'Do you think he'll have to go out again?' she asked. 'I don't think he
ought to--but they seem so short of men still. He's not really strong,
you know.'
So she knew nothing about the 'job'; and this put me in a hole. For if I
told her about it, and he did not take it, but went out again, the
knowledge would be a standing torture to her. On the other hand, I
_wanted_ him to take it, I thought he ought to--and if she knew about it
she might be able to make him. Wives can do a great deal in that way.
But that would be disloyal to Harry....
Well, I temporized with vague answers while I wrestled with this
problem, and she told me more about Harry. 'You know, he has the most
_terrible_ dreams ... wakes up screaming at night, and quite frightens
me. And I don't think they ought to be _allowed_ to go out again when
they're like that.... I don't _want_ him to go out again.... At least,'
she added half-heartedly (as a kind of concession to convention), 'if
it's his duty, of course....' Then, defiantly, 'No, I _don't_ want him
to go ... anyhow ... I think he's done his bit ... hasn't he, Mr.
Benson?'
'He has, indeed,' I said, with sincerity at last.
'Well, you have some influence with him. Can't you----'
But then Harry came in, and I had lost my chance. I have noticed that
while on the stage, conversations which must necessarily be private are
invariably concluded without interruption, in private life, and
especially private houses, are always interrupted long before the end.
Mrs. Harry went to the piano, and Harry and I sat down to smoke; and
since it was the last night Harry was allowed to smoke his pipe. The way
Mrs. Harry said that nearly made me weep.
So I sat there and watched Harry, and his wife played and played--soft,
melancholy, homesick things (Chopin, I think), that leagued with the
wine and the warm fire and the deep chairs in an exquisite conspiracy of
repose. She played for a long time, but I saw that she too was watching.
And the fancy came to me that she was fighting for Harry, fighting,
perhaps unconsciously, that vague danger she had seen at dinner, when it
had beaten her ... fighting it with this music that made war seem so
distant and home so lovable....
And soon I began to see that she was winning. For when she began playing
Harry had sat down, a little restless again, and fidgeted, as if the
music reminded him of good things too much ... and his eyes wandered
round the room and took in all the familiar things, like a man saying
good-bye--the old chair with the new chintz, and the yellow curtains,
and the bookcase his father left him--and the little bookcase where his
history books were (he looked a long time at them) ... and the firelight
shining on the piano ... and his wife playing and playing.... And when
he had looked at her, quickly, he sat up and poked the fire fiercely,
and sat back, frowning. He was wondering again. This music was being too
much for him. Then she stopped, and looked across at Harry--and smiled.
When she played again it was, I think, a nocturne of Chopin's (God knows
which--but it was very peaceful and homesick), and as I watched, I made
sure that she had won. For there came over Harry a wonderful repose. He
no longer frowned or fidgeted, or raised his eyebrows in the nervous way
he had, but lay back in a kind of abandonment of content.... And I said
to myself, 'He has decided--he will say "Yes" to Mackenzie.'
Mrs. Harry, perhaps, also perceived it. For after a little she stopped
and came over to us. And then I did a fateful thing. There was a copy of
_The Times_ lying by my chair, and because of the silence that was on
us, I picked it up and looked aimlessly at it.
The first thing I saw was the Casualty List, buried in small type among
some vast advertisements of patent foods. I glanced down the list in
that casual manner which came to us when we knew that all our best
friends were already dead or disposed of. Then my eye caught the name of
the regiment and the name of a man I knew. CAPTAIN EGERTON, V.R. Killed.
There was another near it, and another, and many more; the list was
thick with them. And the other battalions in the Brigade had many names
there--fellows one had relieved in the line, or seen in billets, or
talked with in the Cocktail Café at Noeux-les-Mines. There must have
been a massacre in the Brigade ... ten officers killed and ten wounded
in our lot alone.
I suppose I made that vague murmur of rage and regret which slips out of
you when you read these things, for Harry looked up and asked, 'What's
that?' I gave him the paper, and he too looked down that list.... Only
two of those names were names of the Old Crowd, and many of them were
the dull men; but we knew them very well for all that, and we knew they
were good men ... Egerton, Gordon, young Matthews, Spenser, Smith, the
bombing fellow, Tompkinson--all gone....
So we were silent for a long minute, remembering those men, and Mrs.
Harry stared into the fire. I wondered what she was thinking of, and I
was sorry for her. For when Harry got up there was a look about him
which I had seen before, though not for many months--not since the first
days on the Somme....
While I was groping after my coat in the hall, Harry came out of his den
with a letter which he asked me to 'drop in the box.' I looked at it
without shame; it was addressed to Major Mackenzie, D.S.O., etc.
'And what have you said?' I asked.
'No,' said Harry, with a kind of challenging look.
'Well, I think you're wrong----' I told him, though I knew then that I
was too late. Mrs. Harry was beaten now, finally beaten, poor thing....
'And what are you two talking about?' said Mrs. Harry.
'About a dinner, my dear.'
I went out and posted that accursed letter, thanking God that I was not
a wife.