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THE CORNHILL MAGAZINE.
NOVEMBER 1916.
_FLY LEAVES; OR TALES OF A FLYING PATROL. B.E.F. 1915._
_EXTRACTS FROM A PILOT’S LOG AND LETTERS HOME._
We are over the Channel at last and steering by compass for France and
the War; clouds looking lovely in the sun and the engine working nicely.
Incidentally we are supposed to be looking for submarines. Nothing doing.
Duller than usual in fact. Wish I hadn’t said that! Of course it made
the beastly engine miss. Am looking about wildly for something that will
float, in case it gives up entirely and we fall into the sea. However,
much tap-twiddling induced the wretched thing to resume its purr,
although you would probably think that the purr was more like a chorus of
very angry dogs barking. There’s a ship ‘tramping’ about a mile below me,
making a horrid smoke. I wonder if they paid for best Welsh. I wish you
were here with me, you’d love it. The ‘Tramp’ looks dirty and dangerous
and would probably make me very ill.
* * * * *
We have just landed at R.F.C. headquarters and have had a much better
tea than we have ever had time for in the strenuous old days in England.
I thought you might be amused by my writing a letter to you in the air.
The writing was wobblier than usual when we struck the gusts and the
down-draughts from the clouds. I wonder what has happened to Phil. We
started together, but his machine was left a long way astern and was
lost sight of about half-way over. I hope he isn’t in the ditch.... Our
Channel crossing took just 16 minutes—rather an improvement on the time
of the Leave steamer.
* * * * *
Glad to say Phil is all right; he came down near the coast with a
broken valve, so I went over and fixed it up with him and we flew back
peacefully together....
* * * * *
Many thanks for your letter and the cake, especially the cake. It has
been raining lately, so we have not had much flying. No Hun machines out
at all, so we have been drawing all the usual coverts blank, and have
got cold for nothing. One Boche had a narrow shave the other day; one of
our crowd, who rejoices in the name of Mad Jack, saw him coming over and
promptly hid in a cloud. Fritz sauntered along in an old L.V.G. biplane,
looking on the floor, and directly he had passed, Mad Jack dived, and
opened fire at the grand new yellow scarf Fritz was wearing round his
neck, much to his surprise and annoyance. Having his new scarf punctured
was more than brother Boche could stand, so off he legged it, heaving out
maps and goggles, a few bullets from his Mausers, some smoke and much bad
language. Unfortunately our gun jambed, with the oil frozen nearly solid.
The two airmen weren’t exactly hot either. Rotten luck, wasn’t it?
* * * * *
Next day, Uncle Carl in his Albatross comes over our shanties, drops a
few bombs on a hop garden near by and clears off before we could get near
him. Quite convenient on the whole, as our Intelligence Officer soon
discovered that murdered hops make good soup and good salad. By the way,
Uncle Carl’s last bomb was a dummy, with a note addressed to us wishing
‘a happy Easter and better luck to the English aviators who have driven
us from the air.’ Rather nice and sarcastic, wasn’t it? We all howled
with laughter and framed the note, together with the copy of an official
document which is usually known as ‘Comic Cuts.’
* * * * *
Everyone well and cheery. Billets very fair, but we can’t get baths.
Yesterday was Easter Day and I managed to work in an early chapel (which
was rigged up in the local château), and also an ordinary Church parade
later on. We had a full-blown Padre, and the Services were very welcome
and well attended. Sleepy now, so farewell. By the way, the last cake
wasn’t so big as the previous one. Gott strafe War Economy.
* * * * *
The Huns aren’t scrapping much, so yesterday three of us went on duty in
three machines to a jolly little seaside watering place, where they were
supposed to grow submarines. We only found bathing machines, and some
quite pretty French girls who talked some quaint language. However, one
of us managed to find out what it was all about, and we discovered we
were asked to an enormous dinner party given in our honour at the local
château. The brother of one of the ladies I had met last year at Olympia,
when he was riding his show horses. It was a regular West Country dinner,
as several of us had hunted regularly with the Devon and Somerset in
happier days, and the rest had been to the Cathedral at Exeter. We had a
gorgeous time and, leaving our machines there according to orders, came
back in a car driven by the Fortescues’ late chauffeur, now a full-blown
private. Funny little world, isn’t it?
* * * * *
(Interval for refreshments and also to tune our Wireless.)
* * * * *
A very quaint thing happened here the other day. A pilot was coming down
in his Martinsyde Scout to land after a very strenuous time aloft. A man
was on the floor lighting an experimental smoke-bomb by a fuse. Neither
saw the other and they very nearly met. Bang went the smoke-bomb just at
the moment of landing. The pilot thought he had been hit by a shell, or
that his machine had suddenly blown up, and couldn’t for the life of him
remember what the drill book said was the correct attitude to maintain
when this sort of thing happened. The floor man fell down flat on his
face, frightened out of his life, and yelled out that he had been knocked
down and was rapidly expiring. Lots of us saw the whole show a hundred
yards off and howled with laughter. The Court found both prisoners guilty
of attempted death by misadventure, and fined them each one drink all
round. That’ll learn ’em!
* * * * *
Lots of work in the air, and more on the ground with repairs, motor
transport and so on. German Archie (the nickname for Anti-Aircraft
Artillery) has been pretty busy, but luckily not very effective. The
fellows on the ground say the sight is lovely and most artistic, as the
little white puffs burst round the machine every few seconds. These
aren’t my views; if they are out for artistic effect I wish they would do
it elsewhere.
* * * * *
Going to bed now, as we have to be up early for a combined Boche
hunt—that is, if we can find any, but game is very scarce and shy,
especially at present. There is a feeling that perhaps they dislike being
hunted. If we can’t find any of their aeroplanes, we photograph their
trenches and defences, with a little bombing by-play thrown in. This
annoys them quite a lot.
* * * * *
(Next day.) We had been flying before breakfast. Beastly cold and very
hungry, and we had drawn all the usual places blank. Brother Boche had
too much sense to fly at an unearthly hour like that. We were getting
rather bored with the whole show and annoyed with Archie’s attentions,
when we spotted a machine four miles to the S.E. and so left our own
patrol to give chase. It was a long way off and almost certainly an
English machine. (It nearly always is, as the Huns know the look of our
destroyers and usually avoid them assiduously, clearing off on sight.)
However, we gave chase, just for luck, feeling bored; but as it got well
over the German lines without getting Archied we got more interested. We
had by then climbed to about 10,000 feet and had closed hardly at all,
so we gave chase seriously, settling down to a steady 90 knots or more.
After a few minutes we could see through glasses that she was a Hun
Albatross biplane, going to their aerodrome, probably with information.
She was doing about 60, so we gained, keeping above and behind her, where
her pilot couldn’t very well see us, and we soon closed to about 200
yards. Then we dived suddenly with a swoop, which was a fine feeling,
rather what one imagines a hawk must feel like, speed about 120 or 130
knots, and then opened fire on her starboard quarter at a range of about
50 yards. She was hit by the first burst of rapid fire, and bits of
fabric and wood and metal flaked off. She dived and twisted, and her
observer opened at us with an automatic pistol at about 25 yards range.
We were both heeled over on one wing, and both diving and banking at
the same time. It must have looked rather jolly from the floor. The
wind pressure was appalling and nearly lifted the gunner clean out of
our machine. Fritz’s observer’s bullets whistled close past our heads,
which was good shooting on his part, ripping up part of the plane above
us in a few places, but luckily neither of us was hit. A few seconds
later we knocked the pistol out of his arm, and their pilot was also hit
and probably killed, as the Albatross side-slipped, fell vertically,
and turned over on its back, our craft rushing over it and missing it
by a very few feet. The defeated German ’plane finally nose-dived the
remaining two thousand feet or so, and smashed up completely on hitting
the earth. We were still diving very fast indeed, and I succeeded in
turning this into a slow spiral over the spot where the wrecked enemy
lay, but we could see no movement at all, only a tangled mass of twisted
wires, splintered wood, and torn fabric—all that remained of what a
few minutes before had been a very fine specimen of engineering skill.
We then straightened out our course and strolled home on a regular
jack-snipe’s plan of flying, to avoid the guns, machine guns and rifles,
which the Boches turned on to us from the floor as soon as there was no
chance of their hitting their own machine. They loosed off quite a jolly
Morning Hate at us from the trenches too, but though we were holed over
thirty times, they didn’t do any damage that mattered. We got back to
our lines and eased up to cool the engine, and then climbed up to 9500
feet to see if we could hunt another Hun. However, nothing doing, so we
returned home just in time, for our petrol was getting low and our kind
messmates had eaten half our breakfast, as we were the last in. Otherwise
a satisfactory time, though I would rather kill lots of ordinary Huns
than their flyers, who are better fellows on the whole than the rest; but
we can have no soft feelings now, after the Huns’ brutal performances.
When they catch us, if they catch us alive, we have no hope at all for
our future comfort.
* * * * *
Very tiresome; these fellows are the limit! I was just off to have a nice
hot bath, when a rotten Hun in an Aviatik amused himself by dropping
bombs, so we had to go up and chase him, but he bolted too fast, and got
too low over his machine guns on the floor, for us to have a chance of
closing right up. However, we fired at him and frightened him horribly,
judging by his behaviour, and probably hit him hard, though we didn’t
smash him entirely. I suddenly remembered it was tea-time and so we went
back quick. The getting back past the guns is the worst part of it.
Incidentally the observer saw some Hun movements, which he insisted on
watching closely. I think he composed an essay or two as well, or perhaps
it was a sonnet. The G.O.C. seemed very pleased with it, which was much
more than I was, as we got Archied of course and hit in several places,
early in the performance. Beastly nuisance getting back, as part of the
propeller was broken off by a bit of shell, ditto the wings, and chunks
were taken out of our woodwork. The vibration was horrid and we expected
it would smash up the machine before we got home. However, we were only
sea-sick. We eventually landed by flares about dark. A tiresome day,
as I wanted the bath and the opportunity of refilling the mess cellar.
However, Jack did it all for me, and he says it was quite nice. I dislike
Jack now!
* * * * *
Thanks very much for the papers. We get the _Times_ and some others,
twenty-four hours late, and also a daily official news, locally known as
‘Comic Cuts’ or ‘Saucy Sidelights on Soldiers’ Secrets.’
We were all much amused this morning by watching Jumbo photographing the
Huns’ lines in a gale of wind which blew all the Archies adrift, the only
trouble being that Jumbo was so busy with his machine that he nearly
forgot to come home, even when the photographer had used up all his
plates.
The may is out in blossom and the whole country is nice and green, bar
the mess which the fighting makes. Yesterday we went to the Asylum, where
British officers get hot baths twice a week; and very welcome they are
too. The Asylum has been made into a sort of Bath Club, and one meets
one’s pals there, other than the lunatics, to whom we owe a debt of
gratitude for giving up washing _pro tem_.
Tom lent me a horse and I rode over to see his brother, who has been in
the trenches some months now and was having a week’s rest. But when I
was there his crowd was suddenly warned for duty again, to put right a
mistake on the part of some of our Allies, against whom the Huns had been
using stinks,—a low game. Charlie was very fit and is the only surviving
original officer of his company.
I have just been inoculated with the Tetanus stuff, as I got a finger
busted up. Leastwise the Pill-man says that’s why, but I think he is only
being Frightful. I had two shell-hits in my wing yesterday, which cost
H.M. Government about 2_s._ 3_d._ each to mend, but the Boches fired over
£100 worth at us, so we are up on that deal. I think I’ll go and worry
the Adjutant and see if I can’t get a little commission, or an invitation
to dinner at the Headquarters mess.
* * * * *
Archie has got a new gun which is amusing him like a new toy. I hope he
will never learn to use it properly, as it is a big one, and the black
smoke of its projectiles smells horrid, and is neither ‘grateful nor
comforting’ like the cocoa you sent me. The Hun stink-gases are beastly
things, but at present fairly useful. A dirty trick, but not a bad one
if you have no morals. Sorry I can’t give you any news, as we hear very
little and are not allowed to talk of what we see for ourselves. Most of
what we read in the papers, and about which we have any knowledge, is
wrong, so we’re all in the same boat.
Poor Jumbo has had bad luck. He was by way of going to pay Germany a
visit, just to encourage them a bit with a bomb or two, but his beastly
engine has just broken its heart, and his too, poor chap, though with
any luck he will be able to go to-morrow; meanwhile he is not fit to
talk to. A strenuous day for all of us working hard on the floor; rather
like a hot day at home in September, when there are no partridges, but
instead a great longing for drinks, with none available. We hope to get
on the road, or rather in the air, again by to-morrow. One of our fellows
nearly, oh! so nearly, got Fritz the other day. Both machines were badly
hit by each other’s bullets, the Hun legging it as hard as he could, with
our little machine yapping away at its tail, when our gun stuck with a
bad cartridge, and Fritz got away wounded but not knocked out. We all
hate leaving game of any sort wounded ‘out on the hill,’ but we should
have got Fritz if we had had a keeper and a good dog. Zeps are poor,
shy, lonely creatures and also scarce, and I am afraid that the chance
of a shot at these night bugs is very remote. In a way this is quite
satisfactory, as it is part of our job to sweep the air clean and neat,
and to prevent the Boches from flying over and getting information. We
do this quite effectively without ever seeing a Zep or an aeroplane for
several days together, as they daren’t come near us in daylight, in the
ordinary course of events. Zeps are a poor sort of practical joke in
rather bad taste.
* * * * *
Two or three days ago we were suddenly sent for, just as we were
beginning dinner, to chase Zeps, which were reported a long way to the
North, going to England, as indeed they did. It was nearly dark and they
would not let us go. Our flight was first on the ground out of the tents,
and had loaded up and tested engines before orders came to stand by,
which was pretty quick work. We were not allowed up, of course, without
orders from the General or Colonel or somebody. However, we agreed to
sleep on the floor under our wings, in case we were allowed to start at
dawn. Eventually we did get leave, and two of us went off within a minute
and kept station. We went northwards to the sea towards N⸺ and then out
to sea a few miles, to dodge the coastwise ‘Archies,’ which annoyed them.
They fired a lot, but all short, as we guessed their range correctly and
kept out of it. Then we altered course north-easterly, and went up the
coast past O⸺. More annoyance to the Huns, who woke up slowly; but we
couldn’t see the Zeps. I expect the wind, which was very weak then, had
let them get home before we could see them. Better luck next time. So we
came back via the German lines, to look for a chance Hun early-birding.
* * * * *
We had a day off serious work this week, and went and dropped a jolly
little assortment of comic bombs on some German massed troops, trains
and transport behind their lines, about the time of their morning lager.
Quite useful and very Frightful. We heard later that we had done much
damage and had delayed a concentration considerably. They got very angry
indeed and fired heaps of shells, several hundreds of pounds worth, and
did no harm bar a few hits on our wings, which were mended in an hour or
so by our mechanics, while we were having lunch. Rather a lark.
* * * * *
Here is a gap in the letter, during which I have had my hair cut by
one of our chauffeurs. You’d laugh if you saw it now. It was done in a
farmyard where we live and have our being, and was watched by a dirty
crowd of kids of all sorts and sizes from two to fourteen years. They
chanted a chorus during the performance of ‘Cigarette and souvenir.’
We couldn’t even get rid of them when we turned the farmyard dog on to
them. However, they were terrified when we threatened them with some
pigs that we keep in the yard against the day when our rations do not
arrive. Our farm is fairly close to the battle and we hear it all when an
entertainment is in progress, though it never wakes us now. Well, after
the hair was cropped, we had THE BATH—just like that—made out of canvas
and bits of wood, the water being heated in petrol cans cut in half.
Delicious!!
* * * * *
Suddenly, a frightful noise! In the middle of having a wash, the
peaceful farmyard is invaded by a lot of steaming war-horses, and we
dash down in time to welcome the headquarters and a squadron of the
Blues. Very glad to see them; very nice too being among horses once
more. They had just come back from the battle and were very hungry. We
gave them dinner, to the great consternation of our limited staff and
the good house-wife of the farm. For my sins I was responsible, as I was
mess-president of our little flying crowd of six or seven, but, all the
same, fifteen of us sat down to an enormous meal in half an hour. We had
haggis, beef and onions, porridge and sardines, potatoes and almond icing
and brandy cherries. The table for dinner grew rapidly out of a door and
a few packing cases and tins, and light for the feast was provided by
the head lamps of one of the motor transport cars. So now you see the
advantage of this life is, that although all these officers, and 160 men
besides, rolled up, the house was not overcrowded—we merely got more
straw and ejected the rats, and the newcomers slept alongside of us. By
the way, I found that the cavalry snore was much worse than the article
supplied by the Flying Corps.
We all try to be as comfortable as we can, and are lucky in having an
ex-tailor, who is now a corporal mechanic—promoted, I really believe, for
his skill in sewing odd bits of sacking and cloth produced from nowhere
at all, on to bits of broken under-carriages and so forth, and making
them into armchairs and sofas that would not disgrace the Ritz.
* * * * *
The other day, when some of us were foraging in a town not very far from
a quaint spot called Wipers, the Huns had mistaken the time of their
Evening Hate, and started by blowing a house into the road on both sides
of our car. These Jack Johnsons are sometimes rather a bore—our party had
to wait for the shop people to emerge from their cellars, before we could
buy our dinner, and then the third shell came and knocked the opposite
house down. However, we had the goods first, so it didn’t much matter.
The driver of the car burnt his hand, picking a hot bit of shell out of
the car’s way, at a spot where another projectile had pitched and burst,
fifty yards ahead of us, and we saw one of the funniest sights in the
war—namely, a terrified Belgian civilian running for all he was worth,
and taking a complete toss into the shell hole. We picked him up in the
car, and his only thanks was a bitter complaint at the jolty way in
which the car ran over his own pavé.
* * * * *
On the way home, we saw one of our Avros hit while observing our heavy
gun-fire. It was a horrid sight, as an Archie shell hit the engine full
toss. Luckily, the pilot was able to come down safely, but unfortunately
it was in the German lines and he was captured. He was at Eton with
me, and we were very glad to hear that both he and his observer were
practically unhurt;—rotten luck, was it not? But it is all part of our
show and what we all expect more or less. To make up for it, next day we
got a brace of their machines by a fair stalk and a fair fight in the
air, and not by these horrible Archies.
* * * * *
Part of our job is to read the men’s letters and censor them: our men
are extraordinarily good at their work and I never wish for any better,
but, taken all round, their letter-writing is not very original. This is
not perhaps to be wondered at, as they are not allowed to give any news
of the war, and they of course know that everything they write is to be
censored. About the only topics that are discussed at all are the two
most primitive ones, consisting chiefly of requests for food and raiment,
and the sending of loves and kisses, the more indiscriminate the better.
One hero wrote four identical letters to four different girls. One’s own
time for letter-writing is limited, and this effusion has taken parts of
three whole days to write. It is done in the intervals of flying; testing
bombs and detonators and other fireworks, with which we try to enliven
things occasionally; seeing after guns, engines and machines; avoiding
Staff officers; trying to talk French to Belgian N.C.O.s who are lent to
us with their men for making improvements to our aerodrome; and other
work, such as drawing maps to satisfy the insatiable curiosity of the
G.O.C., and devising means to appease the voracity of the fellow members
of one’s mess.
Now I am sitting on the ground under a sort of tent, where bits of my
engine are being improved by my expert mechanic, and I am writing on a
tin of castor-oil. My finger is still bandaged up, so the pencil is not
very easy to work. After yesterday’s fine summer-day, of course it is
foggy and cold, raining and drizzling, so no one can fly, as nothing can
be seen; and there is a peaceful feel and a busy hum of machine tools in
camp.
On the last foggy day that we were up, we saw something suddenly loom
out of the fog, and, thinking it might be a Hun machine, swerved towards
it, but only for a second; luckily we swerved off again just in time to
miss the cock on top of the steeple of a well-known church on a hill
by a few feet—very unpleasant!—the ground being invisible at the time.
One evening, on the way out for a raid, I came across a large eagle,
flying at about fifteen hundred feet. The surprise was mutual. It was
the first time in my life that I saw one of these fine birds completely
lose its head, and in an attempt to avoid what it probably thought was a
super-eagle, it warped its wings the wrong way and actually side-slipped
like a badly flown aeroplane, falling—headlong—a few hundred feet. The
last we saw of it, it had recovered, and was flying rapidly away in the
opposite direction.
* * * * *
Yesterday my observer and I had an extraordinary experience when chasing
an Albatross biplane. While behind his own lines the Boche was some
12,000 feet up, and when we first saw him our machine was some 2000
feet lower. The German tried to get away and dive home. There was no
chance of catching him at the time, so we turned away and went and hid
in a big cloud, in the hope that the German would come back to continue
his work in our absence. This of course is quite an ordinary manœuvre
and usually works. Once inside the cloud, however, trouble began, as it
rapidly developed into the worst type of thunderstorm cloud, in which
the air currents are very rapid and revolve in a most disconcerting
manner. It was also very wet and cold, and quite dark. This made flying
extraordinarily difficult, and after a short time we had not the faintest
idea where we were or whither we were going. Things started falling about
inside the nacelle, and it was soon quite obvious that the machine was
flying or falling on anything but a level keel. Finding my automatic
pistol trickling between my legs, I turned my eyes inside the machine
and anxiously watched the instruments, which I was horrified to see were
behaving very oddly; for instance, the compass was gyrating madly, like
a puppy chasing its own tail; the aneroid-needle, which was supposed to
show our height above ground, was quivering with the rapid variations
of atmospheric pressure, but yet enabled me to grasp the alarming fact
that the earth was approaching at an extremely rapid rate. The speed
indicator, which in this particular aeroplane consisted of a column of
red liquid actuated by pipes, connected with a special type of nozzle
fixed on one of the struts of the machine, amused itself by gurgling up
and down between thirty and a hundred miles an hour; and the red liquid
added injury to insult by spilling itself over my new breeches. Besides
this, the rudder, the elevators and the balancing ailerons sometimes took
effect and sometimes did not; all of which added to the terror of the
approaching flashes of lightning, the horrible feeling of being utterly
unable to control the machine, which was by this time careering about in
the noise and darkness like a frightened horse.
The German aeroplane, too, was known to be about, and there might well
have been an awful collision, without a second’s warning, in the middle
of a thunderstorm cloud.
Suddenly the observer looked round with a grin and pointed to a light
patch in the darkness; this rapidly cleared, and, as the visibility
increased, I recognised one of the canals. It was not underneath me, as
one might expect; it was right out, beyond one wing-tip. The machine,
therefore, was obviously falling in a quick spiral towards the canal.
The worst of the vortex having been safely passed, the damp of the cloud
changed into sleet, which froze on the machine and on our faces and
goggles; so that in addition to attending to the machine and gun, both of
us unfortunate occupants had to be continually wiping our glasses. Our
clothes, too, were wet through, outside from the cloud, and inside as the
result of the very violent exercise taken in hanging on to the bucking
aeroplane and in controlling it. Never have I worked so hard for mere
existence, and never have I had a more unpleasant time.
But all was now comparatively plain sailing, and once the machine was got
under control, everything was more or less comfortable again. The machine
was actually in the cloud for about a quarter of an hour, and had flown
some ten or twelve miles and had dropped 5000 or 6000 feet. To add to the
entertainment, the storm had burst during the process, and the thunder
and lightning were studied at close range. Man-made shells are pretty
beastly and are apt to kill if they hit one, or go bang near enough, but
they aren’t nearly so frightening as the Almighty’s automatic display, if
you happen to be on the stage. The enemy did open a pretty hot fire on
the machine when it emerged, but we could not really be bothered on that
occasion to take any notice of it. A further search was made for the
German machine, but no trace of it could be found anywhere in the sky, so
we supposed that the fright it got was enough for it and that it had gone
home for good, in which it showed its wisdom.
* * * * *
Hot weather now with a strong north-easterly gale—we can just fly against
it and that is about all. Some machines can hardly do that and therefore
make an easier target for Archibald and his big brother the Crump from
Krupps.
* * * * *
I am sending you back a bit of shell which broke a rib in one of the
wings and then stuck in another. This is rather unusual, so perhaps you
may care to keep it. It may interest you to know that we were flying at a
height well over 10,000 feet—a pretty good shot, was it not? Luckily it
didn’t do any damage that mattered.
* * * * *
We have recently had some very interesting and exciting work to do. We
had to come down to the low altitude of about 5000 feet to reconnoitre a
small piece of country very carefully, for a big long-range German siege
gun, that had been annoying some of our troops well behind the lines.
We took several photographs and searched the country minutely with our
field-glasses, and eventually found four or five places, any one of which
might quite possibly provide shelter and concealment for this big German
piece.
The photographs having been developed, the number of possible places was
somewhat reduced, and we then went up again and searched for the gun in
the marked spots and took more photographs. Of course the German gunners
were much too clever to loose off their piece when we were searching;
the flash of discharge would have given away their position at once. For
three days we searched and photographed, up and down, over a few square
miles, using up several dozen of the best plates procurable, with a
camera specially made for the work. Eventually we proved the existence
of a small light railway—almost a toy—along which trucks, containing one
shell only, were pushed by hand. This railway, being connected to one of
the Belgian State Railways in German hands, provided the necessities of
life and ammunition for the daily Hate of the gun. The blast of the gun
had also destroyed and damaged some small trees and bushes on each side
of the line of fire, and this gave us a further clue. The gun itself had
been mounted on one of the famous concrete foundations, inside a small
building which was part of an innocent-looking farm. It was completely
hidden from view, and fired out through the big double doors of the
barn. Having at last solved the problem of the position of this gun,
it was arranged to destroy it next day. One of our own heavy guns was
brought up within range and concealed behind a hill during the night.
The concealment was so perfect that when we went up next day, we were at
first bitterly disappointed, because we thought that our gun had failed
to arrive; however, a welcome signal from the ground informed us that it
was ready to perform its share of the entertainment. The gunners had been
previously shown the position of the farm, with the German gun inside
it, on the map, but they could not see it and had to fire entirely by
calculations. The first shot went a few hundred yards short; the second
a hundred yards over it; the third a little bit to the right; the fourth
and fifth demolished the farm, with our latest form of high-explosive
shell; the sixth and seventh also went straight in and completed the
destruction of the gun and its ammunition supply, which was stored quite
close, there being nothing left except a large volume of thick black
smoke. The explosions were terrific and were audible for miles around.
An aeroplane also dropped an assortment of high-explosive and incendiary
bombs, and nothing could have lived in the inferno, which half an hour
previously had apparently been a harmless Belgian farm. We came back and
took a couple of photographs, when the smoke and dirt had drifted away
with the wind. It is a curious commentary on the War, that while the
opposing infantry were fighting at about fifty yards range, the German
gunners should have been shooting from a position of comparative quiet,
five miles behind _their_ infantry, at an undefended town some ten miles
behind _our_ infantry; and that _our_ gun should have been shooting from
another quiet position well behind our lines at the _German_ gun, none
of the gunners concerned on either side having ever seen their target at
all; and it is here that the supremacy of the air told heavily. A German
Aviatik aeroplane, fitted with wireless, had come over and had attempted
to direct the fire of the German gun; it did not have time to complete
its work before it was attacked by two of our swift fighting machines and
brought down, both its occupants being wounded and the machine captured;
consequently the damage done by this extraordinarily powerful weapon was
not at all in proportion to the wonderful care and forethought bestowed
on the manufacture and positioning of the piece. Although no German
machine attacked ours with any success during the process of locating
the gun and its final destruction, yet they had surrounded the spot with
powerful anti-aircraft guns, which fired high-explosive shrapnel; there
were also one or two high-angle Howitzers of approximately 8 inch bore,
firing an enormous high-explosive shell, which burst with a tremendous
rush of black smoke, and disturbed the air for a considerable area,
to such an extent that it made flying always difficult and sometimes
extremely dangerous, apart from the holes which the fragments of shell
themselves make in one’s pet aeroplane.
On one of these occasions one of these big shells exploded so close that
it capsized the machine, and the pilot was thrown out of his seat and
found himself hanging on with one hand and one foot. The observer also
had an extremely narrow escape from being thrown out, some of the loose
gear in the machine falling down vertically for a mile and a half and, we
hope, hitting some German on the head. The pilot managed to scramble back
into his seat and get the machine to resume a more dignified position. It
had, however, fallen about 600 or 800 feet, and both the occupants were
amused and greatly relieved to see the next batch of shells burst about
this height above their heads. The Germans of course knew, or guessed,
what we were after and were much annoyed with our persistency. Over a
hundred shells of various sorts were counted, bursting in the air, within
two minutes, by an onlooker on the ground, and it is not surprising that
the machine was frequently hit; but we were lucky enough to manage to get
back to our own side of the trenches when we were sufficiently damaged to
be forced to come down.
I never seem to get accustomed to being shelled when they get close, and
I think it is beastly. It is rather different being in a trench, when the
whole trench is being shelled, and where one can usually get some cover,
but in the air it is an offensively personal ‘Hate’ on the part of the
Strafers. One’s aeroplane is the target of the guns, and, if low enough
down, of the machine guns and rifles too; and the pilot himself is the
bull’s-eye in the centre of the target.
It is bad enough for a pilot, but it must be much worse for those very
gallant fellows who come up as observers and photographers, because they
know that if their pilot is killed there is very little hope of their
ever getting down alive themselves. I never believe those fellows who
say they are not afraid. Anybody who has imagination must be frightened
at times, and it has often been shown that anyone without imagination
can never hope to fly at all well. However, all this makes no difference
and we go up cheerily all the same, in fact I think that a Flying Corps
mess is about the cheeriest place that I have ever been in. The work is
extraordinarily interesting and at times very exciting, although we have
our bad spells of dulness, when we have to come down after a long and
tiring patrol in the bitter cold and report to our chief ‘nothing doing.’
I have given you rather a long description of one particular job of work,
out of many that we are constantly doing. This sort of work is going on
more or less incessantly over the whole front, while other machines are
employed in reconnaissance—that is, searching for enemy movements and
new enemy positions, and photographing them when found; or in directing
the fire of our artillery by observing the fall of their shells, and
then signalling back by wireless or other means, so that the gunners are
enabled in practice to drop their shells on any spot they like about the
size of a tennis court, within the entire range of their weapons.
The other work which some of us do, and which is better known to the
public, consists in dropping bombs and engaging the enemy aeroplanes in
the air. We nearly always come off top dog on these occasions, but of
course there are, I am sorry to say, times when a machine does not come
home.
I am writing this letter while my machine is being mended and the engines
overhauled, after the last few strenuous days.
* * * * *
Some of us are members of the local ‘Frog Club.’ There are two classes
of members in the Frog Club: one class shoots the frogs—not with
ammunition, for it is too precious, but with catapults, home-made out
of local fences, while the rubber is provided, I regret to say, at the
national expense, out of ‘absorbers, shock, rubber part-worn’ (as we say
in our lists of spare parts) from smashed aeroplane under-carriages. It
is contended that shrapnel in the form of fine gravel is the best for
frogs; but the expert shot, who, when he is not flying, is a Captain
in the Royal Garrison Artillery, thinks that a single bullet about the
size of half a brick—or perhaps a shade less—is better. He says he gets
quite close, but he has never yet hit one. He is now designing a highly
elaborate telescopic sight for use with his catapult, and we encourage
this industry on his part, as it keeps him away from disturbing the
waters. Personally, I belong to the fishing section, and our implement
consists of a rod, made of broken parts of our machine, which have been
shot through and joined together in the most approved split-cane-rod
fashion, while for bait we use a piece of red flannel mounted on a bent
pin.
We have quite learned from the French the advantage of Frog as an article
of diet, although we find it necessary to persuade our guests to eat
them, by calling them quail, or similar reminiscences of a London dance
at the Ritz. The demand for game has been more than the supply, so our
mess cook solves the problem by catching them with, I think, a net and a
bucket. He is no sportsman, but withal an excellent cook.
* * * * *
Another early morning; up at daybreak, looking for Huns in the air. One
German up, an L.V.G. two-seater—obviously very sleepy, and even more
annoyed at being turned out of his bed than we were. We met him coming up
towards our lines while we were at 9000 feet. He didn’t apparently see
us, so we dived 5000 feet on top of him and loosed off our machine gun.
He was badly hit and his engine smashed, but we could not manage to kill
the pilot, who pluckily dived his machine steadily down, with our own
close behind him, over some well-concealed anti-aircraft guns.
They hit us all right, as they usually do nowadays, but not vitally; and
Brother Boche was crumpled up when he landed—quite good fun, but they are
too scarce and shy for one to be at all certain of a hunt on any given
morning. They know our fighting machines by sight, and nearly always bolt
and dive for home, unless one can catch them unbeknownst, which is not
very often.
* * * * *
Casualties have been rather heavy in the R.F.C. lately, partly owing to
their trick of leading us over their hidden anti-aircraft guns and Rocket
Batteries. One Howitzer in particular has been too good a shot for some
of us, so we arranged to have a morning Hate against this particular
Crump and thoroughly strafed it, wrecking it absolutely with one of our
Heavies.
The Boches have had at least as good as they gave, and flying seems no
longer to be a popular pastime among them.
* * * * *
The last day or two we have been on patrol duty in a fighting machine
over a given area. This consists in flying all over the shop, and
protecting our machines which are doing fire control, or photo, or
reconnaissance work, or other special jobs; the ‘protection’ consists
partly in drawing the fire of the ‘Archies’ (i.e. the regular
anti-aircraft shrapnel quick-firing guns) and ‘Crumps’ (i.e. Howitzers
which fire high-explosive shells from 5 to 8-inch) and partly in keeping
off Hun machines from being too inquisitive as to the doings of our
aeroplanes and the movements of troops on our side of the trenches. The
area one covers varies, but is often about 50 square miles, and one’s
air-speed varies from 45 to 75 miles per hour, except when diving, when
the speed goes up beyond the range of the indicator, say up to 125
m.p.h. To this may be added, or subtracted from it, the part or whole
of the true wind-speed—according to one’s course in relation to the
wind. In windy weather this has often meant an additional 50 miles per
hour, so our speed over the ground is frequently up to the standard of
the police-trap at home! One sometimes covers a couple of miles on the
floor in a minute or less, the height varying according to the day,
etc., between about 5000 and 10,000 feet. This is fairly high up, but
occasionally we have to go to 12,000 or even 15,000, though I have never
had to do so yet. At these great heights we climb slowly and the engine
and oneself both prefer to keep one’s level, as it is hard work for both
to get up much beyond this, and it is very cold too. The anti-aircraft
shells can reach us even here, though not very easily.
The chief actual result of Patrol Orders is that we are on the look-out
for Huns in the air, and ‘Archies’ and ‘Crumps’ too. Whenever we see the
former we go for them, not necessarily direct, but often manœuvre a lot
for tactical position first.
Very often, if the weather is good, we take a few assorted bombs to drop,
in case a good target appears over the Hun lines. They weigh a lot, and
so we like to get rid of them as soon as possible. There is a gunner
to work the guns, and he is either an officer or a specially trained
mechanic, with a straight eye and no nerves.
* * * * *
To-day, Thursday, it has luckily been raining, so the mechanics have
been patching up, trueing up the rigging and so on. A day’s rest is
badly needed by the machines, and we are not averse to it, so we’ve been
into P⸺ buying coal and provisions for the Mess, of which I am still
doing President. A successful day in that way too! We got coal at a fair
price from a man who is a very large brewer and general merchant; and
in return we gave a lift in the car to his wife and daughter. They have
a splendid house with a wonderful garden, and well-kept glass-houses
in great quantity. The house has only one corner chipped off by a Jack
Johnson, and the garden is O.K. and quite the best I’ve seen here—lovely!
They gave us—two of us went in—an excellent lunch and tea, and we brought
some of them back in the car, which was also laden up with provisions and
furniture.
Wisely enough, their house is deserted and they are living _pro tem_. in
a farm near us, as refugees, though one or two live in the cellar of the
P⸺ house. It is a comic world. They don’t seem to mind much, and are very
cheery and kind to us flying folk. We each walked back, with a present
of two bottles of wine, and the shuvver had one too! It turned out to be
excellent claret.
It’s as well to be amused here if we can. One’s ‘expectation of life’
isn’t very much just now.
(_To be continued._)
PRESS BUREAU: PASSED FOR PUBLICATION.
THE TUTOR’S STORY.
BY THE LATE CHARLES KINGSLEY, REVISED AND COMPLETED BY HIS DAUGHTER,
LUCAS MALET.
Copyright by Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. in the United States of America.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
And now I had before me the task of telling the dear boy what must
modify, and might completely alter, the course and complexion of his
life. No light duty this, or small responsibility. It was, I felt, a
great crisis, a great turning-point. In what spirit would he meet it, and
how should I acquit myself? I was glad to have a little leisure in which
to shake off the terrible impressions of yesterday and get my mind into a
more normal attitude before delivering my news.
No account of what had happened could be in the papers under a couple of
days; so I had every reason to suppose Hartover would not receive any
hint of it before we met. I arranged with Lavender, moreover, that, as
his connection with Fédore had no direct bearing on the case, Hartover’s
name was to be carefully kept out of such reports as appeared. This done,
I tried to occupy myself with the books, pictures, and other treasures
the house contained; assiduously waited on by William, meanwhile, who,
from his readiness to linger and to talk, suspected more, as I judged,
than he dared ask or than I very certainly intended to tell him.
But my leisure suffered interruption sooner than I anticipated, and in a
manner calculated to set William’s curiosity more than ever on edge.
On the second day—it was a Sunday—Lavender called about ten o’clock,
bringing me news of which more hereafter; suffice it that a great burden
was lifted off my mind. Having been prevented attending morning service
by the detective’s visit, I went to church in the evening; but returned
little the better, spiritually, I fear, for an hour’s sermon in which the
preacher—a portly, well-nourished personage just then very popular in the
fashionable world—dilated with much unction upon the terrors of hell, and
the extreme difficulty of avoiding them, the impossibility of so doing,
in fact, for ninety-nine hundredths of even ‘professing Christians’—so
called—let alone the not inconsiderable remainder of the human race.
What a gospel to set forth! What a Moloch to offer as supreme object of
adoration! Yet this congregation, so representative of rank and wealth,
listened quite complacently, without the smallest evidence of criticism
or of revolt. Had they no heart to feel with? No brains with which to
think? I walked homeward disturbed and sad.
Before the portico of Lord Longmoor’s house stood a travelling carriage,
off which the men-servants were loading down a mighty array of boxes and
trunks. And it was Lady Longmoor herself, surely—I could not mistake
the buoyant step, the gay poise of the head, as of one that should say,
‘Look, good people all, look! I like it, I am well worth it’—who swept
up the steps and into the lighted hall! Why this sudden descent of her
Magnificence, and whence?
I made my way round to the side-door and let myself in, unperceived as I
hoped.
But in the corridor William met me with a somewhat distracted countenance.
‘My lord is asking for you, sir,’ he said. ‘He arrived back about half
an hour ago. I persuaded him to dine at once. His lordship seems quite
upset, sir—not at all well. But he was very urgent to see you directly,
whenever you came in.’
I own my pulse quickened as I went along the corridor and into the
dining-room, where I found Hartover at table. He turned round, but
without rising, and held out both hands to me.
‘Oh! there you are, thank goodness,’ he said. ‘I have been haunted by a
childish fear you would have vanished—been spirited back to Cambridge.’
I forced a laugh and inquired after Lord Longmoor.
‘It is genuine this time. My father is really ill—so ill that I felt
obliged to take the disagreeable things he said to me in good part. Oh!
you were right to make me go to him, Brownlow. And I must go again. It
is scandalous the way he is left to the mercy of doctors, and parsons,
and servants—such a crew, upon my word. My stepmother away somewhere—of
course amusing herself—I suppose up in the North with—oh! we’ll name no
names. Safer not’—he added with a sneer.
I enlightened him as to her ladyship’s present whereabouts.
‘So much the better,’ he returned. ‘Only she will be disappointed if she
imagines I intend to clear out. She must put up with my neighbourhood,
and hear what I have to say, too, whether she likes it or not. By the
way, though, Brownlow, have you dined?’
I felt incapable of eating a mouthful of food just then, so lied, heaven
forgive me, telling him I had; and, drawing up a chair, sat down beside
the table at right angles to him.
‘Yes, I must certainly go to my father again,’ Hartover repeated.
‘Disagreeable as he invariably manages to be to me, I believe he would
have been glad if I had stayed on now. But I couldn’t—I couldn’t. The
suspense was too great. Have you seen her, Brownlow?’
‘Yes,’ I said. This was no time for elaborate explanations or fine
phrases. The simple truth simply told would be best. ‘And your suspicions
were not unfounded.’
The boy pushed away his plate, set his elbow on the table, rested his
cheek in his hand, turning his face towards me. It had gone thin and very
white; but he was perfectly composed, bracing himself to bear what might
be coming with the pride of his high-breeding.
‘Very well. Go on,’ he said.
‘She was Marsigli’s accomplice. She instigated the theft because she
wanted him removed and silenced. He stood between her and the fulfilment
of her ambition—of her design to marry you.’
‘Go on,’ said Hartover, as I paused.
‘But we can afford to judge her duplicity less harshly, because she has
paid the extreme penalty of it—the heaviest penalty which can be exacted.’
‘What?’
Hartover’s lips formed the words, although no sound issued from them.
‘She and Marsigli had a violent altercation, with accusations and abuse
on both sides. In a fit of ungovernable fury he stabbed her.’
Again the boy’s lips formed a soundless question, while from white his
face went grey. Sweat broke out on his forehead; but he still remained
composed, still looked at me steadily.
‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘Fédore is dead.’
Then his eyes closed, and I myself turned queerly cold and faint. He
looked so young, so almost fragile, that it seemed an intolerable cruelty
thus to deal him blow on blow. I could have cried aloud to him to forgive
me; yet to hesitate, still more to plead for myself, would be a greater
cruelty still.
‘You are quite sure of—of your facts, Brownlow?’ he said, at last.
‘Quite sure,’ I answered. ‘The police had traced Marsigli to the house on
a former occasion. They were watching for his coming, and called on me to
identify him. I was present. I saw what took place.’
Here William came in bringing another course. Hartover motioned him
peremptorily to the door—through which, with a backward look of
astonishment, inquiry, alarm, the poor fellow, tray and all, fled.
‘I do not understand.’ Hartover spoke slowly and carefully, each word
standing oddly apart. ‘Perhaps I am stupid—but why he—Marsigli—should’⸺
And there he stopped.
‘It was an act of vengeance, of revenge. She had deserted him; and now,
as he believed, betrayed him to the police in the hope of being finally
rid of him.’
‘Deserted—how deserted?’ Hartover demanded, with sudden arrogance.
‘Fédore was his wife. He and she were married here in London three years
ago. A copy of the marriage certificate, taken from the register of the
church where the ceremony was performed, was shown me this morning.
It is perfectly in order and establishes the legality of the marriage
absolutely.’
‘The—then’—he asked—‘am I to understand that my marriage’⸺
‘Is void. A fraud—legally Fédore was nothing to you.’
The boy’s hand sank on to the table, with a jangle of glasses overset
among the silver. He turned away his head.
The moment was critical. I awaited the outcome of it in rather sickening
dread. Hartover’s physical courage I knew to be above reproach—of the
stuff which charges gaily up to the mouths of the enemy’s guns, or
leads a forlorn hope. But, here, moral not physical courage was on
trial. Had he sufficient moral stamina to stand the test? And, as the
seconds passed, thankful conviction grew on me that he had. There would
be no storm now, either of anger or of tears. Hysterics and blind rage
alike are the sign of weakness, superficial, and, as often as not, a
mere matter of nerves. But here we had got down to the solid rock of
character, of inbred tradition and instinctive pride of race. By the
greatness of the deception practised on him, of the discovery that he
had been the prey and plaything of a designing woman whose care and love
masked intensity of worldly greed, and of the humiliation consequent
on this, the boy’s self-respect was too deeply involved. Whatever he
suffered he would keep to himself.
Still, I own his next move, when it came, surprised me by what I can only
call its virility of conception.
He threw back his head, got up, walked across to the fireplace and, with
his hand on the bell-rope, the ghost of a smile—the bravest, most piteous
smile I have ever seen—upon his lips, said:
‘I’m right in thinking, am I not, Brownlow, you told me my stepmother
arrived just as you came in?’
I answered in the affirmative, not a little perplexed as to what was to
follow.
He rang, and when William appeared gave orders her ladyship be informed
that Lord Hartover requested to see her.
‘Let Lady Longmoor be told I will be in the white drawing-room, and that
I beg she will join me there with as little delay as possible.’
Then to me:
‘You will come too, Brownlow, please. I prefer to have a witness to our
conversation.’
So to the white drawing-room we went—a small but lovely room, on the
walls of which hung a couple of superb Vandykes, portraits of a former
Lord Hartover and his brother, Stephen Esdaile, exquisite if slightly
effeminate-looking young gallants of unhappy Charles the First’s court.
I had noticed these pictures, with admiration, yesterday when making my
round of the house. In Stephen Esdaile I discovered, as I thought, a
distinct resemblance to his descendant my ex-pupil, granting the latter
long curled love-locks and a yellow silk brocade coat.
Her Magnificence kept us waiting some ten minutes, to arrive at last
with a charming effect of haste, still wearing a brown travelling dress,
a white lace scarf thrown negligently over her fair head. She was all
smiles, all pretty excitement.
‘Dearest George—what a charming surprise!’
And she advanced, preparing to bestow on him a chastely maternal kiss.
But the boy avoided it dexterously, and bent low over her hand, just
not touching it with his lips instead. Her ladyship, as I judged by her
rising colour, was not insensible to the slight though she rattled on
gaily enough.
‘And our good Mr. Brownlow too! How really delightful! Surprise on
surprise. But, George’⸺
Her tone changed, a note of anxiety, real or assumed, piercing the
playfulness, not to say levity, of it.
‘Is anything wrong? You look positively ghastly, my poor child—as white
as a sheet. Tell me—nothing is the matter—nothing serious?’
‘Oh dear, no,’ Hartover answered. ‘Nothing serious is ever the matter in
our family, is it? We bask in perpetual sunshine, are clothed in scarlet
with other delights, fare sumptuously every day and all the rest of it.
Serious? Of course not. What could touch us?’
Lady Longmoor smiled, raising her eyebrows and throwing me a meaning
glance. She believed, or pretended to believe, the boy was not sober, and
wished me to know as much.
‘If it amuses you to talk nonsense, do so by all means,’ she said. ‘Only
I am afraid you will have to forgive my not stopping here very long to
listen to it, for I am simply expiring of fatigue’—she stifled a neat
little yawn—‘and want to go quietly to bed.’
‘I am sorry,’ Hartover answered courteously, ‘if I have been
inconsiderate. But I thought you might care to have some news of my
father. I am just back from Bath.’
‘Indeed!’ Lady Longmoor exclaimed. ‘And pray who, or what, took you to
poor dead-alive innocent Bath?’
‘My father sent for me, and, what’s more, saw me. He struck me as rather
badly out of sorts and lonely.’
‘Ah! yes,’ she said, turning to me with the prettiest air of distress
imaginable, ‘it is so terribly trying, Mr. Brownlow. I cannot bear
leaving my dear lord in his wretched state of health. It makes me
miserable. But what is to be done? Some one must look into things from
time to time, you know. It is wrong to leave dear beautiful Hover
entirely to the agent, the servants, and so on. Of course, they are as
faithful and devoted as possible—but still it is only wise—don’t you
think?—only right—I should go there occasionally. Though I hate business,
I do what I can.’
‘I hope to relieve you of the bulk of those bothers in future,’ Hartover
put in quietly.
‘You—you charming scatterbrain? What next? No, _mon enfant_, no—they are
not _de votre âge_, responsibility and business worries. Continue to play
at soldiers and amuse yourself while you can.’
‘I am tired of playing at soldiers: so confoundedly tired of it that,
once I am my own master—I come of age next month, you remember,—I mean to
send in my papers. There is nothing to keep me in London now’⸺
‘Nothing—nobody, to keep you in London now?’ she interrupted teasingly.
I listened in some trepidation. She trod on dangerous ground. Had the boy
sufficient reserve force, after the ordeal he had so lately been through,
to keep his temper?
‘No, nothing,’ he repeated. ‘I think there had better be no
misunderstanding between us upon that point—and upon some others. They
need clearing up—have needed it for a long time past. That is the reason
of my asking to see you to-night. In the ordinary course of events we
don’t, as you know, often meet. I have to seize my opportunity when I am
fortunate enough to get it. Plainly, I do not believe my father can live
very long’⸺
‘And plainly,’ she retorted, ‘I do not think his life is at all likely
to be lengthened, dearest George, by your troubling him with absurd
plans for throwing up your commission, leaving London, and taking over
the management of things in general at Hover. For years Jack Esdaile has
employed himself, in the sweetest way, just out of pure friendship and
kindness of heart, in looking after the Yorkshire property, and your
father has been more than satisfied. But it is too ridiculous for me to
argue with you about it. Things will go on in the future precisely as
they have gone on in the past. Only I really must protest against your
father being disturbed and annoyed directly my back is turned. We all
thought you had settled down more of late, George, and had grown a little
more reasonable.’
‘Of late? Since when, pray?’ Hartover demanded.
‘Oh! why since’⸺
Lady Longmoor looked down as though embarrassed.
‘But after all, what is the use of mincing matters?’ she went on. ‘I
cannot help knowing you young men have your _affaires de cœur_—your
entanglements, shall we say?—and that these, although of course
objectionable, things one doesn’t talk about, do sometimes have a
steadying effect which conduces to the peace and comfort of your—the
young men’s, I mean—near relations.’
‘You are speaking of an entanglement of mine?’ Hartover asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘An entanglement, an infatuation, which, as Mr.
Brownlow knows, I have deplored for years and done my best to combat; but
which—remember the person had already left my service—has, I understand,
recently been legalised.’
‘Who told you this?’ Hartover said hoarsely.
Lady Longmoor raised her eyes and glanced at me, smiling.
‘That good, faithful creature, Halidane.—Wait a moment, George. Let me
finish my sentence. He had the information, as I understand, direct from
Mr. Brownlow, to whom you yourself wrote announcing the event.’
The boy gave me a look of sorrowful reproach, remembrance of which, even
at this distance of time, blinds my eyes with tears as I write.
‘You too, old man,’ he said, very softly. ‘Gad, it needed but that.’
And he turned on his heel and moved towards the door.