It had come to an end; and that first Christmas after the Armistice
was spent by Emmie at Endells.
On Christmas eve they had an afternoon party for the children of
the village; with the curate, a schoolmistress, Mr. Sturgess the
doctor, and a few friendly neighbours to assist Miss Verinder in
entertaining the guests. She acted as hostess for old Mr. Dyke, and
was indeed treated by all as though she had been a daughter of the
house. Everybody there knew her and liked her.
After a plenteous tea she led the company to a hall or annexe that
had been used as parish-room and general meeting-place in the days
when the house was the rectory as well as the residence of the
squire.
“Keep down here, please,” said Emmie. “I have something to say to
you all.”
The children, surging into the big room, had made at once towards a
screen of curtains at the far end; from behind which came the sound
of whispers and busy movements, suggesting that some mystery was
in preparation there. Now they obediently flocked back towards the
wide hearth, and formed a dense half circle of eager shining faces.
“That’s right. Thank you,” said Emmie.
It was a pretty old-fashioned little scene; very pleasant, in
its homelike character, to eyes that for so long had been gazing
towards the smoke-clouds of foreign lands. The electric light
burning gaily brought out the cheerful colours of flags, paper
festoons, and holly berries, with which Miss Verinder had decorated
the walls and ceiling beams. The boys, smooth and oily of pate,
were still rather shy; the bigger girls, in their very best frocks,
looked dignified but self-conscious; and some tiny little girls,
large-eyed and fluffy-haired, like dolls, hopped excitedly and
clapped their small hands. One of these animated dolls had attached
herself to Miss Verinder, and moved with her while a chair was
fetched from the wall and placed in the middle of the room.
Miss Verinder made Mr. Dyke sit on the chair. He had carried plates
of cake, waiting on the children at their tea; he was so happy, and
so much pleased with the party, that he would not spare his old
legs or think for a moment of the danger of overtiring himself.
“Now,” said Emmie, with her hand on the back of his chair,
beginning the expected oration. At the same moment the curate went
to the door, and stationed himself by the switches that controlled
the electric light. In the background there was a delighted
whispering and giggling of the servants. “Now, first I think you
ought all to thank Mr. Dyke for giving us this treat.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you, sir.” Prompted by the schoolmistress, a
noisy chorus of thanks burst from the attentive audience.
“Don’t thank me. Thank Miss Verinder,” said old Dyke, beaming.
“It’s she who has taken the trouble.”
“Thank you, miss. Thank you, miss.”
Miss Verinder smiled, blushed, and then continued her speech. “I
want to speak about Father Christmas. It is Father Christmas, is
it not? who comes down the chimney at night and puts things in
your stockings. It is he who goes into the dark woods and grubs up
the lovely Christmas trees and drags them over the fields to the
village. You like those trees of his, don’t you? Yes, and Father
Christmas carries a great sack over his shoulder full of toys to
hang on the tree--or perhaps the sack is a bran _pie_! And he has
a staff in his hand. You’ve seen heaps of pictures of him, haven’t
you? But you’ve never seen him himself. Oh, how nice it would be to
see him! Perhaps”--and Miss Verinder smiled archly--“I say perhaps,
he is really close by--only afraid to show himself. I believe he is
afraid of the lights. He always moves about in the dark. Shall we
turn down the lights?”
“No,” cried the little child at Emmie’s skirts, “don’t turn down
the lights. I’m more afraid of the dark zan Fazer Kissmuss is of
anysing”; and she clung to Emmie.
“Only for a moment, dear. And you’ve got my hand. There, I’ll keep
my arm round you. Now you don’t mind. Mr. Vincent!” And the curate
by the switches received his signal.
The room was in darkness, except for the glow of the fire and
certain gleams that came through those curtains. One could hear
everybody breathing hard. Then out burst the lamp-light again,
dazzling one.
“Oh, oh, oh!” The children, recoiling, stared in awe and ecstasy.
Father Christmas was in their midst.
He was enormous, overwhelming; a magnificent apparition, all in
red, with immense white beard, cotton-wool eyebrows, high reddened
cheek-bones, and a great beak of a nose. He stalked towards the
curtains, the enraptured children following him.
He drew the curtains wide open; and exhibited a most splendid
Christmas tree as high as the ceiling covered with fairy lamps
and glittering ornaments, its branches hanging low under the rich
burden of toys. He began at once, under the direction of Miss
Verinder, and aided by Hannah the housekeeper, to pluck the fruit
of the tree and to distribute it.
And very soon the children lost their awe of Father Christmas,
hustling him, pulling his skirts; thinking only of the toys, and
saying, “Gi’ me that gun--oh, please. Hi, mister, let me have this
box o’ dom’nos. I’m older than what she is.... Sir, play fair, sir.
My turn, sir.”
The little girl alone still believed in his supernatural
attributes, still clung to Emmie and shrank from him.
“Send him away,” she implored. “I don’t like him.”
“He’s only a man, really,” said Emmie.
“No, he isn’t. He’s Fazer Kissmus.”
Then Emmie issued a command.
“Tony, pull off your beard.”
Father Christmas, willingly obeying, divested himself of beard and
cotton wool, and thus brought into view the rumpled grey hair and
reddened cheeks of that well-known and respected local personage,
Mr. Anthony Dyke.
He went away to get the paint off his face, and was soon back
again, capering gaily about in an ordinary blue serge suit that
could frighten nobody. He played with the boys, he danced with the
girls, and he kissed Hannah under the mistletoe. Hannah, resisting,
called him “Master Anthony,” and told him that he ought to be
ashamed of himself.
Shyness and constraint had long since left the young guests; after
an orgy of cracker pulling and the loot of the tree, the party
became a romp.
At dinner, when they talked it over, all agreed that it had been
a great success. They had with them for dinner the curate and his
wife and Mr. Sturgess, the doctor, kindly simple people of whom
Emmie was fond. Comfort and peace presided over the friendly meal,
and in this old room, sitting beside the old, old man, Emmie looked
quite young. She could see Anthony casting glances of admiration
at her throughout some very long anecdotes with which Mr. Sturgess
always loved to refresh himself when he dined at Endells.
It was the first time that she and the younger Mr. Dyke had ever
been here together. The war, destroying so much else, had blown
away that delicacy which used to separate them during Anthony’s
visits to his home. All over the world--as Emmie thought, sending
back glance for glance--this first Christmas of peace had reunited
those who loved one another. Oh, what a peace it would have been if
it could have brought with it a law that there were never again to
be any more good-byes and partings! In the midst of the warmth, the
joy, and the contentment, sadness coldly touched her heart.
They spent the evening in an oaken parlour, where the polished
floor reflected things as in black water, and round mirrors gave
one small framed pictures of the whole room and its occupants.
Emmie, seated at the immensely ancient cottage piano, played pretty
old-fashioned melodies that she used to play in Prince’s Gate as
a girl; the curate sang; and the doctor, regardless of the music,
told more anecdotes. Old Mr. Dyke, although obviously tired, would
not allow the guests to leave early. Then when they had at last
said Good-night and he himself had gone upstairs to bed, Emmie and
his son lingered, sitting together before the fire.
Hannah came in to tell them that it was nearly twelve o’clock and
she, too, was retiring.
“I’ve seen to the shutters,” she said severely. “But now can I
trust you, Mr. Anthony, to turn out all the lights, and make sure
the fires are safe in here and the dining-room?”
Mr. Anthony promised to do his duty.
Then Hannah turned to Emmie. “Your hot-water bottle, miss! Louisa
took them up an hour ago or more.”
“Thank you, Hannah.”
Just before midnight Dyke went and undid some of Hannah’s shutters
in order to open the front door. He wrapped Emmie in one of his
overcoats, and they stood side by side on the gravel outside the
house. The night was fine and still with the stars very bright in a
dark but cloudless sky. Above the black mass of the ilex trees they
could see vaguely the church tower.
“Will the bells be rung?” asked Dyke.
“Oh, no,” said Emmie. “That’s the new year, you’re thinking of.
They don’t ring in Christmas.”
Presently the church clock began to strike the midnight hour. Dyke
counted the strokes, and when the twelfth came he stooped and
kissed her forehead.
“A happy Christmas, Emmie.”
“And to you, Tony dear. But _are_ you happy, I wonder?”
“As happy as several birds”; and he put his arm round her waist.
“How could I be otherwise?”
They came in again, and barred the door. As she went upstairs she
looked down at him and saw him looking up at her, his face all gay
and bright.
“Good-night. Good-night.”
From the landing at the top of the stairs she looked down again,
and saw his whole attitude relax. His head drooped, his shoulders
hunched themselves; and with his hands in his pockets he went
slowly back to the room they had left.
* * * * *
In spite of his eighty-five years and bodily weakness, the old man
got up long before daylight and attended the early celebration.
They went with him to the ordinary service at eleven o’clock; he
leaning on Emmie’s arm as they walked through the garden, and
Anthony solemnly following. Anthony looked fantastic as well as
solemn in an astounding top-hat and a skimpy black coat, at least
thirty years old, that he had unearthed from a wardrobe of his
dressing-room. At certain of the sacred words that they presently
heard Emmie turned her eyes towards him with unutterable love in
them, and she felt a great tenderness and compassion as she held
the hymn-book for his father and listened to his thin quavering
voice as he piped the sweet Christmas songs; but during most of the
service there was rather a far-away look on her face. She was in
truth thinking very deeply.
The sun shone on them as they came out of the church, and after all
the greetings and interchange of good wishes with neighbours on
the church path, Emmie and the old man went to sit in that small
walled garden that they both loved. It was really warm here. The
sunshine made strong dark shadows as well as bright patches among
the stalks and branches of the flowerless borders. Mr. Dyke said he
could feel it on his hands. She had wrapped a rug about his knees
and under his feet; and she turned up his coat collar and muffled
his neck with a big scarf. Here, sitting comfortably in the sun and
out of the wind, they had a long serious talk.
Anthony, having cast his ancient finery and clothed himself in a
loose Norfolk jacket, was on the little terrace and busily engaged
with the man who worked the electric light engine. They were
mending a kitchen box for the cook. Anthony, thoroughly enjoying
this carpenter’s job, only ceased his chat with the electrician to
fling a cheery word from time to time towards the sunlit pair on
the bench down below.
“Mr. Dyke, we must face the fact,” Emmie was saying. “He is
_not_ happy. It is all pretence. Ever since he came home he has
been trying hard not to let me see what he feels. But I can see
always--knowing him as I do. He wants to go back there once more.”
“Go back there!” And she saw the sun-warmed hands begin to shake
upon the shrunken knees. “Not--not to the Antarctic?”
Emmie nodded her head. “Yes, he can’t deceive me. It is more than a
wish--he feels that it is a duty.”
“Oh, no, he has other duties.”
“But he feels that this duty is sacred--a sort of charge upon him.
Unless he fulfils it--or at least tries to fulfil it--I know that
he will never be really happy or at peace.”
“Oh, no”; and the poor weak hands were shaking very visibly. “He
mustn’t do it. He is too old.”
“Well, that is what I want us to consider carefully,” Emmie said
in a quiet business-like tone. “_Is_ he too old? He is fifty-nine.
That of course would be too old for any one else; but then he is
not like other men.”
Instinctively they both looked upward to the terrace. Anthony,
after stooping over the box, was standing at his fullest height
and stretching his arms. He stooped a little even now, as if the
weight of his big shoulders was not quite so easy to carry as it
had once been; but his head and neck were magnificent, with the
sunlight on the thick grey hair, the strong bold features, and the
close-cropped beard. If you judged him merely by the indefinable
impression that age itself produces, and at this slight distance,
you would have said that he was a man of forty-five whose hair had
become prematurely grey.
“He says himself that he feels all right--ready for anything. He is
not conscious of the smallest diminution of his strength. Mr. Dyke,
his health _is_ wonderful”; and as Emmie said this, she was like a
sensible unemotional mother speaking about a grown-up son. “Have
you noticed, too, that he is less deaf--scarcely deaf at all?” And
Emmie’s tone changed, and her face grew sad. “No, I’m afraid we
can’t in justice rule him out on the score of health and age. Three
or four years hence perhaps. But not now.”
She looked up to the terrace again, and then spoke with great
firmness. “Of course, if he does go, it must be his very last
voyage. There must be no nonsense about that. He must solemnly
promise us both.”
“Emmie, he musn’t go”; and the old fellow put a trembling hand on
her arm. “Don’t encourage him.”
“You shall advise me, dear Mr. Dyke. But let me tell you everything
first.”
“Yes; but he mustn’t go,” he said eagerly. “He _can’t_ go--if you
consider it. We needn’t frighten ourselves. You and I may think he
is still young--not yet too old for it. But he’ll never persuade
other people to think that. He’ll never get anyone to give him
another chance.”
“Ah!” Emmie winced, and moved her hands swiftly. “When I
remember what has always happened, I believe that he will go
anyhow--_somehow_. The real question is the _how_.”
Then she told Mr. Dyke all about her money.
“My dear Emmie, what an astounding affair! It sounds like a fairy
tale.”
“I wish it was a fairy tale,” she said; “but unfortunately it is
sober truth. No, I ought not to say that. It’s very wrong of me.
Only, now you see the position in which I am placed--with all this
money--so much more than I want or could possibly use--with this
_power_ in my hands. Oh, Mr. Dyke, what am I to do? You see what I
mean? He need not persuade other people to give him a last chance.
I myself can give it to him.”
“Oh, no, he would never take money from you.”
“I think he would. I’m _sure_ he would. To begin with, I could show
him that I should still have enough, even after he’d taken all that
he needed--all that he needed to do things in such a style as has
never been possible to him till now. So there would be no question
of leaving me impoverished.”
“That would make no difference. He’d never consent.”
“Dear Mr. Dyke, you may trust my instinct. He would refuse at
first; then, after a little while, he would consent. He is eating
his heart out--so that the mere personal temptation would be more
than he could resist. But, beyond that, there is this idea of his
that has grown so very strong. He feels that it is not only his own
duty, but the duty of all English people to complete the work of
that brave Englishman who gave his life down there to bring honour
to England. He would feel that I could not spend my money in a
better way--We’ll say no more for a moment.”
Anthony was coming down the brick steps from the terrace.
“I am having a confidential talk with your father,” said Miss
Verinder, in the primly crushing manner of a grown-up person
interrupted by a troublesome child.
“Secrets, what?” He laughed, and went away again.
“That is the position,” she said quietly, when he was back on the
terrace and busy with his carpentering. “I feel that I _ought_ to
help him to his heart’s desire--I feel now that I have no choice
really. But I want you to advise me--to tell me what you think.”
“He oughtn’t to go,” said Mr. Dyke, once more touching, her arm.
“It wouldn’t be fair to you.”
“Oh, _me_!” Her lips twitched, and for a moment her whole face
seemed to be distorted, as if with a spasm of violent pain. “I
mustn’t be allowed to count for a moment. No, leave me out of it
altogether.”
“Emmie, dear. Emmie”; and Mr. Dyke kept his hand on her arm.
Quite quietly, without any convulsive movements of her throat or
bosom, she had begun to cry. The tears flooded her eyes, rolled
down her pale cheeks, and she looked through them towards the
terrace while remaining absolutely still; so that no one up there
who saw her rigid attitude could possibly guess what was happening.
Presently, with furtive caution, she got out a handkerchief and
dried her eyes.
“I have tried not to be selfish, dear Mr. Dyke--all along, you
know. I claim no merit. For how could I be selfish, in such a
case? Indeed his work and what the world says of him make up my
life really. They _are_ my life--that is, my pride and my joy. But
one is weak. He himself is so much to me--so dreadfully much--so
incredibly more, it always seems, than at the very beginning, when
I was young--when we were both young. This time, it seems as if
his going will be almost more than I can bear. It will seem like
suicide if I bring it about, myself. In these last weeks I have
been struggling with myself. Oh, dear Mr. Dyke, I have struggled
in such terrible agony. I want him with me so dreadfully, and yet
he wants to go away from me. And if he could do something big and
splendid to wind up his career--well, I could never, never forgive
myself if it was I who prevented him.”
Mr. Dyke was greatly perturbed.
“I said I wasn’t selfish,” she went on. “It is selfish, what I am
doing now, pushing my burden on to you. But you are always so brave
and so wise--and there is no one else that I can ask for counsel.
Besides, you are his father. You have the right to be consulted--to
decide. A much greater right than I--everybody would say.”
“If he goes,” said the old man, in a low voice, “I shall never see
him again.”
“Oh, no, don’t say that--don’t think it.”
“I know it. I shan’t be here to welcome him home.”
Then Emmie shed tears again, and again succeeded in wiping them
away without being observed by either of the box-menders on the
terrace.
“We have to bear in mind, dear Mr. Dyke, that it is very doubtful
if either of us could prevent him from going sooner or later. And
certainly, if he is to go, it should be as soon as possible. But
my most dreadful thought is this. If I don’t give him the money
he will start as usual, poorly equipped--he will be defeated by
difficulties and turn back. Yet that perhaps may mean his eventual
safety. Whereas, if he is really well fitted out for once, if he
has every possible chance in his favour, then he will be able
to push right on--and that may mean his doom. It’s a horrible
responsibility. Think of it. It would be _I_ who had sent him to
his death.”
“No.” Old Mr. Dyke raised himself on the bench and looked at her.
“No, Emmie, no,” he said; and in his dim eyes she saw a faint flash
that made him seem like a thin small ghost of Anthony. “No. If he
is to do it, let him go for the big prize. Give him his full chance
and don’t count the risks. Let it be all or nothing.”
She jumped up from the bench and stood looking down at him.
“I can’t decide,” he said. “You only can do that. The sacrifice
will be yours, not mine. Only, as I venture to say, don’t spoil it
by half measures.”
Then she called to Anthony. She had decided.
* * * * *
Anthony Dyke refused her offer, and stood firm to his refusal for
two days. Then on the morning of the third day he accepted. He was
of course enraptured. He echoed Mr. Dyke’s words in saying that
her acquisition of comparative wealth was like a fairy tale.
“All this time I never knew I had a fairy godmother--I who have
groused about my bad luck. At the fateful moment you suddenly show
the shining crown on your dear head, you wave your magic wand, you
give me the enchanted key. Oh, Emmie, what can I say? What can I
ever do?”
“You can come back safe and sound,” said Emmie. “And you can give
me your sacred word that you’ll never leave me again.”
Kissing her with frenzied warmth, he made his vow. But this first
ecstasy being over, he began at once to treat her with a new and
strange deference. He said that she had become the patron and
chieftain of the glorious project.
“Oh, yes, it’s your show entirely. You trust me, you honour me with
your instructions.”
Before that evening everything was settled between them. She made
a proviso that he should arrange for a relief expedition to follow
after him at a certain date. This must be an integral part of the
plan. And the whole thing must be organised in its smallest details
before he himself started southward. She was very firm as to all
this.
He agreed, saying she was quite right and he knew the very man to
put in command of the relief ship--“Twining, who was my navigating
officer in 1910.”
He bowed deferentially to her decision with regard to other
matters; saying, “Oh, your word would be law. You would be the real
head, and I shouldn’t forget it.” Then he smiled. “You pay the
piper, Emmie, and you call the tune.”
She said that there must be no departure from plans.
“No, no. But you’d give me a free hand when I get down there?”
“Yes, but only within specified limits.”
“Very good,” he said humbly.
Then, in reply to her questions, he said he intended to follow
Captain Scott’s line. The fact that it was sixty miles longer than
the other one was of no consequence. He proposed to go to America
and get his ship and everything else there.
“The Yanks will pull themselves together quicker than we can hope
to do over here. America’s the shop to buy our little bag of tricks
in.” And he had a bright idea. “I say, old J. L. Porter might be
willing to stand some of the racket. I let him down rather badly
last time; but he’s a real sportsman--and I may as well try to
touch him again.”
“No,” said Miss Verinder firmly. “This is _my_ show. And I don’t
want anybody else in it.”