see it’s not very nice in London just now.”
“It’s never nice in _my_ opinion,” replied Jack. “But if you mean
air-raids and that sort of thing I rather like them! I think it’s what
London wants. I shouldn’t mind if the whole place were bombed to
smithereens!”
“Jack!”
He laughed at her horrified tone.
“Dear little ‘rose-lady,’ you mustn’t be cross with me! You don’t know
London--I _do_! It’s a regular muck-heap--wants clearing badly. And
cleared it will have to be before this war finishes. If it hadn’t been
for muck-heap London, and muck-heap Berlin and other big cities like
them, full of filth we should have had no war, at all. That’s so!”
He spoke with a kind of repressed passion--she looked up at him
wonderingly and timidly. He met her sweet eyes, and his stern young face
relaxed.
“Yes, dear!” he said. “It’s wickedness that has brought the war on
us--wickedness in men, wickedness in women. The Supreme Being is tired
of looking at the muck-heaps. He wants a clean world. And we’ve all got
to help Him clean it!--with our blood and our lives!”
Timidly she put out her hand and touched his. He caught it and held it
in a warm, kind grasp.
“I shan’t be sent out to France yet,” he went on. “I’ve got to be
drilled into shape. And I mean to see you as often as I can before I go.
Do you mind?”
“Mind? Why, of course not! I shall want to see _you_ as much as you want
to see _me_!”
Jack smiled.
“Oh, no, you won’t!” he said. “Though it’s nice of you to say it. But
you _can’t_ really!--because you see I’m in love with you, and you’re
_not_ in love with me!”
She drooped her head.
“I’m not in love with any one,” she murmured. “I don’t know how it is--”
“_I_ know!” and Jack nodded his head sagaciously: “You can’t make up
your mind as to whether a man’s company for life would be possible of
endurance! I don’t blame you for the doubt--not a bit! But, if you _are_
hesitating I can tell you you’d have a cheerier time of it with me than
with your crusty old Philosopher!”
She laughed.
“Oh, Jack! I never think of the Philosopher _that_ way! I wouldn’t marry
him for all the world!”
“Well, that’s a comfort,” and Jack drew a long breath of relief. “That’s
a real balm in Gilead! But he’ll want to marry _you_, you take my word
for it! And when I’m gone he’ll have a clear field!”
She raised her eyes rather reproachfully.
“Then you don’t believe me’?”
“Yes, I do--of course I do!” and Jack pressed hard the little hand he
held. “But I’ve got a bit of imagination, fool though I am! I see a
thousand possibilities--your Dad may die--and then you’ll be all
alone--and Mr. Philosopher will step in to ‘protect and console the only
child of his dear dead friend!’--ugh!--I can hear him saying it!--and I
shall be the Lord knows where!--and you--you are such a dainty little
‘rose-lady’ with such docile, obedient ways--”
She flashed a sudden look at him.
“You don’t know me well enough!” she said. “I’ve got a will of my own!”
“Have you?” and Jack smiled indulgently. “Well! I hope you have! And
that you’ll say ‘No’ very firmly when Mr. Philosopher comes round after
you and your fortune--there!--don’t look so surprised!--I heard him say
he knew your father would leave you a big fortune!”
“Me?” and the astonishment was openly genuine. “Oh, Jack, you must be
dreaming! Dad isn’t rich at all--he always tells me he has the greatest
difficulty to make both ends meet!”
Jack laughed joyously.
“Jolly old dodger!” he said, irreverently. “But never mind! I daresay
he’s right!--he’s like _my_ father who swears he’s obliged to live down
here in the country with one manservant to look after him in his fishing
cottage by the river, because he can’t afford to live anywhere else! And
yet I’ve heard--but after all it’s only silly rumour.”
“What is?” she enquired.
“Why, I’ve heard he’s as rich as Crœsus--but I’m sure it can’t be true,
for ever since my mother died when I was a little chap of ten, we’ve
always been pretty hard up.”
“But you went to college?” she said. “And you travelled abroad with a
‘crack’ tutor?”
“Oh, yes!--all that! Nothing grudged so far as my training has gone. But
no superfluous cash about. And now I shan’t want anything from anybody
once I’m in the Army. I shall be clothed and fed and have my pay for
pocket-money! Jolly! Don’t you congratulate me?”
She looked full at him, frankly and sweetly.
“Yes, I _do_ congratulate you!” she said. “I congratulate you on the
right spirit you show, to voluntarily offer yourself to fight in the
great Cause! Personally I hate the very thought of War,--it seems to me
criminal, barbarous and a kind of God’s curse on the world--but if the
battle is for good then all good men should join in it. I shall miss you
dreadfully--”
She broke off--and a soft dew filled her pretty eyes. Jack saw,--and his
heart gave a quick bound. He raised the little hand that rested so
contentedly in his own and kissed it with the utmost tenderness.
“That’s enough for me!” he said. “‘I fear no foe in shining armour!’ But
do take care of yourself! Don’t muck about with the V.A.D. Hospital
under the orders of that virulent old dowager who has made herself
‘commandant’! If you _must_ do that sort of thing, why not train for a
real Army nurse?”
“I must not leave Dad,” she said simply. “He has only me.”
“And the Philosopher!” added Jack. “And the Deterioration of Language
Invariably Perceived!”
They both laughed merrily, and the conversation became lighter and more
playful. Before they parted the Sentimentalist had given him her promise
that she would not become engaged to any one without giving Jack fair
warning of his impending doom. And that in the meantime she would write
to him once a week wherever he might happen to be, and would think of
him often and kindly.
“And when you say your prayers,” he pleaded, gently, “don’t leave me
out!”
“Why, Jack! Of course not!”
He looked meditative.
“I know a fat Scotchwoman,” he said, “who makes it a rule to put people
into her prayers when they please _her_, and to take them out again when
they don’t! Her husband was taken ill at a friend’s house and couldn’t
be moved, and the friend nursed him tenderly, sent for a specialist and
paid him fifty guineas out of her own pocket, besides spending no end of
money on invalid food and luxuries,--and after the husband was cured and
returned home, this same fat Scotchwoman had a slight difference with
this very same loyal and devoted friend and promptly left her name out
of her prayers! There’s heavenly thoughts for you! _I_ always think she
got up a grudge because her husband was cured! He was a gruff old
customer, and rather a drawback to ‘home, sweet home.’ But that’s a true
story!”
“Let’s hope it’s an exceptional one!” and she smiled. “No ‘slight
difference’ could make me leave _you_ out of my prayers!”
“Bless you, dear little rose-lady!” he said, fervently. “These are not
King Arthur times or I should ask you for a glove or a ribbon to wear in
my ‘helmet’ though it’s only a khaki cap--but--”
“Will you have this?” and unfastening a small brooch in the shape of a
heart, where it held a chain in place round her neck, she gave it to
him. “It’s quite small--you can tuck it in under the band and no one
will ever see it--”
He was almost speechless with delight. Taking the little gold trifle he
at once fastened it in his cap, secretly and securely.
“My ‘mascot’!” he said, triumphantly. “It will mean--ah!--you don’t know
what it will mean to me! Everything in life!”
“Sentimental Jack!” and she smiled. “The Philosopher calls _me_
‘sentimental’--but you are more so than I!”
“Never mind what the Philosopher calls you,” responded Jack. “Just think
for a moment if you please of what _I_ call you--the dearest, sweetest
‘rose’ lady in the world!”
A lovely colour suffused her fair face--a true “rose” blush,--but she
passed over the endearing compliment with a light gesture of dissent,
and as they had unconsciously walked further along the bank of the river
than they had at first intended, they turned and retraced their steps
back to the open road. Here they shook hands and parted.
“You’ll hear from me very soon!” said Jack as he went, and he lifted his
cap and waved it in light adieu.
She watched his agile figure swinging along till it disappeared,--then
walking rather slowly herself, entered her own home in thoughtful mood.
On the threshold she met the Philosopher. His face wore a grim and
saturnine expression.
“Well!” and the exclamation sounded something like a snort. “Have you
done playing with wounded soldiers for to-day?”
She looked him full in the eyes.
“Yes,” she replied. He was rather taken aback. He had not expected so
simple an affirmative. She moved on to pass him by.
“Wait a moment,” he said. “Do you think you are really useful at that
V.A.D. place?”
“I try to be,” she answered. “None of us can do very much in cases of
great suffering, but every little helps.”
“Delightful platitudes!” and the Philosopher gave another snort.
“Personally, I think you are much more useful at home. Your father is
not very well this afternoon and has been asking for you. I left him on
the sofa in the library. He seems very irritable. I’m going for a walk.”
He strolled off, pausing a moment or two to light his pipe, and she
hurried to the library where she found her father on the sofa as the
Philosopher had said, in a state of highly nervous irritation brought on
by the gout.
“Where have you been?” he wailed, as he saw her. “Down at that d--d
hospital again? God bless my soul, what sort of a daughter are you to
neglect your poor old father for those miserable Tommies! All
ne’er-do-wells I’ll swear!--they would have been ‘on the road’ picking
and stealing and up to all sorts of mischief if they hadn’t gone into
the Army! And now you must dance attendance on them as if they were your
own flesh and blood--” Here he broke off with a sharp cry, wrung from
him by a twinge in his gouty toe.
“Poor Dad, I didn’t know you weren’t feeling well,” she said, tenderly.
“If I had I wouldn’t have gone--you know I wouldn’t! But there’s
nothing to be done for the gout, dear, is there?--you must rest--and
have the medicine the doctor ordered--”
“I don’t know where it is,” he growled. “The bottle has been carefully
put where it can’t be found!”
She smiled, with a gently breathed, “Oh, no, it hasn’t!” and opening a
cupboard by the fireplace, produced the desired palliative. He watched
her pour the measured dose into a wine-glass, and took it with a
puckered face like a naughty child.
“Horrid stuff!” he said, peevishly. “How do your Tommies take their
medicine?”
She laughed.
“_Quite_ nicely!--like good little boys!” she answered. “And they are
_so_ cheerful and patient! Some of the very bad cases are the most
enduring. Oh!--if you could only see one poor fellow--”
“I don’t want to see him!” growled her father. “And I don’t want to hear
about him! I’m worried out of my life by stories of these ‘poor fellows’
who make the ‘supreme sacrifice’ for their country,--hang it all! the
‘supreme sacrifice’ has got to be made by all of us some day anyhow--and
the men who make it before their naturally allotted span would no doubt
have wasted their lives in idleness and drink!”
Her eyes filled with a gentle reproach.
“Oh, dear Dad!--you talk like the Philosopher! Don’t get as callous as
he is!”
“He’s not callous,” snapped out the old gentleman. “And you’re a silly
little flibbertigibbet! Callous indeed! Why he’s full of feeling! He’s
not sentimental--and a good job too!--but he’s reasonable and--and
kind.”
“If he’s kind to _you_, that’s enough!” she said, smiling. “But I don’t
think he pays much attention to the war, and he never realises the awful
sufferings of the men who are fighting for us--”
“Why should he? God bless my soul! Why should a learned and brilliant
scholar bother to ‘realise’ what these fighting fools are about? He’s
got something else to do--”
“The Dictionary!” she hinted, smiling.
“Well, that’s one thing certainly. And I tell you what--ah!--you
may look surprised!--but if my ideas were carried out, and
language--language, I say!--preserved in refined forms, and no newspaper
slang allowed, there would be _no_ wars!--there _couldn’t_ be!”
The smile was still on her lips.
“Dear Dad, I daresay you are quite right!” she said. “But I’m afraid
it’s too late now to preserve what is lost. Elegant speech and graceful
manners are very rare.”
“Glad you know it!” and her father made another grimace as his burning
toe asserted its existence afresh. “You’ll appreciate my work when you
see it!”
“I’m sure I shall!” She hesitated,--then added irrelevantly:
“Jack has joined up.”
“Best thing he could do! He was always idling about, with no aim in life
as far as I could see--one of those stupid young men who want licking
into shape!”
She made no reply. Moving quietly about the room she put things tidy and
stirred the fire into a more cheerful blaze--then, seeing her father had
closed his eyes in preparation for a doze she slipped away. In the outer
hall she met the parlour-maid,--generally a trim, tidy little body, but
now with roughened hair and swollen eyes, crying bitterly.
“Why, Annie! What’s the matter?”
The girl gave a great sob.
“My only brother, miss--he’s killed!”
Killed! The word sounded butcher-like.
“Killed! How awful! Oh, you poor girl! I’m so sorry for you!”
Annie turned away her face and went, still weeping,--comfort there is
none in sudden bereavement, and to offer it is only intrusive. The
gentle little Sentimentalist felt this to the very core of her
responsive soul,--and her usually light step was slow and sad as she
entered her own special little sitting-room and looked out on the smooth
lawn and the flower-beds encircling it, brilliant just now with
goldenrod, dahlias, dwarf sunflowers and other glories of autumnal
bloom.
“I’m not in love with him a bit!” she murmured to the silence. “But ...
yes!--I’m sure I should almost break my heart if Jack were killed!”